Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VIRGIDEMIAE: BOOK 4: SATIRE: 1, by JOSEPH HALL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VIRGIDEMIAE: BOOK 4: SATIRE: 1, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Vvho dares vpbraid these open rimes of mine
Last Line: Rather than say I doted in my age.
Subject(s): Death; Thames (river); Theater & Theaters; Dead, The; Stage Life


VVho dares vpbraid these open rimes of mine
With blindfold Aquines, or darke Venusine?
Or rough-hew'ne Teretismes writ in th'antique vain
Like an old Satyre, and new Flaccian?
Which who reads thrise, & rubs his rugged brow,
And deepe intendeth euery doubtfull row,
Scoring the margent with his blazing stars
And hundreth crooked interlinears,
(Like to a Merchants debt-role new defac't
When some crack'd Manour crost his book at last)
Should all in rage the Curse-beat Page out-riue,
And in ech dust-heape bury mee aliue
Stamping like Bucephall, whose slackned raines,
And bloody fet-lockes fry with seuen mens braines;
More cruell than the crauon Satyres Ghost,
That bound dead-bones vnto a burning post,
Or some more strait-lac'd Iuror of the rest,
Impannel'd of an Holy-Fax inquest;
Yet wel bethought stoops downe, and reads a new:
The best lies low, and loathes the shallow view,
Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
Gropes for his double Ducates in his chist:
Then buckle close his carelesse lyds once more,
To pose the pore-blinde snake of Epidaore.
That Lyncius may be match't with Gaulards sight,
That sees not Paris for the houses height;
Or wilie Cyppus, that can winke and snort
Whiles his wife dallies on Maecenas skort;
Yet when hee hath my crabbed Pamphlet red
As oftentimes as PHILLIP hath beene dead,
Bids all the Furies haunt each peeuish line
That thus haue rackt their friendly readers eyne;
Worse than the Logogryphes of later times,
Or Hundreth Riddles shak't to sleeue-lesse rimes;
Should I endure these curses and dispight
While no mans eare should glow at what I write?
Labeo is whip't, and laughs mee in the face:
Why? for I smite and hide the galled place.
Gird but the Cynicks Helmet on his head,
Cares hee for Talus, or his flayle of lead?
Long as the craftie Cuttle lieth sure
In the blacke Cloude of his thicke vomiture;
Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame
When hee may shift it to anothers name?
Caluus can scratch his elbow, and can smile,
That thrift-lesse Pontice bites his lip the while.
Yet I intended in that selfe deuise,
To checke the churle for his knowne couetise.
Ech points his straight fore-finger to his friend,
Like the blind Diall on the Belfrey end:
Who turnes it homeward to say, this is I,
As bolder Socrates in the Comedy?
But single out, and say once plat and plaine
That coy Matrona is a Curtizan,
Or thou false Cryspus chokd'st thy wealthie guest
Whiles hee lay snoring at his midnight rest,
And in thy dung-cart did'st the carkasse shrine
And deepe intombe it in Port-esquiline.
Proud Trebius liu's for all his princely gate
On third-hand suits, and scrapings of the plate.
Titius knew not where to shroude his head
Vntill hee did a dying widow wed
Whiles she lay doting on her deathes bed,
And now hath purchas'd lands with one nights paine
And on the morrow woes and weds againe.
Now see I fire-flakes sparkle from his eyes
Like a Comets tayle in th'angry skies,
His pouting cheeks puffe vp aboue his brow
Like a swolne Toad touch't with the Spyders blow;
His mouth shrinks sideward like a scornefull Playse
To take his tired Eares ingratefull place:
His Eares hang lauing like a new-lug'd swine
To take some counsell of his grieued eyne.
Now laugh I loud, and breake my splene to see
This pleasing pastime of my poesie,
Much better than a Paris-garden Beare,
Or prating puppet on a Theatere,
Or Mimoes whistling to his tabouret
Selling a laughter for a cold meales meate.
Go to then ye my sacred Semones,
And please me more, the more ye do displease;
Care we for all those bugs of ydle feare?
For Tigels grinning on the Theater,
Or scar-babe threatnings of the rascal crue,
Or wind-spent verdicts of each Ale-knights view?
What euer brest doth freeze for such false dread,
Beshrow his base white liuer for his meede.
Fond were that pitie, and that feare were sin,
To spare wast leaues that so deserued bin.
Those toothlesse Toyes that dropt out by mis-hap,
Bee but as lightning to a thunder-clap:
Shall then that foule infamous Cyneds hide
Laugh at the purple wales of others side?
Not, if hee were as neere, as by report,
The stewes had wont to be to the Tenis-court,
Hee that while thousands enuie at his bed,
Neighs after Bridals, and fresh-mayden heade:
While slauish Iuno dares not looke awry
To frowne at such imperious riualrye,
Not tho shee sees her wedding Iewels drest
To make new Bracelets for a strumpets wrest,
Or like some strange disguised Messaline,
Hires a nights lodging of his concubine;
Whether his twilight-torch of loue do call
To reuils of vncleanly Musicall,
Or midnight plaies, or Tauerns of new wine,
Hy ye white Aprons to your Land-Lords signe;
When all, saue tooth-lesse age or infancie,
Are summon'd to the Court of Venerie.
Who list excuse? when chaister dames can hyre,
Some snout-faire stripling to their Apple-squire:
Whom staked vp like to some stallion-steede
They keepe with Egs and Oysters for the breede.
O Lucine! barren Caia hath an heire
After her husband's dozen yeares despaire.
And now the bribed Mid-wife sweares apace,
The bastard babe doth beare his fathers face.
But hath not Lelia past hir virgine yeares?
For modest shame (God wot) or penall feares.
He tels a Merchant tidings of a prise,
That tels Cynedo of such nouelties,
Worth little lesse than landing of a Whale,
Or Gades spoyles, or a churles funerale:
Go bid the baines and point the bridall day,
His broking Baud hath got a noble prey,
A vacant tenement, an honest dowre
Can fit his pander for her paramoure,
That hee, base wretch, may clog his wit-old head
And giue him hansell of his Hymen-bed.
Ho! all ye Females that would liue vnshent
Fly from the reach of Cyneds regiment.
If Trent be drawne to dregs, and Low refuse,
Hence ye hot lechour, to the steaming stewes.
Tyber the famous sinke of Christendome
Turn thou to Thames, & Thames runn towards Rome:
What euer damned streame but thine were meete
To quench his lusting liuers boyling heate?
Thy double draught may quench his dog-daies rage
With some stale Bacchis, or obsequious page,
When writhen Lena makes her sale-set showes
Of wooden Venus with faire limned browes;
Or like him more some vailed Matrons face,
Or trained prentise trading in the place:
The close adultresse, where her name is red
Coms crauling from her husbands lukewarme bed,
Her carrion skin bedaub'd with odours sweete,
Groping the postern with her bared feet.
Now play the Satyre who so list for mee,
Valentine selfe, or some as chast as hee.
In vaine she wisheth long Alchmaenaes night,
Cursing the hasty dawning of the light,
And with her cruell Ladie-starre vprose
Shee seekes hir third roust on her silent toes,
Besmeared all with loathsome smoke of lust
Like Acherons steemes, or smoldring sulphur dust:
Yet all day sits shee simpring in her mew
Like some chast dame, or shrined saynct in shew,
Whiles hee lies wallowing with a westie hed
And palish carkasse, on his Brothel-bed,
Till his salt bowels boyle with poysonous fire,
Right Hercules with his second Deianire.
O Esculape! how rife is Phisicke made,
When ech Brasse-basen can professe the trade
Of ridding pockie wretches from their paine,
And doe the beastly cure for ten-groats gaine?
Al these & more, deserue some blood-drawne lines:
But my sixe Cords beene of too loose a twine.
Stay till my beard shall sweepe myne aged brest,
Then shall I seeme an awfull Satyrist:
While now my rimes relish of the Ferule still,
Some nose-wise Pedant saith; whose deepe-sene skil
Hath three times construed either Flaccus ore,
And thrise rehears'd them in his Triuiall floare,
So let them taxe mee for my hote-bloodes rage,
Rather than say I doted in my age.





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