Classic Poem

SAT. IX.

Enuie ye Muses, at your thriuing Mate,
Cupid hath crowned a new Laureat :
I saw his Statue gayly tyr'd in greene,
As if he had some second Phaebus beene.
His Statue trim'd with the Venerean tree,
And shrined faire within your sanctuarie.
What, he, that earst to gaine the ryming Goale
The worne Recitall-post of Capitolle ,
Rymed in rules of Stewish ribaldry,
Teaching experimentall Baudery?
Whiles th'itching vulgar tickled with the song,
Hanged on their vnreadie Poets tongue.
Take this ye patient Muses: and foule shame
Shall waite vpon your once prophaned name.
Take this ye muses, this so high dispight,
And let all hatefull lucklesse birds of night:
Let Scriching Oules nest in your razed roofes,
And let your floore with horned Satyres hoofe
Be dinted and defiled euery morne:
And let your walles be an eternall scorne:
What if some Shordich furie should incite
Some lust-stung letcher, must he needs indite
The beastly rites of hyred Venerie,
The whole worlds vniuersall baud to bee?
Did neuer yet no damned Libertine ,
Nor elder Heathen , nor new Florentine ,
Tho they were famous for lewd libertie,
Venture vpon so shamefull villanie.
Our Epigrammatarians olde and late,
Were wont be blam'd for too licentiate.
Chast men, they did but glance at Lesbias deed,
And handsomely leaue off with cleanly speed.
But Artes of Whoring: stories of the Stewes,
Ye Muses can ye brooke, and may refuse?
Nay let the Diuell, and Saint Valentine ,
Be gossips to those ribald rymes of thine.