THE FIRST BOOK.
SATIRE I. — INSATIATE CRON .
Cur eget indignus quisquam, te divite?
Time was when down-declining toothless age
Was of a holy and divine presage,
Divining prudent and foretelling truth,
In sacred points instructing wandering youth;
But, O detraction of our latter days!
How much from verity this age estrays
Ranging the briery deserts of black sin,
Seeking a dismal cave to revel in!
This latter age, or member of that time
Of whom my snarling Muse now thundereth rhyme,
Wander'd the brakes, until a hidden cell
He found at length, and still therein doth dwell:
The house of gain insatiate it is,
Which this hoar-aged peasant deems his bliss.
O that desire might hunt amongst that fur!
It should go hard but he would loose a cur
To rouse the fox, hid in a bramble-bush,
Who frighteth conscience with a wry-mouth'd push.
But what need I to wish or would it thus,
When I may find him starting at the Burse,
Where he infecteth other pregnant wits,
Making them co-heirs to his damned fits.
There may you see this writhen-faced mass
Of rotten mouldering clay, that prating ass,
That riddles wonders, mere compact of lies,
Of heaven, of hell, of earth, and of the skies.
Of heaven thus he reasons; heaven there's none,
Unless it be within his mansion:
O, there is heaven! why? because there's gold,
That from the late to this last age controll'd
The massy sceptre of earth's heavenly round,
Exiling forth her silver-paved bound
The leaders, brethren, brazen counterfeits,
That in this golden age contempt begets:
Vaunt then I, mortal I, I only king,
And golden god of this eternal being.
Of hell Cimmerian thus Avarus reasons;
Though hell be hot, yet it observeth seasons,
Having within his kingdom residence,
O'er which his godhead hath pre-eminence:
An obscure angel of his heaven it is,
Wherein's contain'd that hell-devouring bliss;
Into this hell sometimes an angel falls,
Whose white aspect black forlorn souls appals;
And that is when a saint believing gold,
Old in that heaven, young in being old,
Falls headlong down into that pit of woe,
Fit for such damned creature's overthrow:
To make this public that obscured lies,
And more apparent vulgar secrecies;
To make this plain, harsh unto common wits,
Simplicity in common judgment sits.
This downcast angel, or declining saint,
Is greedy Cron, when Cron makes his comp[lain]t
For his poor creditors faln to decay,
Being bankerouts, take heels and run away:
Then frantic Cron, gall'd to the very heart,
In some by-corner plays a devil's part,
Repining at the loss of so much pelf,
And in a humour goes and hangs himself;
So of a saint a devil Cron is made,
The devil lov'd Cron, and Cron the devil's trade.
Thus may you see such angels often fall,
Making a working-day a festival.
Now to the third point of his deity,
And that's the earth, thus reasons credulity;
Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all,
Swears that his kingdom is in general:
As he is regent of this heaven and hell,
So of the earth all others he'll expel;
The skies at his dispose, the earth his own,
And if Cron please, all must be overthrown.
Cron, Cron, advise thee, Cron with the copper nose,
And be not rul'd so much by false suppose,
Lest Cron's professing holiness turn evil,
And of a false god prove a perfect devil.
I prithee, Cron, find out some other talk,
Make not the Burse a place for spirits to walk;
For doubtless, if thy damned lies take place,
Destruction follows: farewell, sacred grace!
Th' Exchange for goodly merchants is appointed;
Why not for me, says Cron, and mine anointed?
Can merchants thrive, and not the usurer nigh?
Can merchants live without my company?
No, Cron helps all, and Cron hath help from none;
What others have is Cron's, and Cron's his own:
And Cron will hold his own, or 't shall go hard,
The devil will help him for a small reward.
The devil's help, O 'tis a mighty thing!
If he but say the word, Cron is a king.
O then the devil is greater yet than he!
I thought as much, the devil would master be.
And reason too, saith Cron; for what care I,
So I may live as god, and never die?
Yea, golden Cron, death will make thee away,
And each dog, Cron, must have a dying day;
And with this resolution I bequeath thee
To God or to the devil, and so I leave thee.
SATIRE I. — INSATIATE CRON .
Cur eget indignus quisquam, te divite?
Time was when down-declining toothless age
Was of a holy and divine presage,
Divining prudent and foretelling truth,
In sacred points instructing wandering youth;
But, O detraction of our latter days!
How much from verity this age estrays
Ranging the briery deserts of black sin,
Seeking a dismal cave to revel in!
This latter age, or member of that time
Of whom my snarling Muse now thundereth rhyme,
Wander'd the brakes, until a hidden cell
He found at length, and still therein doth dwell:
The house of gain insatiate it is,
Which this hoar-aged peasant deems his bliss.
O that desire might hunt amongst that fur!
It should go hard but he would loose a cur
To rouse the fox, hid in a bramble-bush,
Who frighteth conscience with a wry-mouth'd push.
But what need I to wish or would it thus,
When I may find him starting at the Burse,
Where he infecteth other pregnant wits,
Making them co-heirs to his damned fits.
There may you see this writhen-faced mass
Of rotten mouldering clay, that prating ass,
That riddles wonders, mere compact of lies,
Of heaven, of hell, of earth, and of the skies.
Of heaven thus he reasons; heaven there's none,
Unless it be within his mansion:
O, there is heaven! why? because there's gold,
That from the late to this last age controll'd
The massy sceptre of earth's heavenly round,
Exiling forth her silver-paved bound
The leaders, brethren, brazen counterfeits,
That in this golden age contempt begets:
Vaunt then I, mortal I, I only king,
And golden god of this eternal being.
Of hell Cimmerian thus Avarus reasons;
Though hell be hot, yet it observeth seasons,
Having within his kingdom residence,
O'er which his godhead hath pre-eminence:
An obscure angel of his heaven it is,
Wherein's contain'd that hell-devouring bliss;
Into this hell sometimes an angel falls,
Whose white aspect black forlorn souls appals;
And that is when a saint believing gold,
Old in that heaven, young in being old,
Falls headlong down into that pit of woe,
Fit for such damned creature's overthrow:
To make this public that obscured lies,
And more apparent vulgar secrecies;
To make this plain, harsh unto common wits,
Simplicity in common judgment sits.
This downcast angel, or declining saint,
Is greedy Cron, when Cron makes his comp[lain]t
For his poor creditors faln to decay,
Being bankerouts, take heels and run away:
Then frantic Cron, gall'd to the very heart,
In some by-corner plays a devil's part,
Repining at the loss of so much pelf,
And in a humour goes and hangs himself;
So of a saint a devil Cron is made,
The devil lov'd Cron, and Cron the devil's trade.
Thus may you see such angels often fall,
Making a working-day a festival.
Now to the third point of his deity,
And that's the earth, thus reasons credulity;
Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all,
Swears that his kingdom is in general:
As he is regent of this heaven and hell,
So of the earth all others he'll expel;
The skies at his dispose, the earth his own,
And if Cron please, all must be overthrown.
Cron, Cron, advise thee, Cron with the copper nose,
And be not rul'd so much by false suppose,
Lest Cron's professing holiness turn evil,
And of a false god prove a perfect devil.
I prithee, Cron, find out some other talk,
Make not the Burse a place for spirits to walk;
For doubtless, if thy damned lies take place,
Destruction follows: farewell, sacred grace!
Th' Exchange for goodly merchants is appointed;
Why not for me, says Cron, and mine anointed?
Can merchants thrive, and not the usurer nigh?
Can merchants live without my company?
No, Cron helps all, and Cron hath help from none;
What others have is Cron's, and Cron's his own:
And Cron will hold his own, or 't shall go hard,
The devil will help him for a small reward.
The devil's help, O 'tis a mighty thing!
If he but say the word, Cron is a king.
O then the devil is greater yet than he!
I thought as much, the devil would master be.
And reason too, saith Cron; for what care I,
So I may live as god, and never die?
Yea, golden Cron, death will make thee away,
And each dog, Cron, must have a dying day;
And with this resolution I bequeath thee
To God or to the devil, and so I leave thee.