A scourge for paper-persecutors. Or Papers complaint, compil'd in ruthfull rimes, against the paper-spoylers of these times. / By I.D. With a continu'd iust inquisition of the same subiect, fit for this season. Against paper-persecutors. By A.H.

A Scourge for Paper-Persecutors, OR Papers Complaint compil'd in ruthfull Rimes Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times. WHat heart so hard, that splits not when it heares, What ruthlesse Martyrdome my Body beares By rude Barbarians of these latter Times, Blotting my spotlesse Brest with Prose and Rimes, That Impudence, it selfe, would blush to beare; It is such shamelesse Stuffe and irkesome Geare? Though I (immaculate) be white as Snow, (Which Virgin Hue mine innocence doth shew) Yet these remorcelesse Monsters on me piles A massie heape of blockish senselesse Stiles; That I ne wot (God wot) which of the twaine Doe most torment me, heauy Shame, or Paine. No lesse than my whole Reames will some suffize, With mad-braine stuffe o're them to tyrannize. Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheetes to shake, To beare Rimes-doggrell making Dogs perbrake; Whereto (ayeme) grosse Burthens still they adde, And to that put againe, light Notes and sad: O Man in desperation, what a dewce Meanst thou such filth in my white face to sluce? One raies me with course rimes, and Chips them call, Offals of wit; a fire burne them all. And then to make the mischeife more compleate, He blotts my Brow with verse as blacke as Ieat, Wherein he shewes where Ludlow hath her Scite, And how her Horse-high Market House is pight, Yet not so satisfied, but on he goes, And where one Berries meane house stands, he shevves. An other comes with Wit, too costiue then, Making a Glister-pipe of his rare pen: And through the same he all my brest becackes, And turnes me so, to nothing but Aiax. Yet Aiax (I confesse) was too supreme For Subiect of my-his wit royalld Reame, Exposed to the rancor of the rude, And wasted by the witlesse Multitude. He so adorned me, that I shall ne're More right, for kinde, than in his Robes appeare. Whose Lines shall circumscribe vncompast Times: And, past the wheeling of the Spheares, his Rimes Shall runne (as right) to immortality, And praisd (as proper) of posterity. Yet sith his wit was then with Will annoyd, And I enforct to beare what wit did void, I cannot choose but say as I haue said, His wit (made loose) defiled mee his maide. Another (ah Lord helpe) mee vilifies With Art of Loue, and how to subtilize, Making lewd Venus, with eternall Lines, To tye Adonis to her loues designes: Fine wit is shew'n therein: but finer 'twere If not attired in such bawdy Geare. But be it as it will: the coyest Dames, In priuate reade it for their Closset-games: For, sooth to say, the Lines so draw them on, To the venerian speculation, That will they, nill they (if of flesh they bee) They will think of it, sith loose Thought is free. And thou (O Poet) that dost pen my Plaint, Thou art not scot-free from my iust complaint, For, thou hast plaid thy part, with thy rude Pen, To make vs both ridiculous to men. But O! my Soule is vext to thinke how euill I was abus'd to beare suits to the Deuill. Pierse-Pennilesse (a Pies eat such a patch) Made me (aye me) that businesse once dispatch. And hauing made me vndergoe the shame, Abusde me further in the Deuills name: And made Dildo (dampned Dildo) beare, Till good-mens hate did me in peeces teare. O they were mercifull therein (God knowes) It's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes. How many Quires (can any Stacioner tell) Were bandied then, twixt him and Gabriel? Who brutishly my beauty so did blot With Gaulie girds by pens pumpt from th'inke pot, That I more vgly than a Satyre seemd: Nay, for an hellish Monster was esteemd. Fiue grotes (good Lord!) why what a rate was that, For one meere rayling Pamphlet to be at? Well, God forgiue them both, they did me wrong, To make me beare their choller spude, so long. Yet if, in Iudgement, I should spend my breath, The Doctor foild him with his Dagger-sheath. The Conny-catcher now plaies least in sight, That wonted was on me to shew that slight. And made more hauock of my Reames and Quires, Than all the neckes are worth of such scald Squires. No Tearme could scape him, but he scraped me With Pens that spirtled mee with villany: And made me ope a gap, vnto each Gap, That leades to shame, to sorrow, and mishap. But let him goe, he long since dead hath beene, In body dead, but yet his name is Greene. What should I speake of infant-Rimers now, That ply their Pens as Plow-men do their Plow: And pester Postes with Titles of new bookes? For, none but blockes such wooden Titles brookes. Ay me, how ill-bested am I the while, To see, how at my carriage, Carters smile: And yet such Rascall-writers finde a Presse, (A mischiefe ont) to make me to confesse I was in fault, for that I did not finde A way to flie from such Gulls with the wind. Then to recount the volumes hugely written, Where I lye soild as I were all be-( ) Aiax, I le stand toot, did beseeme me better, For all's vnsweete Sence, Sentence, Line and Letter. The Sonnes of Aymon, Beuis, Gawen, Guy, Arthur, the worthy, writ vnworthily; Mirrour of Knighthood, with a number such, I might spend time (past time) them all to touch. And though I grieue, yet cannot choose but smile To see some moderne Poets seed my soile With mighty words that yeeld a monstrous Crop, Which they doe spur-gald in a false-gallop. Embellish, These words are good: but ill vsed: in ouer-much vse sauouring of witlesse affectation. Blandishment and Equipage Such Furies flie from their Muse holy rage. And if (perchance) one hit on Surquedry, O he writes rarely in sweet Poesie! But, he that (point-blanck) hits Enueloped, He (Lord receiue his Soule) strikes Poetry dead. O Poetry! that now (as stands thy case) Art the head game; and yet art out an Ace: An Ace? nay two: (for on thee Fortune frownes) That's out of Credit quite, and out of Crownes. Thou art a worke of darknesse, that dost damne Thy Soule (all Satire) in an Epigram. Thou art, in this worlds reckoning, such a Botch As kills the English quite, how er'e the Scotch Escape the mortall mischiefe: but, indeed, Their Stars are better; so, they better speed. Yet Poetry be blith, hold vp thy head, And liue by Aire till Earthly Lumpes be dead. But, if Aire fat not, as through thee it passes, Liue vpon Sentences gainst golden Asses. Some burden me, sith I oppresse the Stage, With all the grosse Abuses of this Age, And presse me after, that the world may see (As in a soiled Glasse) her selfe in me: Where each man in, and out of's humour pries Vpon himselfe; and laughs vntill he cries. Vntrussing humerous Poets, and such Stuffe (As might put plainest Patience in a Ruffe) I shew men: so, they see in mee and Elues Themselues scornd, & their Scorners scorne themselues. O wondrous Age! when Phoebus Ympes doe turne Their Armes of Wit against themselues in scorne For lacke of better vse: alacke, alacke, That Lacke should make them so their credits cracke! Is want of Wealth, or Wit the cause thereof, That they thus make themselues a publike scoffe? I wot not I, but yet I greatly feare, It is not with them as I would it were: I would it were; then Time should ne're report That in these Times, Wit spoild himselfe in sport. O poore Apollos Priests (rich in reproch) Ist not enough the base your blame should broch? But you your selues (vnhappie as ye are) Must doo't, as if your diuine fury were Turn'd into Hellish; to excruciate none (To glad your Scorners) but your selues alone. And make me beare, to my eternall shame, Th'immortall Records of your Rancors Blame. Can you teach men how they themselues should vse, When you your selues your selues do so abuse? Or sett this Chaos of confusion (The World) in order by abusion? Alas ye cannot: For, Men will dispise The precepts of great Clarkes, if so unwise. Then Time redeeme, and in time that amisse, And I past-time will beare the blame of this. For, pale-fac'd paper cannot blush a whit, Though still it beare the greatest blame of Wit. Yet, Poets loue I, sith they make me weare (What weares out Time) my rich and gaudiest Geare. Yea, those I loue that in too earnest Game (Or little spleene) did me no little shame. Sith I can witnesse to succeeding Times, They oft haue me araid with royall Rimes, That rauish Readers (though they) enuious bee, Such sacred Raptures they haue put on me. Heere giue me leaue (kinde Reader) to digresse; To speake of their vnhappy happinesse, Who can put words into the mouthes of kings, That make them more than seeme Celestiall things. And can their deeds so fashion with their Pen, That, doing so, they should be Gods with men! Each Moode that moues the Minde, they so can moue, As doth the Wit, the Will, or Beauty, Loue. Yet, as they were accursed by the Fates, They can moue none to better their estates: Who do not onely hurt themselues alone, But Fortune (that still hurts them) do enthrone Among the Senate of those Deities That hisse (like Geese) at their kinde Gulleries. What bootes the Braines to haue a wit diuine, To make what ere it touch, in Glory shine? If (Midas like) it famisht be with store Of golden Morsels set the same before: And for an hunger-staruen Fee (alas) To make an Idoll of a Golden Asse. It's the worst way that wit can vse his trade, For Fee so light, with rich praise Blocks to lade. Yet will I not so wrong my selfe and you, To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue. For, then, in time, I might want change (perchance) Of Robes, that doe my glory most aduance. No: write (kinde Patrons) but let Patrons such Be prais'd as they deserue, a littl's much: Because that little good in such is found, That giue but little to be much renownd. Yet write (deare Gracers, that doe make me faire) And liue the while (Chamelion like) by ayre. Your lines (like shadowes) set my Beauty forth, Shadowing the life of Art, Wits dearest worth. When you are gone (for, long you cannot stay, Whose Braines your Pens picke out, to throw away) I will remember you, and make you liue A life (without worlds charge) which Fame doth giue: For, should that life cost this Age more than breath, It soone would gnaw your deerest Fames to death. Mans life is but a dreame; Nay, lesse then so; A shadow of a Dreame; that's scarce a show: Then, in this Shadow, shadow out that Shade, That may the world substantially perswade You are halfe Gods, and more: so, cannot die By reason of your Wits Diuinitie! How am I plagu'd with pettifogging Scribes, That load me with foule lies for Fees and Bribes? And though wide Lines vpon my sheetes they put, Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shut: Which there in mystery obscurely lies That those which see it need haue Eagles eies, So I a Labyrinth am made thereby Where men oft lose themselues vntill they die: Or else a Traitrous trap, and subtle Snare, To crush rash fooles which runne in vnaware. But that which most my soule excruciates, Some Chroniclers that write of Kingdomes States, Doe so absurdly sableize my White With Maskes and Enterludes by day and night: Balld Maygames, Beare-baytings, and poore Orations Made to some Prince by some poore Corporations: And if a Brick-bat from a Chimney falls When puffing Boreas nere so little bralls: Or else a Knaue be hangd by iustice doome For cutting of a Purse in selfe-same roome: Or wanton Rig, or letcher dissolute Doe stand at Pauls-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute; All these, and thousand such like toyes as these They clap in Chronicles like Butterflees, Of which there is no vse; but spotteth me With Medley of their Motly Liuery. And so confound graue Matters of estate With plaies of Poppets, and I wot not what: Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost. Ah good Sir Thomas Moore, (Fame be with thee) Thy Hand did blesse the English Historie, Or else (God knowes) it had beene as a Pray To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day. Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse At her vnruly Matters much to muse: For (ah!) that euer any should record And Chronicle the Sedges of a Lord: Seiges of Townes, or Castles? No, (alas!) That were too well, but sedges that doe passe Into the Draught, which none can well suruay Without he turne his face another way. Yet where that is, I may not well disclose: But you may finde it, follow but your Nose. As also when the Weather-cock of Poules Amended was, this Chronicler enroles. And O (alas!) that er'e I was created Of Raggs, to be thus rudely lacerated: With such most ragged wilde, and childish Stuffe As might put plainest Patience in a Ruffe: For, this saies one: There was, on such a day, A disputation (that's a Grammer fray) Betweene Pauls Schollers, and Saint Anthonies, Saint Bartholmewes among; and, the best Prize A Pen was of fiue shillings price; Alas! That ere this Doteherd made me such an Asse To beare such Trash; and that in such a Thing Which we call Chronicle: so, on me bring A world of shame: a shame vpon them all That make mine iniuries Historicall To weare out Time, that, euer (without end) My shame may last, without some one it mend. And then, like an Historian for the nonce, He tells how two Knights here were feasted once, At Mounsier Doysels lodging (mong the rest) With a whole powdred Palfray (at the least) That rosted was: so hee (without remorse) Tels vs a Tale but of a rosted Horse. Good God! who can endure, but silly I, To beare the burden of such Trumpery, As, could I blush, my face no inke would beare: For blushing Flames would burne it comming there? But, Fame reports, ther's one (forth comming yet) That's comming forth with Notes of better Set: And of this Nature; Who both can, and will With descant, more in tune, me fairely fill. And if a sencelesse creature (as I am; And, so am made, by those whom thus I blame) May iudgement giue, from those that know it well, His Notes for Art and iudgement doe excell. Well fare thee man of Art, and World of wit, That by supreamest Mercy liuest yet: Yet, dost but liue; yet, liu'st thou to the end: But so thou paist for Time, which thou dost spend, That the deare Treasure of thy precious Skills The World with pleasure, and with profit fills. Thy long-wingd, actiue, and ingenious Spright Is euer Towring to the highest height Of Wit, and Art; to beautifie my face: So, deerely gracest life, for lifes deare Grace. Another in the Chronicle as great As some old Church-book (that would make one sweat To turne it twice) at large (good man) doth shew How his good Wife, good Beere, and Ale doth brew. With which (lest Readers foulely might mistake) He many Leaues, in Folio, vp doth take, To make them brew good Beere, and Ale aswell As his good wife; and all the Art doth tell. So, for a booke of Cookery one would take That Chronicle that shewes to brew and bake. Heere is strong Stuffe, a Chronicle to line; Wort varnish will; then doth the Story shine: Wherein Historians still may see the face Of Wit, and Art, their Histories to grace. I must endure all this: but God forgiue them; I can no more commend them then beleeue them. I scarce would venture Mault, a Pennies price; To try the vertue of this Stories vice: For, as it marr'd the Chronicle before, So might it marre the mault, what euer more. With rancke Redundance being thus opprest, I (as for speaking nought) to death am prest. But now (ah now) ensues a pinching pang, A villaine vile, that sure in hell doth hang Hight Mach-euill, that euill none can match, Daub'd me with deu'llish Precepts soules to catch, And made me so (poore silly Innocent) Of good soules wrack • , the cursed instrument. Now not a Groome (whose wits erst soard no higher Than how to pile the Logs on his Lords fire) But plaies the Machiavillian (with a pox) And, in a Sheepe-skin clad, the Wolfe or Fox. I could heere speake what hauock still is made Of my faire Reames which quarrells ouer-lade In right Religions cause, as all pretend, Though nere so wrongly some her right defend. What neuer ending Strife they make me stirre: For, I am made the Trumpet of their warre. I pell-mell put together by the eares All Nations that the Earth turmoiled beares; While wounded Consciences in such conflicts, Damnations terror euermore afflicts In desperate doubts; with Winds of Doctrine tost, Still likely in Faiths Shipwracke to be lost: While learned Pilots striue which Course is best, Gods tempest-beaten Arke can take no rest, But vp and downe on Discords Billowes borne In dismall plight, and fares as quite forlorne. But thou sweet Concords cause, who with thy hand Dost tune the Deepes, and highest winds command, Looke downe from thine eternall Seat (secure) Vpon thy Church Storme-tossed euery houre; And factious men inspire with better grace Than with defence of Sects to staine my face. But wretched I (vnhappy that I am) None, no not one, a'Pistle now can frame, T'addresse their Workes to any Personage, But they (ay me) must craue their Patronage, To be protected from the bitter blow Of Momus, Zoilus, and I wot not who. O Momus, Momus, Zoilus, Zoilus, yee In these Epistles too much pester me: For, vnder Lords wings Metaphoricall All Authors creepe, a shame vpon them all. And men you haue alas so much bewitcht That with your Names (like Needles) must be stitcht: All dedicating 'Pistles in my sheetes: For, first of all with you the Reader meets. And now that fashion is so stale become, That he in hate, crosse-wounds me with his Thumbe, And ready is to teare my tender sides To make me Scauenger for their Back-sides. Good gentle Writers for the Lord sake, for the Lord sake, Like Ludgate Prisner, lo, I (begging) make My mone to you; O listen to my mone, Let Zoile and Momus (for Gods loue) alone; Meddle not with them, Mome's a byting beast; And men for his name sake your Bookes detest, And makes me shake for feare lest in a rage They should enforce me weare their Buttocks badge. Leaue off, leaue off your Tokens of good will; The Poesies of old Rings new 'Pistles spill. Away with Patronage, a plague vpon't, That hideous word is worse than Termagant. Call for no aid where none is to be found; Protect my Booke: such Bookes O fates confound. To shew my gratefull minde: That's stinking stale; Yet in new 'Pistles such geare's set to sale. The poore mans present to the Emperor; O that in 'Pistles keepes a stinking sturre. And not the Guift, but giuers poore good will: This, this, (O this) my vexed Soule doth kill! This is a Pill (in deed) to giue more stooles Than Mouthes will fill of forty such fine-fooles. This heauy Sentence which I oft sustaine, Makes me to grone, it puts me to such paine. Therefore I pray such Writers, write no more; Or if you doe, write better than before. Doth Nature new Heads bring forth eu'ry day? And can those new heads no new Wit bewray? Vnhappy Nature or vnhappy Heads, Its time for one or both to take your Beads. The World and most mens Writs are at an end, Pray for increase of faith, then Wit will mend▪ For sure the cause why men too foolish are, They faint in search of Wisdome through despaire. Hath Aristotle left his wit behinde; To helpe those Wits that seeke, yet cannot finde? Hath Socrates and Plato broke the ice To many a Skill and most diuine Deuice? And cannot After-commers too't ariue? And with those Helps not equall Skill atchieue? Did they (poore Men) out of meere Industry Attaine to so great singularity, Having no Ground, or if Ground had but little Whereon their lofty buildings sure to settle: And can no Worke-man of this haplesse Time, Adde no Stone to it, nor no Dabbe of Lyme? I wrong them now, that Word I countermand; They adde much Lyme, but neither stone, nor sand. And that's the cause (as some good Authors say) Their Workes, with Winde and Raine do dance the Hay; For, they fall downe-right; but the Raine and Winde Makes them runne in and out as they're inclinde: And could the weather speake, it would commend Such toward workes as towards it doe bend; And praise (beyond the Moone) their muddy Braine That builds with mudde to sport the wind and raine. Plato and Socrates (the Mason free) With Stone and Lime built too substantially. And Aristotle (like a musing foole) Would lay no stone without good Reasons rule; What boot such BVILDINGS to weare Ages out? A goodly peece of Worke it is no doubt: Ifaith, ifaith, their Wits were much misled, To build for others now themselues are dead. The wind may now goe whistle while it will, These waighty workes for all that stand doe still. The Raine, by soaking showres, may fall amaine; Yet sure they stand for all such Showres of raine. Yea, let all Weathers ioyne their force in one, They all vnable are to stirre one stone. A mischiefe on the Fooles, what did they meane, To waste their Braines and make their Bodies leane, To profit others which they neuer knew, And build for Sots which after should ensue? Who gape vpon it with great admiration; But dare not stirre a foot from the foundation. Ye neede not feare to climbe, the worke is sure, Else could it not so many Ages dure. And, if a Flaw be found, through Builders blame, Now mother-wit (some say) can mend the same. And sith ye haue such stedfast footing there, And yet will sink through sloath or faint through feare, O Heau'ns increase your faith, and make it strong; For ye, through weakenesse, doe your wisdomes wrong. The Soule of Man is like that Powre Diuine That in himselfe all wisdome doth conteine: Which Simily in Wisdomes facultie Doth hold, or else there is no Simily. Mans Reason (if stird vp) can mount as hie As Soules themselues, and they to heauen can flie, And from thence view what that Circumference Doth circumscribe, if subiect vnto sence. Homer (though blinde) yet saw with his Soules eie, The Secret hid in deep'st Philosophie; In State-affaires, and in the high'st Designes; All which he measures with immortall Lines; Whereat we rather euer doe admire Than feele least feruour of his diuine fire. What Country, Marches, Nauy; nay, what Hoast Yea what Mindes-motions (both of man, and Ghost) Are by Him, so exprest, that he (we wot) Makes vs to see that he himselefe saw not! His Illiads describes the Bodies worth; The Minde, his Odyssea setteth forth, For which seau'n Citties stroue, when he was gone, Which of them all should hold him as their owne. Then gentle Writers, be not so imploid In writing euerlastingly, (vncloid) And let your reason idle be the while, Let Reason worke, and spare your Writings toile, Till by degrees, she lifted hath your Spright Vnto the top of Humane-Wisdomes height. And when ye haue aspir'd aboue your Sires Then write a Gods-name, fill my Reames and Quires, And with huge Volumes build a Babel▪ Towre As high as Heau'n (that shall the Heau'ns out-dure) For your Sonnes Sonnes to climbe; if so they please, From Errors Flouds and Perturbations Seas. And flatter nor, (alas) O flatter not Your selues as wise; for, you are wide (God wot.) And though ye knew what Aristotle holds, Thinke not, therefore, your Braine all truth infolds: For, there are Truths (beside the Truth of Truth) That ne're came neere his Braine, much lesse his mouth. All which (when Pow'rs of the Intelligence, In their pursuit vse all their violence) May well be apprehended, though blacke Clouds Of vtter-darkenesse their abiding shrowds: Which cannot be when Bounds are set to Wit In Plato his Plus Vltra, toucht not yet: Or Aristotles vtmost trauels reach, Whose Muse made, through the Marble Heau'ns a breach And past th'inferiour Orbes, vntill he came Vnto the highest Spheare of that huge Frame That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway, Yet had not power his mounting Muse to stay; But it would pry into th'imperiall PLACE, Where Glory sits enthron'd in greatest grace. Yet these be not true Wisdomes Bounds, whose scope, Doe farre extend aboue the Heau'nly Cope; And more profound than the infernall Deepe, Heauen earth, and Hell, her Greatnesse cannot keepe: And though such Wisdome properly with God, And not with mortall men doth make abode, Yet he imparts of his vnbounded grace So much as may Heau'n, Earth, and Hell imbrace With Contemplations Armes, that all infold Whose vncomprised reach no limits hold: But if, through sloath, those Armes be not extended, In Earths Circumference then, their Circuit's ended. Novv, you that seeke by wisdome to aspire, With study, impe the wings of your Desire, And you thereby shall scale the highest Height, Although your Mindes be clogd with Bodies weight: So may ye grace me with eternall lines, That compasse can, and gage the deep'st Designes. Omnia sapientibus facilia.

A CONTINVED INQVISITION against Paper-Persecutors. By A. H. ANd shall it still be so? norist more hard To repaire Pauls than to mend Pauls-Churchyard? Shall still the Youths that walke the Middle-Ile, To whet their stomacks before meales, compile Their sudden volumes, and be neuer barr'd From scattering their Bastards through the Yard? Shall still such fopperie fill vp each Stall, And neuer come to a due Funerall? In so conuenient a place? It is no wonder That Pauls so often hath beene strucke with Thunder: T'was aimed at these Shops, in which there lie Such a confused World of Trumpery, Whose Titles each Terme on the Posts are rear'd, In such abundance, it is to be fear'd That they in time, if thus they goe on, will Not only Little but Great Britaine fill, With their infectious Swarmes; whose guilty sheetes, I haue obserued walking in the streets: Still lurking neere some Church, as if hereby They had retired to a Sanctuarie, For murdring Paper so: as in old time Persons that had committed some foule crime Thus sau'd their liues: Each driueling Lozel now That hath but seene a Colledge, and knows how To put a number to Iohn Setons Prose, Starts vp a sudden Muse-man, and streight throws A Packe of Epigrams into the light, Whose vndigested mish-mash would affright The very Ghost of Martiall, and make Th'Authors of th'Anthologie to quake. Others dare venter a diuiner straine, 〈…〉 And The Bible rimed in a pettie volume like the Battle of Troy. Rime the Bible, whose foule Feet profane That holy ground, that wise-men may decide, The Bible ne're was more Apochryphide, Than by their bold Excursions: (Bartas, thee, And thy Translatours, I absolue thee free From this my imputation: who in lines, (Deseruing to be studied by Diuines,) Didst maske thy Sacred Furie, whose rare wit, Did make the same another Holy Writ, Who, be it spoken to thy lasting praise, Gau'st Sunday rayment to the Working Dayes. Others that ne're search'd new borne Vice at all, But the seuen deadly Sinnes in generall, Drawne from the Tractate of some cloyster'd Frier, Will needs write Satyrs, and in raging fire Exasperate their sharpe Poeticke straine, And thinke they haue toucht it, if they raile at Spaine, The Pope and Deuill; and while thus they vrge Their stinglesse gall, there's none deserue the scourge More than themselues, whose weaknesse might suffice▪ To furnish Satyres and poore Elegies. To runne through all the Pamphlets and the Toyes Which I haue seene in hands of Victoring Boyes, To raile at all the merrie Wherrie-Bookes, Which I haue found in Kitchen-cobweb-nookes: To reckon vp the verie Titles, which Doe please new Prentices, the Maids, and rich Wealth witt • 'd Loobies, would require a Masse And Volume, bigger than would load an Asse: Nor ist their fault alone, they wisely poyse, How the blinde world doth onely like such Toyes. A generall Folly reigneth, and harsh Fate Hath made the World it selfe insatiate: It hugges these Monsters and deformed things, Better than what Iohnson or Drayton sings: As in North-Villages, where euery line Of Plumpton Parke is held a worke diuine. If o're the Chymney they some Ballads haue Of Chevy-Chase, or of some branded slaue Hang'd at Tyborne, they their Mattins make it, And Vespers too, and for the Bible take it. If a Choise-Piece should come into their hand, 'T would be as hatefull as a yellow-band Was at the first; so if vpon the Wall They see an Antique in base Postures fall: As, a Frier blowing wind into the taile Of a Baboone, or an Ape drinking Ale, They admire that, when to their view perhaps If yee should set one of Mercators Mapps Or a rare Piece of Albert Durer, they Would hardly sticke to throw the toy away, And curse the botching Painter; see, alas, The doting world is come vnto this passe, England is all turn'd Yorkeshire, and the Age Extremely sortish, or too nicely sage. To passe a thousand other, doe but looke Of late how they abus'd the Noble O 〈…〉 &c. Duke. What steeled patience could behold those Dawes Praeuaricate the Muses sacred Lawes, And blabber forth His Funerall, in Rimes, I needs must say, much like these wretched Times? To heare the noselesse Ballad-woman raise Her snuffling throat to His ill-penned praise: Or the oft beaten fellow make his mone, Who in the streets is wont to reade Pope Ioane: To see each Wall and publike Post defil'd With diuers deadly Elegies, compil'd By a foule swarme of Cuckoes of our Times, In Lamentable Lachrymentall Rimes: By this I hope, y'haue wrongd him what you can By those abortiue Broods of Barbican, And such like Magazines of wofull things Such as I nor the sober Poet sings. Haue you yet not to soile His spotlesse life Ended those begging Chartells to His The Wife? Who, could She but haue rais'd her wofull Eies, Had thought them Libells and not Elegies. And yee who with more secrecie did write Lines which you thought too precious for the light, In reseru'd Manuscripts, for shame giue o're Your hard-strain'd numbers, and disperse no more Your heauy Rimes, which seeme by quicker Eie Would make one quite abiure all Poetrie, And studie Stow and Hollinshed, and make Tractates of Trauells, or an Almanake: But sure the names were falsified, nor can I thinke a Schollar or a Gentleman, Would doe His Memorie so foule abuse: Sure t'was some Ballad-broker did traduce Their Fame, or th'one-leggd varlet who doth sing His roaring Non-sence, to a triuiall Ring Of Prentices, about some arrant sent, Or Boies, who, then leaue Iacke a Lent To heare the noise, or women who stand there, And at O-Hone ring forth a readie teare. Touching the State, Ambassadors or Kings, My Satyre shall not touch such sacred things: Nor list I purchase penance at that rate, As some Spoile-Papers haue deerely done of late. And such as these, whose names are iustly spred. Vnto their shame, are to be pittied, Rather than blam'd; But to behold the wals Butter'd with weekely Newes compos'd in Pauls, By some Decaied Captaine, or those Rooks, Whose hungry braines compile prodigious Books, Of Bethlem Gabors preparations, and How termes betwixt him and th'Emperor stand: Of Denmarke, Swede, Poland, and of this and that, Their Wars, Iars, Stirs, and I wote not what: The Duke of Brunswicke, Mansfield, and Prince Maurice, Their Expeditions, and what else but true is, Yea of the Belgique state, yet scarcely know, Whether Brabant be in Christendome or no: To see such Batter euerie weeke besmeare Each publike post, and Church dore, and to heare These shamefull lies, would make a man in spight Of Nature, turne Satyrist, and write Reuenging lines, against these shamelesse men, Who thus torment both Paper, Presse, and Pen. Th'Impostors that these Trumperies doe vtter, Are, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and (—) Who if they doe not soone these matters mend, I'le shortly into th'world, a Satyre send, Who shall Them lash with dierie rods of Steele, That euer after They my ierks may feele. Mysteria mea mihi.