Classic Poem

SAT. 6.

Quid placet ergo?

I wote not how the world's degenerate,
That men or know, or like not their estate:
Out from the Gades vp to the Easterne morne,
Not one but holds his natiue state forlorne.
When comely striplings wish it were their chance,
For Caenis distaffe to exchange their Lance;
And weare curl'd Periwigs, and chalke their face,
And still are poring on their pocket-glasse.
Tyr'd with pinn'd Ruffes, & Fans, and partlet-strips,
And Buskes, and Verdingales about their hips;
And tread on corked stilts a prisoners pace,
And make their Napkin for their spitting-place,
And gripe their wast within a narrow span:
Fond Caenis that would'st wish to be a man;
Whose mannish Hus-wiues like their refuse state,
And make a drudge of their vxorius mate,
Who like a Cot-queene freezeth at the rocke,
Whiles his breach't dame doth man the forren stock.
Is't not a shame to see ech homely groome
Sit perched in an idle charriot-roome,
That were not meete some pannell to bestride
Surcingled to a galled Hackneys hide?
Ech Muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine,
Altho he smother vp mowes of seuen yeares graine,
And hang'd himself when corne grows cheap again;
Altho he buy whole Haruests in the spring
And foyst in false strikes to the measuring:
Altho his shop be muffled from the light
Like a day-dungeon, or Cimmerian night:
Nor full nor fasting can the Carle take rest,
Whiles his George-Nobles rusten in his Chest,
He sleeps but once and dreames of burglarie,
And wakes and castes about his frighted eye,
And gropes for theeues in euery darker shade,
And if a Mouse but stirre he cals for ayde.
The sturdie Plough-man doth the soldier see,
All scarfed with pide colours to the knee,
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate,
And now he gins to loath his former state:
Now doth he inly scorne his Kendall-greene,
And his patch't Cockers now dispised beene.
Nor list he now go whistling to the Carre,
But sels his Teeme and fetleth to the warre.
O warre to them that neuer tryde thee sweete!
When his dead mate fals groueling at his feete,
And angry bullets whistlen at his eare,
And his dim eyes see nought but death and drere:
Oh happy Plough-man were thy weale well known;
Oh happy all estates except his owne!
Some dronken Rimer thinks his time well spent,
If he can liue to see his name in print:
Who when he is once fleshed to the Presse,
And sees his handsell haue such fayre successe,
Sung to the wheele, and sung vnto the payle,
He sends forth thraues of Ballads to the sale.
Nor then can rest: But volumes vp bodg'd rimes,
To haue his name talk't of in future times:
The brainsicke youth that feeds his tickled eare
With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false Traueiler ,
Which hath the Spanish Decades red a while;
Or whet-stone leasings of old Maundeuile ,
Now with discourses breakes his mid-night sleepe,
Of his aduentures through the Indian deepe,
Of all their massy heapes of golden mines,
Or of the antique Toombs of Palestine ;
Or of Damascus Magike wall of Glasse,
Of Salomon his sweating piles of Brasse,
Of the Bird Ruc that beares an Elephant:
Of Mer-maids that the Southerne seas do haunt;
Of head-lesse men; of sauage Cannibals ;
The fashions of their liues and Gouernals:
What monstrous Cities there erected bee,
Cayro , or the Citie of the Trinitie:
Now are they dung-hill-Cocks that haue not seene
The bordering Alpes, or else the Neighbour Rhene,
And now he plyes the newes-full Grashopper,
Of voyages and ventures of enquire.
His land morgag'd, He sea-beat in the way
Wishes for home a thousand sithes a day:
And now he deemes his home-bred fare as leefe
As his parch't Bisket, or his barreld Beefe:
Mong'st all these sturs of discontented strife,
Oh let me lead an Academicke life,
To know much, and to thinke we nothing know;
Nothing to haue, yet thinke we haue enough,
In skill to want, and wanting seeke for more,
In weale nor want, nor wish for greater store;
Enuye ye Monarchs with your proud excesse
At our low Sayle, and our hye Happinesse.