ARGUMENT
Yong Gallants Sloth, and their Neglect Of Arts, this Satyre doth detect
What ev'ry day thus long? fie, fie arise:
See how the cleare light shamefully descries
Thy sloth: and through thy windows shining bright
Stretcheth the narrow chinks with his broad light.
We snort till the Fift shadow touch the line,
Enough ev'n to digest stronge Falerne wine.
Now what dost doe? The furious dog-stars heat
Upon the parched corne hath long since beat
With its fierce scolding influence, and made
The beasts to seeke the spreading Elmes coole shade.
Thus the companion of some slothfull youth
Does freely chide him. Then saith he, in truth
And ist so late? indeed? some body then
Come presently and reach my clothes: why when?
If then no body come: Oh how he swels,
And breaks with glasse-like choller; and then yels
With such a foule loud noise, that you would say
Surely some great Arcadian asse did bray.
At last, with much adoe he doth beginne
To take his booke in hand and some faire skinne
Of smooth two-colourd parchment he takes then
Some paper and his knottie reed-like pen.
Then he complaines how that his inke doth sticke
In clots at his pens nose, it is so thicke.
Powre water then to his blacke Sepian juice,
He cries, now tis too white. Ha's a device
For ev'ry thing. So sometimes he doth plead
His pen writes double, or his inke doth spread.
Wretched unhappie man! yet growing still
More wretched! Think'st wee're borne to take our fill
Of sloth? Why dost not then like the soft Dove
Or great mens little children, rather love
In delicatest wantonnesse to lappe
Some soft sweet spoone-meate, as a little pappe?
Or angry with the teat, why dost not crie,
Refusing to be stilld with Lullabie?
Why, can I studie, sir, with such a quill?
Alas! whom dost thou mocke? why pleadst thou still
Such vaine ambages? wretched man to flout
Thy selfe! Th'art broken! loe, thou leakest out!
And know thou shalt be Scornd! strike but a pot
Of some raw earth halfe-boild, and will it not
Tell its owne fault, yeelding a dull crazd sound?
Well; Yet th'art soft moist clay, and mayst be wound
To any forme: Now, therefore, now make haste
To vertue: Present time must be embrac'd.
Now like the potters clay, now thou must feele
Sharpe disciplines effigiating wheele.
Yong Gallants Sloth, and their Neglect Of Arts, this Satyre doth detect
What ev'ry day thus long? fie, fie arise:
See how the cleare light shamefully descries
Thy sloth: and through thy windows shining bright
Stretcheth the narrow chinks with his broad light.
We snort till the Fift shadow touch the line,
Enough ev'n to digest stronge Falerne wine.
Now what dost doe? The furious dog-stars heat
Upon the parched corne hath long since beat
With its fierce scolding influence, and made
The beasts to seeke the spreading Elmes coole shade.
Thus the companion of some slothfull youth
Does freely chide him. Then saith he, in truth
And ist so late? indeed? some body then
Come presently and reach my clothes: why when?
If then no body come: Oh how he swels,
And breaks with glasse-like choller; and then yels
With such a foule loud noise, that you would say
Surely some great Arcadian asse did bray.
At last, with much adoe he doth beginne
To take his booke in hand and some faire skinne
Of smooth two-colourd parchment he takes then
Some paper and his knottie reed-like pen.
Then he complaines how that his inke doth sticke
In clots at his pens nose, it is so thicke.
Powre water then to his blacke Sepian juice,
He cries, now tis too white. Ha's a device
For ev'ry thing. So sometimes he doth plead
His pen writes double, or his inke doth spread.
Wretched unhappie man! yet growing still
More wretched! Think'st wee're borne to take our fill
Of sloth? Why dost not then like the soft Dove
Or great mens little children, rather love
In delicatest wantonnesse to lappe
Some soft sweet spoone-meate, as a little pappe?
Or angry with the teat, why dost not crie,
Refusing to be stilld with Lullabie?
Why, can I studie, sir, with such a quill?
Alas! whom dost thou mocke? why pleadst thou still
Such vaine ambages? wretched man to flout
Thy selfe! Th'art broken! loe, thou leakest out!
And know thou shalt be Scornd! strike but a pot
Of some raw earth halfe-boild, and will it not
Tell its owne fault, yeelding a dull crazd sound?
Well; Yet th'art soft moist clay, and mayst be wound
To any forme: Now, therefore, now make haste
To vertue: Present time must be embrac'd.
Now like the potters clay, now thou must feele
Sharpe disciplines effigiating wheele.