Returned, hears his blessing ask'd of three,
Cries out, O Julian law! adultery!
Tho' Labeo reaches right (who can deny?)
The true strains of heroick poesy:
For he can tell how fury reft his sense,
And Phoebus fill'd him with intelligence:
He can implore the heathen deities
To guide his bold and busy enterprize;
Or filch whole pages at a clap, for need,
From honest Petrarch, clad in English weed;
While big But Oh's! each stanza can begin,
Whose trunk and taile sluttish and heartlesse been.
He knowes the grace of that new * elegance,
Which sweet Philisides fetch'd of late from France;
That well beseem'd his high-stil'd Arcady,

Tho' others marre it with much liberty,
In epithets to joine two wordes in one
Forsooth, for adjectives cannot stand alone:
As a great poet could of Bacchus say,
That he was Semele-femori-gena.

Lastly he names the spirit of Astrophel +;
Now hath not Labeo done wondrous well?
But ere his Muse her weapon learn to weild,
Or dance a sober Pirrhicke in the field,

* See Teares of the Muses, p. 553.

+ Sir Philip Sydney.

Or marching wade in blood up to the knees,
Her Arma Virum goes by two degrees.
The sheepe-cote first hath beene her nursery,
Where she hath worne her idle infancy;

And, in high startups, walk'd the pastur'd plaines,
To tend her tasked herd that there remaines;
And winded still a pipe of oate or brere,
Striving for wages who the praise shall beare;
As did whilere the homely* Carmelite,
Following Virgil, and he Theocrite;

Or else hath beene in Venus' chamber train'd
To play with Cupid, till she had attain'd
To comment well upon a beauteous face,
Then was she fit for an heroick place.
As witty Pontan †, in great earnest, said,
His mistress' breasts were like two weights of lead.
Another thinks her teeth night liken'd be
To two faire rankes of pales of ivory,

To fence in, sure, the wild beast of her tongue,
From either going far, or going wrong:
Her grinders like two chalk-stones in a mill,
Which shall with time and wearing waxe as ill
As old Catillae's, which wont every night
Lay up her holy pegs till next day-light,
And with them grinds soft-simpring all the day,
When, least her laughter should her gums bewray,

* Baptista Martuan. See Pratt's Hall, vol. 10, p. 382. + John Jovianus Pontanus.

Her hands must hide her mouth if she but smile;
Faine would she seem all frixe and frolicke still.
Her forehead faire is like a brazen hill,

Whose wrinkled furrows, which her age doth breed,
Are dawbed full of Venice chalke for need.
Her eyes like silver saucers, faire beset
With shining amber, and with shady jet:
Her lids like Cupid's bow-case, where he hides.
The weapons that doth wound the wanton-eyde:
Her chin like Pindus, or Parnassus hill,

Where down descends th' oreflowing streams doth fill The well of her fayre mouth.-Ech hath his praise. Who would not but wed poets now a daies!

A Postscript to the Reader.

It is not for every one to relish a true and natural satire being, of itself, besides the nature and inbred bitterness and tartness of particulars, both hard of conceit and harsh of style; and, therefore, cannot but be unpleasing both to the unskilful and over musical ear: the one being affected with only a shallow and easy matter; the other, with a smooth and current disposition. So that I well foresee, in the timely publication of these my concealed satires, I am set upon the rack of many mercilesse and peremptory censures; which, since the calmest and most plausible writer is almost fatally subject unto, in the curiosity of these nicer times, how may I hope to be exempted upon the occasion of so busy and stirring a subject? One thinks it mis-beseeming the author; because a poem: another, unlawful in itself; because a satire: a third, harmful to others for the sharpness and a fourth, unsatire-like; for the mildness: the learned, too perspicuous; being named with Juvenal, Persius, and the other ancient satires: the unlearned, savourless; because too obscure, and obscure because not under their reach. What a monster must he be that would please all !

Certainly, look what weather it would be, if every almanack should be verified: much-what like poems if every fancy should be suited. It is not for this kind to desire or hope to please, which naturally should only find pleasure in displeasing: notwithstanding, if the fault finding with the vices of the time may honestly accord with the good will of the parties, I had as lieve ease my self with a slender apology, as wilfully bear the brunt of causeless anger in my silence. For poetry itself, after the so effectual and absolute endeavours of her honoured patrons, either she needed no new defence, or else might well scorn the offer of so impotent and poor a client. Only, for my own part, though were she a more unworthy mistress, I think she might be inoffensively served with the broken messes of our twelve o'clock hours, which homely service she only claimed and found of me, for that short while of my attendance; yet, having thus soon taken my solemn farewell of her, and shaked hands with all her retinue, why should it be an eye-sore unto any, since it can be no loss to myself?

For my Satires themselves, I see two obvious cavils to be answered. One concerning the matter: than which, I confess, none can be more open to danger, to envy; since faults loath nothing more than the light, and men love nothing more than their faults: and, therefore, what through the nature of the faults and fault of the persons, it is impossible so violent an appeachment should be quietly brooked. But why should vices