Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE YOUNG AUTHOR UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VEIN IN SATIRE AND SONNETS, by HENRY MORE



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TO THE YOUNG AUTHOR UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VEIN IN SATIRE AND SONNETS, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Young monster! Born with teeth, that thus canst bite
Last Line: Thy paws be grown, who'll dare to touch thee then?
Subject(s): Hall, John (1627-1656)


YOUNG monster! born with teeth, that thus canst bite
So deep, canst wound all sorts at ten and eight:
Fierce Scythian brat! Young Tamerlane! the Gods'
Great scourge! that kick'st all men like skulls and clods;
Rough creature! born for terror; whose stern look,
Few strings and muscles mov'd, is a whole book
Of biting satires; who did thee beget?
Or with what pictures was the curtains set?
John of the Wilderness? the hairy child?
The hispid Thisbite? or what Satyr wild,
That thou thus satirisest? Storm of wit,
That fall'st on all thou meetst, and all dost meet!
Singest like lightening the reverend fur
Of ancient sages; mak'st a fearful stir
With my young master and his pedagogue,
And pullst by th' ears the lad's beloved dog.
Then hast thy finger in potato pies,
That make the dull grammarian to rise;
Anon advancing thy satiric flail,
Sweepst down the wine-glasses and cups of ale;
Nor yet art spent; thy manly rage affords
New coil against young wenches and old words,
'Gainst Jos. and Tycho that slings down the spheres;
Like Will with th' wisp sit'st on moist asses' ears;
And now stept in, most quick and dexterous,
Boldly by th' elbow jogg'st Maurolycus,
Causing him in his curious numberings lose
Himself; tak'st Galileo by the nose;
Another stroke makes the dry bones (O Sin!)
Of lean Geometry rattle in her skin;
New rage transforms thee to a pig, that roots
In Jury-land, or crumps Arabic roots;
Or else made corn-cutter, thou loutest low,
And tak'st old Madam Eva by the toe.
Anon thy officious fancy, at random sent,
Becomes a chamberlain, waits on Wood of Kent, --
Sir, much good do't you, -- then the table throws
Into his mouth his stomach's mouth to close;
Another while the well-drench'd smoky Jew,
That stands in his own spaul above the shoe,
She twitcheth by the cloak, and threadbare plush,
Nor beats his moist black beard into a blush!
Mad soul! tyrannic wit! that thus dost scourge
All mortals, and with their own follies urge,
Thou'rt young; therefore, as infant, innocent,
Without regret of conscience all are rent
By the rough knotted whip; but if such blows
Thy younger years can give; when age bestows
Much firmer strength, sure thy satiric rods
May awe the heavens, and discipline the gods!
And now, I ween, we wisely well have shown
What hatred, wrath, and indignation
Can do in thy great parts. How melting love,
That other youthful heat, thou dost improve
With fancies quaint, and gay expressions pat,
More florid than a Lanspresado's hat;
That province to some fresher pens we leave,
Dear lad! and kindly now we take our leave.
Only one word. Sith we so highly raise
Thy watchful wit, take this compendious praise: --
Thy love and wrath seem equal good to me,
For both thy wrath and love right satires be.
Thus may we twitch thee now, young whelp! but when
Thy paws be grown, who'll dare to touch thee then?





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