Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VIRGIDEMIAE: BOOK 1: SATIRE 3, by JOSEPH HALL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VIRGIDEMIAE: BOOK 1: SATIRE 3, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: With some pot-fury rauisht from their wit
Last Line: For euery peasants brasse, on each scaffold.
Subject(s): Fortune; Muses; Poetry & Poets; Theater & Theaters; Stage Life


With some Pot-fury rauisht from their wit,
They sit and muse on some no-vulgar writ:
As frozen Dung-hils in a winters morne,
That voyd of vapours seemed all beforne,
Soone as the Sun, sends out his piercing beames,
Exhale out filthy smoke and stinking steames:
So doth the base, and the fore-barren braine,
Soone as the raging wine begins to raigne.
One higher pitch'd doth set his soaring thought
On crowned kings that Fortune hath low brought:
Or some vpreared, high-aspiring swaine
As it might be the Turkish Tamberlaine.
Then weeneth he his base drink-drowned spright,
Rapt to the threefold loft of heauens hight,
When he conceiues vpon his fained stage
The stalking steps of his great personage,
Graced with huf-cap termes and thundring threats
That his poore hearers hayre quite vpright sets.
Such soone, as some braue-minded hungry youth,
Sees fitly frame to his wide-strained mouth,
He vaunts his voyce vpon an hyred stage,
With high-set steps, and princely carriage:
Now soouping in side robes of Royaltie,
That earst did skrub in lowsie brokerie.
There if he can with termes Italianate,
Big-sounding sentences, and words of state,
Faire patch me vp his pure Iambick verse,
He rauishes the gazing Scaffolders:
Then certes was the famous Corduban
Neuer but halfe so high Tragedian.
Now, least such frightfull showes of Fortunes fall,
And bloody Tyrants rage, should chance appall
The dead stroke audience, mids the silent rout
Comes leaping in a selfe-misformed lout,
And laughes, and grins, and frames his Mimik face,
And iustles straight into the Princes place.
Then doth the Theatre Eccho all aloud,
With gladsome noyse of that applauding croud.
A goodly hoch-poch, when vile Russettings,
Are match't with monarchs, & with mighty kings.
A goodly grace to sober Tragike Muse,
When each base clown, his clumbsie fist doth bruise,
And show his teeth in double rotten-row,
For laughter at his selfe-resembled show.
Meane while our Poets in high Parliament,
Sit watching euery word, and gesturement,
Like curious Censors of some doughtie geare,
Whispering their verdit in their fellowes eare.
Wo to the word whose margent in their scrole,
Is noted with a blacke condemning cole.
But if each periode might the Synode please,
Ho, bring the Iuy boughs, and bands of Bayes.
Now when they part and leaue the naked stage,
Gins the bare hearer in a guiltie rage,
To curse and ban, and blame his likerous eye,
That thus hath lauisht his late halfe-peny.
Shame that the Muses should be bought and sold,
For euery peasants Brasse, on each scaffold.





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