Classic Poem

Fie on these Lydian tunes which blunt our sprights
And turne our gallants to Hermaphrodites:
Giue me a Doricke touch, whose Semphony ,
And dauncing aire may with affinity
Moue our light vaulting spirits and capering.
Woo Alexander from lewd banquetting
To armes. Bid Haniball remember Cannas ,
And leaue Salapian Tamyras embrace.
Hence with these fidlers, whose oyle-buttred lines,
Are Panders vnto lusts, and food to sinnes,
Their whimpring Sonnets, puling Elegies
Slaunder the Muses; make the world despise,
Admired poesie, marre Resolutions ruffe,
And melt true valour with lewd ballad stuffe.
Heere one's Elegiack pen patheticall,
His parting from his Mistris doth bewaile:
Which when young gallant Mutio hath perus'd,
His valour's crestfalne, his resolues abusd,
For whatsoe're his courage erst did moue,
He'le goe no voyage now to leaue his Loue.
Another with his supple passion
Meaning to moue his Pigsney to compassion,
Makes puisne Lucius in a simpathy
In loue with's pibald Laundres by and by.
A third that falls more roundly to his worke,
Meaning to moue her were she Iew or Turke:
Writes perfect Cat and fidle , wantonly,
Tickling her thoughts with masking bawdry:
Which read to Captaine Tucca , he doth sweare,
And scratch, and sweare, and scratch to heare
His owne discourse discours'd: and by the Lord
It's passing good: oh good! at euery word:
When his Cock-sparrow thoughts to itch begin,
He with a shrug sweares't a most sweet sinne .
Some others Lady Muse is comicall,
Thalia to the back, nay back and all,
And she with many a salt La volto iest
Edgeth some blunted teeth, and fires the brest
Of many an old cold gray-beard Cittizen,
Medea like making him young againe;
Who comming from the Curtaine sneaketh in,
To some odde garden noted house of sinne.
But oh worse yet! for some Capritcious humor
Making an issue of his vlcerous tumor,
Some prophane Clodian pen daring display
(Like connicatching) bawdries Orgia,
With the prouost Martiall, ransacks euery roome
Of a vaulting house, and ribbald doth presume,
With Midwife Albert , or the womans booke
To anatomize each corner, and fond nooke.
Let Rablais with his durtie mouth discourse
No longer blush, for they'le write ten times worse:
And Aretines great wit be blam'd no more,
They'le storie forth the errant arrant whore:
And speaking painters excuse Titian ,
For his Ioues loues; and Elephanticke vaine.
Thus all our Poets as they had carousde
A health to Circes , are in hogsties housde,
Or els transformd to Goates lasciuiously,
Filthing chast eares with theyr pens Gonorrhey ,
For euen the stateliest and most generous,
The heroicke Poem is lasciuious,
Which midst of Mars his field, & hote alarmes,
Will sing of Cupids chiualrie and armes.
The Satyre onely and Epigramatist,
(Concisde Epigrame, and sharpe Satyrist)
Keepe diet from this surfet of excesse,
Tempring themselues from such licenciousnes.
The bitter censures of their Critticke spleenes,
Are Antidotes to pestilentiall sinnes,
They heale with lashing, seare luxuriousnes,
They are Philosophicke true Cantharides
To vanities dead flesh. An Epigrame
Is popish displing, rebell flesh to tame:
A plaine dealing lad, that is not afraid
To speake the truth, but calls a iade, a iade.
And Mounsieur Guulard was not much too blame,
When he for meat mistooke an Epigrame,
For thought it be no cates, sharp sauce it is,
To lickerous vanitie, youths sweet amisse.
But oh the Satyre hath a nobler vaine,
He's the Strappado, rack, and some such paine
To base lewd vice; the Epigram's Bridewell,
Some whipping cheere: but this is follies hell.
The Epigram's like dwarfe Kings scurrill grace,
A Satyre's Chester to a painted face;
It is the bone-ach vnto lechery,
To Acolastus it is beggery:
It is the scourge, the Tamberlaine of vice,
The three square Tyborne of impieties.
But to come neere the verses of our time,
It is (oh scuruey) to a Lenten rime;
It is the grand hisse to a filthy play,
Tis peoples howts and showts at a pot fray.
Itch farther yet, yet nerer to them, fie
Their wits haue got my Muse with Tympanie:
And with their loose tayld penns to let it loose,
It's like a Syring to a Hampshire Goose.
These critique wits which nettle vanitie,
Are better farre then foode to foppery:
And I dare warrant that the hangingst brow,
The sowrest Stoicke that will scarce allow
A riming stone vpon his fathers graue,
(Though he no reason haue no rime to haue:)
The stricktest ( Plato ) that for vertues health:
Will banish Poets forth his common-wealth,
Will of the two affoord the Satyre grace,
Before the whyning loue-song shall haue place:
And by so much his night-cap's ouer awde,
As a Beadle's better states-man then a Bawde.