Classic Poem

SAT. 5.

Stupet Albius aere.

VVould now that Matho were the Satyrist ,
That some fat bribe might greaze him in the fist,
For which he need not braule at any barre
Nor kisse the booke to be a periurer;
Who else would scorne his silence to haue sold,
And haue his tongue tyed with strings of Gold?
Curius is dead, and buried long since,
And all that loued golden Abstinence :
Might he not well repine at his old fee,
Would he but spare to speake of vsurie?
Hirelings enow beside, can be so base,
Tho we should scorne ech bribing varlets brasse;
Yet he and I could shun ech iealous head,
Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle-stead,
Tho were they manicled behind our backe,
Anothers fist can serue our fees to take:
Yet pursy Euclio chearly smiling prayde,
That my sharpe words might curtal their side trade;
For thousands beene in euery gouernall,
That liue by losse, and rise by others fall.
What euer sickly sheepe so secret dies,
But some foule Rauen hath bespoke his eyes?
What else makes N . when his lands are spent,
Go shaking like a threedbare malecontent:
Whose band-lesse Bonnet vailes his ore-grown chin
And sullen rags bewray his Morphew'd skin;
So ships he to the woluish westerne ile,
Among the sauage Kernes in sad exile;
Or in the Turkish wars at Caesars pay
To rub his life out till the latest day;
Another shifting Gallant to forecast,
To gull his Hostesse for a months repast,
With some gal'd Trunck ballac'd with straw & stone
Left for the paune of his prouision;
Had F . shop lyen fallow but from hence,
His doores close seal'd as in some pestilence,
Whiles his light heeles their fearfull flight can take,
To get some badg-lesse Blew vpon his backe?
Tocullio was a welthie vsurer,
Such store of incomes had he euery yeare,
By Bushels was he wont to met his coyne
As did the olde wife of Trimalcion .
Could he doe more that finds an idle roome,
For many hundreth thousands on a Toombe?
Or who reares vp foure free-schooles in his age,
Of his old pillage, and damn'd surplusage?
Yet now he swore by that sweete Crosse he kist,
(That siluer crosse, where hee had sacrific'd
His coueting soule, by his desires owne doome,
Daily to die the Diuels Martyrdome)
His Angels were all flowne vp to their sky,
And had forsooke his naked Tresurie:
Farewell Astraea and her weights of gold,
Vntill his lingring Calends once be told;
Nought left behinde but wax & parchment scroles
Like Lucians dreame that siluer turn'd to coles:
Shouldst thou him credit, that nould credit thee?
Yes and maiest sweare he swore the verity;
The ding-thrift heire, his shift-got summe mispent,
Comes drouping like a pennylesse penitent,
And beats his faint fist on Tocullios doore,
It lost the last and now must call for more.
Now hath the Spider caught a wandring Flie,
And drags her captiue at her cruell thie:
Soone is his arrand red in his pale face,
Which beares dumbe Characters of euery case,
So Cyned's dusky cheeke and fiery eye,
And hayre-les brow, tels where he last did lye;
So Matho doth bewray his guilty thought,
While his pale face doth say, his cause is nought.
Seest thou the wary Angler trayle along
His feeble line, soone as some Pike too strong
Hath swallowed the bate that scornes the shore,
Yet now nearehand cannot resist no more:
So lyeth he aloofe in smooth pretence,
To hide his rough intended violence;
As he that vnder name of Christmas Cheere,
Can starue his Tenants all th'ensuing yeare:
Paper and wax (God wot) a weake repay,
For such deepe debts, and downcast summs as they;
Write, seale, deliuer, take, go, spend and speede,
And yet full heardly could his present need
Part with such summe; For but as yester-late
Did Furnus offer pen-worths at easie rate,
For small disbursment; He the bankes hath broke,
And needs mote now some further playne ore look;
Yet ere he goe faine would he be releast:
Hy you ye Rauens, hy you to the feast;
Prouided that thy lands are left entyre,
To be redeem'd or ere thy day expire;
Then shalt thou teare those idle paper-bonds,
That thus had fettered thy pawned lands.
Ah foole! For sooner shalt thou sell the rest,
Then stake ought for thy former Interest;
When it shall grind thy grating gall for shame,
To see the lands that beare thy Grandsires name,
Become a dunghill peasants sommer-hall,
Or lonely Hermits cage inhospitall;
A pining Gourmand, an imperious slaue,
An hors-leech, barren womb, and gaping graue,
A legall thiefe, a bloud-lesse murtherer;
A feind incarnate, a false Vsurer,
Albee such mayne extort scorns to be pent
In the clay wals of thatched Tenement,
For certes no man of a low degree,
May bid two ghestes; or Gout, or Vsurie:
Vnlesse some base hedge-creeping Collybist
Scatters his refuse scraps on whom he list,
For Easter-gloues, or for a shroftide Hen,
Which bought to giue, he takes to sell agen:
I doe not meane some glozing Merchants feate,
That laugheth at the cozened worlds deceipt,
When as an hundred stocks lie in his fist,
He leaks and sinkes, and breaketh when he list.
But, Nummius eas'd the needy Gallants care,
With a base bargaine of his blowen ware,
Of fusted hoppes now lost for lacke of sayle,
Or mo'ld browne-paper that could nought auaile:
Or what he cannot vtter otherwise,
May pleasure Fridoline for treble price.
Whiles his false broker lyeth in the wind,
And for a present Chapman is assign'd,
The cut-throte wretch for their compacted gaine,
Buyes all for but one quarter of the mayne;
Whiles if he chance to breake his deare-bought day,
And forfait for default of due repay
His late intangled lands: Then Fridoline ,
Buy thee a wallet, and go beg or pine.
If Mammon selfe should euer liue with men,
Mammon himselfe shalbe a Citizen.