Nor the low bush feares climbing ivy twine:
Nor lowly bustard dreads the distant rays:
Nor earthen pot wont secret death to shrine
Nor subtle snake doth lurk in pathed ways.
Nor baser deed dreads envy and ill tongues,
Nor shrinks so soon for fear of causelesse wrongs.
Needs me then hope, or doth me need mis-dread:
Hope for that honour, dread that wrongful spite:
Spite of the party, honour of the deed,
Which wont alone on lofty objects light.
That envy should accost my muse and me,
For this so rude and recklesse poesy.
Would she but shade her tender browes with bay,.
That now lye bare in carelesse wilful rage,
And trance herself in that sweet extacy,
That rouzeth drooping thoughts of bashful age.
(Tho' now those bays and that aspired thought,
In carelesse rage she sets at worse than nought.)
Or would we loose her plumy pineon,
Manicled long with bonds of modest feare,
Soone might she have those kestrels* proud outgone,
Whose flighty wings are dew'd with wetter aire,
And hopen now to shoulder from above
The eagle from the stairs of friendly Jove.
*Kestrels-a species of hawk.
Or list she rather in late triumph reare
Eternal trophies to some conquerour,
Whose dead deserts slept in his sepulcher,
And never saw, nor life, nor light before:
To lead sad Pluto captive with my song,
To grace the triumphs he obscur'd so long.
Or scoure the rusted swords of elvish knights,
Bathed in pagan blood, or sheath them new
In misty moral types; or tell their fights,
Who mighty giants, or who monsters slew:
And by some strange inchanted speare and shield,
Vanquish'd their foe, and won the doubtful field.
May-be she might in stately stanzas frame
Stories of ladies, and advent'rous knights,
To raise her silent and inglorious name
Unto a reachlesse pitch of praises hight,
And somewhat say, as more unworthy done,
Worthy of brasse, and hoary marble stone.
Then might vain envy waste her duller wing,
To trace the airy steps she spiteing sees,
Aud vainly faint in hopelesse following
The clouded paths her native drosse denies.
But now such lowly satires here I sing,
Not worth our Muse, not worth her envying.
Too good (if ill) to be expos'd to blame:
Too good, if worse, to shadow shamelesse vice.
Ill, if too good, not answering their name :
So good and ill in fickle censure lies.
Since in our satire lies both good and ill,
And they and it in varying readers will.
Witnesse ye Muses how I wilful sung
These heady rhimes, withouten second care;
And wish'd them worse, my guilty thoughts among;
The ruder satire should go ragg'd and bare,
And shew his rougher and his hairy hide,
Tho' mine be smooth, and deck'd in carelesse pride.
Would we but breathe within a wax-bound quill,
Pan's seven-fold pipe, some plaintive pastoral;
To teach each hollow grove, and shrubby hill,
Each murmuring brook, each solitary vale
To sound our love, and to our song accord,
Wearying Echo with one changelesse word.
Or list us make two striving shepherds sing,
With costly wagers for the victory,
Under Menalcas judge; while one doth bring
A carven bowl well wrought of beechen tree,
Praising it by the story, or the frame,
Or want of use, or skilful maker's name.
Another layeth a well-marked lamb,
Or spotted kid, or some more forward steere,
And from the paile doth praise their fertile dam;
So do they strive in doubt, in hope, in feare,
Awaiting for their trusty umpire's doome,
Faulted as false by him that's overcome.
Whether so me list my lovely thought to sing,
Come dance ye nimble Dryads by my side,
Ye gentle wood-nymphs come; and with you bring
The willing fawns that mought your musick guide.
Come nymphs and fawns, that haunt those shady groves,
While I report my fortunes or my loves.
Or whether list me sing so personate,
My striving selfe to conquer with my verse,
Speake ye attentive swains that heard me late,
Needs me give grasse unto the conquerors.
At Colin's* feet I throw my yielding reed,
But let the rest win homage by their deed.
But now (ye Muses) sith your sacred hests
Profaned are by each presuming tongue;
In scornful rage I vow this silent rest,
That never field nor grove shall heare my song.
Only these refuse rhimes I here mis-spend
To chide the world, that did my thoughts offend.
DUM satyræ dixi, videor dixisse sat iræ
Corripio; aut istæc non satis est satyra.
Ira facit satyram, reliquum sat temperat iram ;
Pinge tuo satyram sanguine, tum satyra est.
Ecce novam satyram: satyrum sine cornibus! Euge Monstra novi monstri hæc, et satyri et satyræ.
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