Classic Poem

SAT. 2.

Heic quaerite Troiam.

Hous-keping's dead, Saturio : wot'st thou where?
For-sooth they say far hence in Brek-neck shire.
And euer since they say, that feele and tast,
That men may breake their neck, soone as their fast.
Certes, if Pity died at Chaucers date,
He liu'd a widdower long behind his mate:
Saue that I see some rotten bed-rid Syre,
Which to out-strip the nonage of his heire,
Is cram'd with golden broaths, and drugs of price,
And ech day dying liu's, and liuing dies,
Till once suruiud his ward-ships latest eue,
His eies are closd with choyse to die or liue.
Plenty, and hee, dy'd both in that same yeare,
When the sad skye did shed so many a teare.
And now, who list not of his labour faile;
Marke, with Saturio , my friendly tale:
Along thy way, thou canst not but descry,
Faire glittering Hals to tempt the hopefull eye,
Thy right eye gins to leape for vaine delight,
And surbeate toes to tickle at the sight,
As greedy T . when in the sounding mold
Hee finds a shining pot-shard tip't with gold;
For neuer Syren tempts the pleased eares,
As these the eye of fainting passengers;
All is not so that seemes; for surely than
Matrona should not bee a Curtizan ,
Smooth Chrysalus should not bee rich with fraud,
Nor honest R . bee his owne wiues baude.
Looke not a squint, nor stride a crosse the way,
Like some demurring Alcide to delay,
But walke on cherely, till thou haue espide,
Saint Peters finger at the Church-yard side,
But wilt thou needs when thou art warn'd so well
Go see who in so garish wals doth dwell?
There findest thou some stately Dorick frame
Or neate Ionicke worke;
Like the vaine bubble of Iberian pride,
That ouer-croweth all the world beside.
Which rear'd to raise the crazy Monarches fame,
Striues for a Court and for a Colledge name;
Yet nought within, but louzy coul's doth hold,
Like a scab'd Cuckow in a cage of gold;
So pride aboue doth shade the shame below:
A golden Periwig on a Black-mores brow.
When Maeuios first page of his poesie,
Nayl'd to an hundreth postes for noueltie,
With his big title, an Italian mot,
Layes siege vnto the backward buyers grote.
Which all within is draftie sluttish geere,
Fit for the Ouen or the Kitching fire:
So this gay gate adds fuell to thy thought,
That such proud piles were neuer rays'd for nought.
Beat the broad gates, a goodly hollow sound
With doubled Ecchoes doth againe rebound,
But not a Dog doth barke to welcome thee,
Nor churlish Porter canst thou chafing see:
All dumbe and silent, like the dead of night,
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite .
The marble pauement hid with desart weede,
With house-leeke, thistle, docke, & hemlock-seed.
But if thou chance cast vp thy wondring eyes,
Thou shalt discerne vpon the Frontispice,
╬ƒ╬Ñ╬ö╬ò╬Ö╬ú ╬ò╬Ö╬ú╬Ö╬ñ╬® grauen vp on hie,
A fragment of olde Platoes Poesie:
The meaning is, Sir foole ye may be gone,
Go backe by leaue, for way here lieth none.
Looke to the towred chymneis which should bee
The wind-pipes of good hospitalitie,
Through which it breatheth to the open ayre,
Betokening life and liberall welfaire,
Lo, there th'vnthankfull swallow takes her rest,
And fils the Tonuell with her circled nest,
Nor halfe that smoke from all his chymneies goes
Which one Tabacco-pipe driues through his nose;
So rawbone hunger scorns the mudded wals,
And gin's to reuell it in Lordly halls;
So the blacke Prince is broken loose againe
That saw no Sunne saue once (as stories saine)
That once was, when in Trinacry I weene
Hee stole the daughter of the haruest Queene,
And grip't the mawes of barren Sicily ,
With long constraint of pinefull penurie;
And they that should resist his second rage,
Haue pen'd themselues vp in the priuate cage
Of some blind lane; and their they lurke vnknowne
Till th'hungry tempest once bee ouerblowne;
Then like the coward, after his neighbours fray,
They creepe forth boldly, and aske where are they?
Meane while the hunger-staru'd Appurtenance
Must bide the brunt, what euer ill mischance;
Grim Famine sits in their forepined face
All full of angles of vnequall space,
Like to the plaine of many-sided squares,
That wont bee drawne out by Geometars;
So sharpe and meager that who should them see
Would sweare they lately came from Hungary .
When their brasse pans and winter couerled,
Haue wipt the maunger of the Horses-bread;
Oh mee; what ods there seemeth twixt their chere,
And the swolne Bezell at an Alehouse fire,
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten panch,
Whose slimy droughts, his draught can neuer stanch?
For shame ye gallants grow more hospitall
And turne your needlesse wardrop to your Hall:
As lauish Virro that keepes open doores
Like Ianus in the warres,
Except the twelue-daies, or the wakeday-feast
What time hee needs must bee his Cosens guest,
Philene hath bid him, can he choose but come?
Who should pull Virroes sleeue to stay at home?
All yeare besides, who meal-time can attend:
Come Trebius welcome to the tables end:
What tho he chires on purer manchets crowne,
Whiles his kind client grindes on blacke & browne,
A iolly rounding of a whole foote broad,
From of the Mong-corne heape shall Trebius load:
What tho hee quaffe pure Amber in his bowle
Of March-brewd wheat: yet slecks thy thirsting soule
With palish oat, froathing in Boston -clay
Or in a shallow cruse, nor must that stay
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine,
But call and craue, and haue thy cruse againe;
Else how should euen tale bee registred,
Of all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrels head?
And if he list reuiue his hartles graine
With some French grape, or pure Canariane
When pleasing Burdeaux fals vnto his lott,
Some sowrish Rochell cuts thy thirsting throate,
What tho himselfe carueth his welcome friend
With a coold pittance from his trenchers-end?
Must Trebies lip hang toward his trencher-side?
Nor kisse his fist to take what doth betide?
What tho to spare thy teeth he emploies thy tongue
In busie questions all the dinner long?
What tho the scornefull wayter lookes askile,
And pouts and frowns, and curseth thee the while,
And takes his farewell with a iealous eye,
At euery morsell hee his last shall see?
And if but one exceed the common sise
Or make an hillocke in thy cheeke arise,
Or if perchance thou shouldest, ere thou wist,
Hold thy knife vprights in thy griped fist,
Or sittest double on thy back-ward seat,
Or with thine elbow shad'st thy shared meat;
Hee laughs thee in his fellowes eare to scorne,
And asks aloud, where Trebius was borne.
Tho the third Sewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe: when thou would'st lenger stay
What of all this? Is't not inough to say,
I din'd at Virro his owne boord to day?