Classic Poem

What heart so hard that splits not when it heares
What ruthlesse Martyrdome my Body beares
By rude Barbarians of these later Times.
Blotting my spotlesse Brest with Prose and Rimes
That Impudence . Itselfe, would blush to beare;
It is such shamelesse Stuffe and irkesome Geare?
Though I (immaculate) be white as Snow,
(Which virgin Hue mine Innocence doth shew)
Yet these remorceles Monsters on me piles
A massy heape of blockish senceles Stiles ;
That I ne wot (God wot) which of the twaine
Do most torment me, heauy Shame , or Paine .
No lesse then my whole Reames will some suffize
With mad braine Stuffe ore them to tyrannize,
Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheetes to shake,
To beare Rimes-doggrell making Dogs perbrake
Whereto (ay me) grosse Burthens still they ad
And to that put againe, light Notes and sad:
O Man in desperation, what a dewce
Meanst thou such filth in my white face to sluce?
One raies me with course Rimes, and Chips them call,
Offals of wit, a fire burne them all.
And then to make the mischeife more compleate
He blotts my Brow with Verse as blacke as lett,
Wherein he shewes where LudloWhath her Seite,
And how her Horse high Market House is pight
Yet not so satisfied, but on he goes,
And where one Berries meane house stands, he showes
An other comes with Wit, too costiue then,
Making a Glister pipe of his rare Pen:
And through the same he all my Brest becackes,
And turnes me so, to nothing but Aiax
Yet Aiax (I confesse) was too supreme
For Subiect of my by-his-wit-royalld Reame
Exposed to the rancor of the rude
And wasted by the witlesse Multitude
He so adorned me that I shall nere
Moue right, for kinde, then in his Robes appeare
Whose Lines shall circumscribe vncompast Times .
And, past the wheeling of the Spheares, his Rimes
Shall runne (as right) to immortallity,
And praisd (as proper) of Posterity.
Yet sith his wit was then with Will annoyd,
And I enforct to beare what Wit did void.
I cannot choose but say as I haue said,
His wit (made loose) defiled me his Maide.
Another (ah Lord helpe) mee vilifies
With Art of Loue, and how to subtilize,
Making lewd Venus , with eternail Lines,
To tye Adonis to her loues designes:
Fine wit is shew'n therein: but finer twere
If not attired in such bawdy Geare.
But be it as it will: the coyest Dames,
In priuate read it for their Closset games:
For, sooth to say, the Lines so draw them on,
To the venerian speculation,
That will they, nill they (if of flesh they bee)
They will thinke of it, sith loose Thought is free
And thou (O Poet) that dost pen my Plaint,
Thou art not scot free from my just complaint:
For, thou hast plaid thy part, with thy rude Pen.
To make vs both ridiculous to men.
But O! my Soule is vext to thinke how euill
I was abus'd to beare suits to the Deuill.
Pierse-Pennilesse (a Pies eat such a patch)
Made me (ay me) that businesse once dispatch
And hauing made me vndergo the shame,
Abusde me further, in the Deuills name:
And made [me] Dildo (dampned Dildo) beare,
Till good-mens hate did me in peeces teare.
O they were mercifull therein (God knowes)
It's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes
How many Quires (can any Stacioner tell)
Were bandied then, t'wixt him and Gabriell?
Who brutishly my beauty so did blot
With Gaulie-girds by Pens pumpt from th inck-pot
That I more vgly then a Satire seemd:
Nay, for an hellish Monster was esteemd.
Fiue Grotes (good Lord!) why what a rate was that,
For one meere rayling Pamphlet to be at?
Well, God forgiue them both, they did me wrong,
To make me beare their choller spude, so long.
Yet if, in Iudgement, I should spend my breath,
The Doctor foyld him with his Dagger sheath
The Conny catcher now plaies least in sight
That wonted was on me to shew that slyght,
And made more hauock of my Reames and Quires,
Then all the Neckes are worth of such scalld Squires.
No Tearme could scape him, but he scraped mee
With Pens that spirtled me with Villany
And made me ope a gap, vnto each Gap.
That leads to shame, to sorrow, and mishap
But let him goe, he long since dead hath beene.
In Body dead but yet his Name is Greene .
What should I speake of infant- Rimers now
That ply their Pen as Plow-men do their Plow:
And pester Poasts, with Titles of new bookes:
For, none but Blockes such wooden Titles brookes
Ay me, how ill bested am I the while,
To see, how at my carriage, Carters smile:
And yet such Rascall writers finde a Presse,
(A mischiefe ont) to make me to confesse
I was in fault for that I did not finde
A way to fiie from such Gulls with the winde.
Then to recount the volumes hugely written
Where I lye soild as I were all be ( )
Aiax , Ile stand toot did beseeme me better,
For all's vnsweete, Sence, Sentence. Line and Letter
The Sonnes of Aymon, Beuis, Gawen, Guy .
Arthur , the Worthy, writ vnworthily;
Mirrour of Knighthood, with a number such.
I might spend time (past time) them all to touch.
And though I grieue, yet cannot choose but smile
To see some moderne Poets seed my Soile
With mighty Words that yeeld a monstrous Crop,
Which they do spur-gall in a false gallop.
Embellish, Blandishment and Equipage .
Such Furies flie from their Muse holy rage.
And if (perchance) one hit on Surquedry ,
O he writes rarely in sweet Poesy!
But, he that ( point-blanck ) hits Enueloped ,
Hee (Lord receaue his Soule) strikes Poetry dead
O Poetry! that now (as stands thy case)
Art the head game ; and yet art out an Acc :
An Acc? nay two: (for on thee Fortune frownes)
That's out of Credit quite, and out of Crownes
Thou art a Worke of darkenesse, that dost damne
Thy Soule (all Satire ) in an Epigram
Thou art, in this worlds reackning, such a Botch
As kills the English quite , howere the Scotch
Escape the mortall mischiefe: but, indeede,
Their Starres are better; so, they better speede.
Yet Poetry be blith, hold vp thy head.
And liue by Aire till Earthly Lumpes be dead
But if Aire fatt not, as through thee it passes,
Liue vpon Sentences gainst golden Asses .
Some burden me, sith I oppresse the Stage,
With all the grosse Abuses of this Age .
And presse mee after, that the World may see
(As in a soiled Glasse ) her selfe in mee.
Where each man in , and out of s humor pries
Vpon himselfe; and laughs vntill he cries
Vntrussing humerous Poets , and such Stuffe
(As might put plainest Pacience in a Ruffe)
I shew men; so, they see in mee and Elues
Themselues scornd, and their Scorners scorne themselues
O wondrous Age! when Phaebus Ympes do turne
Their Armes of Witt against themselues in scorne
For lacke of better vse: alack, alack,
That Lack should make them so their creditts crack!
Is want of Wealth or Witt the cause thereof,
That they thus make themselues a publick Scoffe?
I wott not I, but yet I greatly feare,
It is not with them as I would it were.
I would it were; then Times should ne're report
That in these Times , Witt spoild himselfe in sport
O poore Apollos Priests (rich in reproch)
Ist not ynough the base your blame should broch
But you your selues (vnhappie as ye are)
Must doo't, as if your diuine fury were
Turn'd into Hellish; to excruciate none
(To gladd your Scorners) but your selues alone
And make me beare, to myne eternall shame.
Th' immortall Record of your Rancors Blame
Can you teach men how they themselues should vse
When you your selues your selues do so abuse?
Or sett this Chaoe of confusion
(The World) in order by abusion?
Alas ye cannot; For, Men will despise
The precepts of great Clarks, if so vnwise.
Then Time redeeme and in time that amisse,
And I past time will bear the blame of this
For pale-fac'd Paper cannot blush a whitt
Though still it beare the greatest blame of Will
Yet, Poets loue I, sith they make me weare
(What weares out Time ) my rich and gaudiest Geare.
Yea, those I loue that in too earnest Game
(Or little Spleene) did me no little shame
Sith I can witnesse to succeeding Times
They oft haue me araid with royall Rimes .
That rauish Readers (Though they enuious bee).
Such sacred Raptures they haue put on me.
Heere giue me leaue (kinde Reader ) to digresse;
To speake of their vnhappy-happinesse
Who can put Words into the Mouthes of Kings.
That make them more then seeme Celestiall things
And can their Deeds so fashion with their Pen .
That, doing so, they should be Gods with men!
Each Moode that moues the Minde they so can moue,
As doth the Wit , the Will ; or Beauty, Loue .
Yet, as they were accursed by the Fates .
They can moue none to better their estates.
Who do not onely hurt themselues alone.
But Fortune (that still hurts them) do enthrone
Among the Senate of those Deities
That hisse (like Geese ) at their kinde Gulleries
What bootes the Braines to haue a wit diuine
To make what ere it touch, in Glory shine;
If ( Midas like) it famisht be with store
Of golden Morsels set the same before
And for an hunger-staruen Fee (alas!)
To make an Idoll of a Golden Asse .
It's the worst way that wit can vse his trade,
For Fee so light with rich praise Blockes to lade
Yet will I not so wrong my selfe and you,
To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue.
For, then, in time, I might want change (perchance)
Of Robes , that do my glory most aduance.
No: write (kinde Patrones ) but let Patrones such
Be prais'd as they deserue; a littl's much:
Because that little good in such is found,
That giue but little to be much renownd.
Yet write (deere Gracers, that do make me faire)
And liue the while ( Chamelion like) by ayre
Your Lines (like Shadowes) sett my Beauty forth,
Shadowing the life of Arte , Wits deerest worth
When you are gon (for, long you cannot stay,
Whose Braines your Pens pick out, to throw away)
I will remember you, and make you liue
A life (without Worlds charge) which Fame doth giue:
For, should that life cost this Age more than Breath
It soone would gnaw your deerest Fames to death
Mans life is but a dreame; Nay, lesse then so;
A shadow of a Dreame; that's scarce a Show;
Then, in this Shadow shadow out that shade
That may the world substancially perswade
You are halfe Gods, and more: so, cannot dye
By reason of your Witts Dluinity!
How am I plagu'd with pettifoging Scribes ,
That load mee with fowle lyes for Fees and bribes?
And though wide Lines vpon my Sheetes they put
Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shutt:
Which there in mistery obscurly lies
That those which see it neede haue Eagles Eyes:
So I a Laborinth am made thereby
Where men oft lose themselues vntill they dye
Or els a Traitrous trapp, and subtill Snare,
To crush rash fooles which runne in vnaware
But that which most my Soule excruciates
Some Chroniclers that write of kingdomes States
Do so absurdly sableize my White
With Maskes and Enterludes by Day and Night;
Balld Maygames, Beart-bayting , and poore Orations
Made to some Prince by some poore Corporations:
And if a Brick-batt from a Chymney falls
When puffing Boreas nere so little Bralls:
Or els a Knaue bee hange by Iustice doome
For Cutting of a Purse in selfe same Roome:
Or wanton Rigg, or letcher dissolute
Do stand at Powles-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute;
All these, and thousands such like toyes as These
They clapp in Chronicles like Butterflees
Of which there is no vse: but spotteth mee
With Medley of their Motley-Liuerie
And so confound graue Matters of estate
With plaies of Poppets , and I wott not what:
Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost
To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost,
Ah good Sir Thomas Moori , (Fame bee with thee)
Thy Hand did blesse the English Historie,
Or els (God knowes) it had beene as a Pray
To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day.
Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse
At her vnruly Matters much to muse:
For (ah!) that euer any should record
And Chronicle the Sedges of a Lord,
Seiges of Townes , or Castles? No, (alas!)
That were too well: but Sedges that do passe
Into the Draught , which none can well suruay
Without he turne his face another way:
Yet where that is, I may not well disclose.
But you may find it, follow but your Nose.
As also when the Weather cock of Powles
Amended was, this Chronicler enroles
And O (alas!) that e're I was created
Of Raggs, to bee thus rudely lacerated:
With such most ragged, wilde, and childish Stuffe
As might putt plainest Patience in a Ruffe:
For this sales one: There was, on such a day
A disputation (that's a Grammer fray)
Betweene Paules Sehollers, and S t Anthonyes
S t Bartholmeews among; and, the best Prize
A Pen was of fiue shillings price; Alas!
That ere this Dotcherd made mee such an Asse
To beare such Trash; and that in such a Thing
Which wee call Chronicle: so, on me bring
A world of shame: a shame vpon them all
That make myne Iniuries Historicall
To weare out Time, that euer (without end)
My shame may last, without some one it mend
And then, like an Historian for the nonce,
He tells how two Knights here were feasted once
At Mounsire Doysels lodging (mong the rest)
With a whole powderd Palfray (at the least)
That rosted was: so hee (without remorse)
Tells vs a Tale but of a rosted Horse.
Good God! who can endure, but silly I,
To beare the burden of such Trumpery,
As, could I blush; my face no inke would beare:
For blushing Flames would burne it comming there?
But, Fame reports ther's one (forth-comming yet)
That's comming forth with Notes of better Sett:
And of this Nature , Who both can, and will
With descant, more in tune, mee fairly fill
And if a senselesse creature (as I am;
And, so am made, by those whome thus I blame)
May iudgement giue, from those that know it well
His Notes for Arte and Iudgement do excell.
Well fare thee man of Arte, and World of Witt
That by supremest Mercy liuest yet:
Yet, dost but liue; yet, liust thou to the end:
But so thou paist for Time, which thou dost spend,
That the deere Treasure of thy precious skills
The World with pleasure , and with profitt fills,
Thy long-winged, actiue and ingenious Spright
Is euer Touring to the highest height
Of Witt and Arte ; to beautifie my face:
So, deerely gracest life for lifes deere Grace
Another in the Chronicle as great
As some old Church-booke (that would make one sweat
To turne it twice) at large (good man) doth shew
How his good Wife good Beere, and Ale doth brew.
With which (lest Readers fowly might mistake)
He many Leaues in Folio , vp doth take
To make them brew good Beere, and Ale aswell
As his good wife: and all the Arte doth tell
So, for a booke of Cookery one would take
That Chronicle that shewes to brew and bake.
Heere is strong Stuffe, a Chronicle to line:
Worth varnish will; then doth the Story shine:
Wherein Historians still may see the face
Of Wit and Arte , their Histories to grace.
I must endure all this: but God forgiue them;
I can no more commend them then beleene them.
I scarce would venture Mault, a Pennies price;
To try the vertue of this Stories vice
For as it marrd the Chronicle before,
So might it marre the mault, what euer more
With rancke Redundance being thus opprest,
I (as for speaking nought) to death am prest
But now (ah now) ensues a pinching pang,
A villaine vile, that sure in hell doth hang,
Hight Mach euill that euill none can match,
Daub'd me with den'llish Precepts, Soules to catch,
And made me so (poore silly Innocent)
Of good soules wracke, the cursed instrument
Now not a Groome (whose wits erst soard no hyer
Then how to pile the Logs on his Lords fire)
But playes the Machiavillian (with a pox)
And, in a Sheep-skin clad, the Woolfe or Fox.
I could heere speake what hauock still is made
Of my faire Reames which quarrells ouer-lade
In right Religious cause, as all pretend
Though nere so wrongly some her right defend.
What neuer ending Strife they make me stirre:
For, I am made the Trumpet of their warre
I pell-mell put together by the Eares
All Nations that the Earth (turmolled) beares;
While wounded Consciences in such Conflicts
Damnacions terror euermore afflicts
In desperate doubts; with Wynds of Doctrine tost
Still likely in Faiths Shipp-wrack to bee lost.
While learned Pilots striue which Course is best,
Gods tempest-beaten Arke can take no rest,
But vp and down on Discords Billowes borne
In dismall plight, and fares as quight forlorne.
But Thou sweet Concords Cause, who with thy Hand
Dost tune the Deepes , and highest winds command,
Looke downe from Thyne eternall Seate (secure)
Vpon Thy Church Storme tossed euery houre;
And factious Men inspire with better grace
Then with defence of Sects to staine my face.
But wretched I (vnhappy that I am)
None, no not one, a Pistle now can frame,
T'addresse their Works to any Personage,
But they (ay mee) must craue their Patronage,
To be protected from the bitter blow
Of Momus, Zoilus , and I wott not who.
O Momus, Momus, Zoilus, Zoilus , yee
In these Epistles too much pester mee:
For, vnder Lords wings Metaphoricall
All Authors creepe: a shame vpon them all.
And men you haue alas so much bewitcht
That with your Names (like Needles ) must be sticht;
All dedicating ' Pistles on my Sheetes:
For, first of all with you the Reader meetes
And now that fashion is so stale become
That hee in hate, Crosse wounds me with his Thumbe;
And ready is to teare my tender Sides
To make me Seauenger for their Back-sides
Good gentle Writers, for the Lord sake, for the Lord sake,
Like Lud-gale Pris'ner, lo, I (begging) make
My mone to you; O listen to my mone
Let Zoile and Montus (for Gods loue) alone;
Meddle not with them, Monte's a byting Beast:
And men for his name-sake your Bookes detest,
And make me shake for feare lest in a rage
They should enforce me weare their Buttocks Badge,
Leaue off, leaue off your Tokens of good will
The Poesies of old Rings new ' Pistles spill.
Away with Patronage , a plague vpon't,
That hideous Word is worse then Termagant
Call for no aide where none is to be found:
Protect my Booke; such Bookes O fates confound.
To shew my grateful minde; That's stinking stale;
Yet in new ' Pistles such geares set to sale
We poore man's present to the Emperor;
O that in ' Pistles keepes a stinking sturre
And not the Guist, but gluers poore good will
This, this (O this) my vexed Soule doth kill!
This is a Pill (indeede) to giue more stooles
Then Mouthes will fill of forty such fine-fooles.
This heauy Sentence which I oft sustaine,
Makes me to grone, it putts mee to such paine
Therefore I pray such Writers, write no more;
Or if you do, write better then before
Doth Nature new Heads bring forth eu'ry day?
And can those new Heads no new Witt bewray?
Vnhappie Nature or vnhappie Heads,
Its time for one or both to take your Beads
The world and most mens Witts are at an end,
Pray for increase of faith, then Witt will mend:
For sure the cause why men too foolish are
They faint in search of Wisdome, through dispaire
Hath Aristotle left his witte behinde,
To helpe those Witts that seeke, yet cannot finde?
Hath Socrates and Plato broke the yee
To many a Skill and most Jeuine Deuice?
And cannot After-commers too't arine?
And with those Helps not equall Skill achiue?
Did they (poore Men) out of meere Industry
Attaine to so great singularity ,
Having no Ground, or if Ground, had but little
Whereon their loftye Buildings sure to settle,
And can no Work man of this happlesse Time,
And no Stone to it; nor no Dabbe of Lyme?
I wrong them now, that would I countermand;
They add much Lyme, but neither stone , nor sand .
And this the cause (as some good Authors say)
Their Workes, with Winde and Raine do dance the Hay;
For, they fall downe-right; but the Raine and Winde
Makes them runne in and out as they are inclinde;
And could the Weather speake, it would commend
Such toward Workes as towards it do bend;
And praise (beyond the Moone ) their muddy Brayne
That builds with mudd to sport the Winde and Rayne.
Plato and Socrates (the Mason free )
With Stone and Lime built too substantially.
And Aristotle (like a musing foole)
Would lay no Stone without good Reasons Ruel;
What boote such Buildings to weare Ages out?
A goodly peece of Worke it is no doubt:
Yfayth, yfaith, their Witts were much misled,
To build for others now themselues are dead.
The Winde may now go whistle while it will,
These Waightie Workes for all that stand do still
The Rayne, by soaking showres, may fall amaine:
Yet sure they stand for all such Showres of Rayne.
Yea, let all Weathers loyne their force in one,
They ail vnable are to stirre one stone.
A mischiefe on the Fooles, what did they meane,
To wast their Bralnes and make their Bodies leane,
To profit others which they neuer knew,
And build for Sots, which after should ensue?
Who gape vpon it with great admiration:
But dare not stirre a foote from the foundation
Yee neede not feare to climbe, the Worke is sure,
Els could it not so many Ages dure.
And, if a Flaw be found, through Builders blame.
Now mother witt (some say) can mend the same
And still yee haue such stedfast footing there,
And yet will sinck through slouth or faint through feare,
O Heau'ns increase your fayth, and make it strong;
For yee, through weaknesse, do your wisdomes wrong
The Soule of Man is like that Powr deuine,
That in him selfe all wisdome doth conteine:
Which simily in Wisedomes facultie
Doth hold, or els there is no Simily .
Mans Reason (if stird vp) can mount as hie
As Souls themselues, and they to Heau'n can flye,
And from thence view what the Circumference
Doth Circumscribe, if subiect vnto Sence.
Homer (though blinde) yet saw with his Soules Eye.
The Secret hid in deep'st Philosophie;
In State-affaire , and in the high'st Designes;
All which he measures with immortall Lines ,
Whereat wee rather euer do admire
Then feele least feruor of his diuine fire
What Country, Marches; Nauy nay, what Hoast
Yea what Mindes motions (both of man , and Ghost)
Are by Him, so exprest, that he (wee wott)
Makes vs to see that Hee himselfe sawe not!
His Illiads describes the Bodies worth:
The Minde , his Odissia setteth forth
For which seau'n Citties straue, when he was gon,
Which of them all should hold him as their owne.
Then gentle Writers be not so imploid
In writing euerlastingly, (vncloid)
And let your reason idle bee the while;
Let Reason worke, and spare your Writings toile,
Till by degrees, she lifted hath your Spright
Vnto the topp of Humane-Wisdomes height.
And when ye haue aspir'd aboue your Sires ,
Then write, a Gods name, fill my Reames and Quires .
And with huge Volumes build a Babel -Towr
As high as Heau'n (that shall the heau'ns out-dure)
For your Sonnes Sonnes to climbe; if so they please,
From Errors Flouds , and Perterbations Seas.
And flatter not, (alas) O flatter not
Your selues as wise; for, you are wide (god wott)
And though yee knew what Aristotle holds.
Thinke not, therefore, your Braine all truth infolds
For, there are Truthes (beside the Truth of Truth)
That nere came neere his Braine much lesse his mouth
All which (when Pow'rs of the Intelligence ,
In their persute vse all their violence)
May well be apprehended though black Clouds
Of vtter-darknesse their abiding shrouds:
Which cannot bee when Bounds are set to Witt
In Plato his Plus Vltra toucht not yet:
Or Aristotles vtmost trauels reach,
Where Muse made through the Marble Heau'ns, a Breach:
And past th' inferior Orbes vntill he came
Vnto the highest Spheare of that huge Frame
That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway,
Yet had not powr his mounting Muse to stay;
But it would pry into th' infernall P LACE ,
Where glory sitts enthron'd in greatest grace.
Yet these be not true Wisdomes Bounds, whose scope
Do farre extend aboue the Heau'nly Cope;
And more profound then the infernall Deepe .
Heau'n, Earth , and Hell , her Greatnesse cannot keepe:
And though such Wisdome properly with God
And not with mortall men doth make abode,
Yet He imparts of His vnbounded grace
So much as may Heau'n, Earth, and Hell embrace
With Contemplations Armes, that all infold,
Whose vncomprised reach no limits hold.
But if, through slouth, those Armes be not extended.
In Earths Circumference then, their Circuit's ended
Now, you that seeke by Wisdome to aspire,
With study impe the wings of your Desire,
And you thereby shall scale the highest Height,
Although your Minde be clog'd with Bodyes weight:
So may ye grace me with eternall lines .
That compasse can, and gage the deep'st Designes.