Or list she rather in late triumph reare
Eternall trophees to some conqueror,
Whose dead deserts slept in his sepulcher,
And neuer saw, nor life, nor light before;
To lead sad Pluto captiue with my song,
To grace the triumphs he obscur'd so long.
Or scoure the rusted swords of eluish knights,
Bathed in Pagan blood; or sheath them new
In misty morall types; or tell their fights,
Who mightie giants, or who monsters slew;
And by some strange inchanted speare and shield,
Vanquisht their foe, and wan the doubtfull field.
May be she might in stately stanzaes frame
Stories of ladies, and aduenturous knights,
To raise her silent and inglorious name,
Vnto a reach-lesse pitch of prayses hight;
And somewhat say, as more vnworthie done,
Worthie of brasse and hoary marble stone.
Then might vaine Enuy waste her duller wing,
To trace the aery steps she spiting sees;
And vainly faint in hoplesse following
The clouded paths her natiue drosse denies.
But now such lowly satyres here I sing,
Not worth our Muse, not worth her enuying,
Too good (if ill) to be expos'd to blame;
Too good, if worse, to shadow shamlesse vice.
Ill, if too good, not answering their name;
So good and ill in fickle censure lies.
Since in our satyre lyes both good and ill,
And they and it in uarying readers will.
Witnesse, ye muses, how I wilfull song
These heddy rimes, withouten second care;
And wish't them worse, my guiltie thoughts among: 75
The ruder satyre should go rag'd and bare,
And show his rougher and his hairy hide,
Tho mine be smooth, and deckt in carelesse pride.
Would we but breath within a wax-bound quill,
Pans seuenfold pipe, some plaintiue pastorall;
To teach each hollow groue, and shrubby hill,
Ech murmuring brooke, each solitarie vale,
To sound our loue, and to our song accord,
Wearying eccho with one changelesse word.
Or list vs make two striuing shephards sing,
With costly wagers for the victorie,
Vnder Menalcas iudge: whiles one doth bring
A caruen bole well wrought of beechen tree;
Praysing it by the storie, or the frame,
Or want of vse, or skilfull makers name.
Another layeth a well-marked lambe,
Or spotted kid, or some more forward steere,
And from the payle doth praise their fertile dam;
So doe they striue in doubt, in hope, in feare,
Awayting for their trustie vmpires doome,
Faulted as false by him that's ouercome.
Whether so me list my louely thought to sing,
Come daunce ye nimble Dryads by my side;
Ye gentle wood-nymphs come, and with you bring
The willing faunes that mought your musick guide. 100
Com nimphs and faunes, that haunt those shady
Whiles I report my fortunes or my loues.
Or whether list me sing so personate,
My striuing selfe to conquer with my verse;
Speake ye attentiue swaynes that heard me late, 105
Needs me giue grasse vnto the conquerers.
At Colins feete I throw my yeelding reede,
But let the rest win homage by their deed.
But now, ye Muses, sith your sacred hests
Profaned are by each presuming tongue,
In scornfull rage I vow this silent rest,
That neuer field nor groue shall heare my song;
Only these refuse rymes I here mispend,
To chide the world, that did my thoughts offend.
I FIRST aduenture, with fool-hardie might,
To treade the steps of perilous despight:
I first aduenture, follow me who list,
And be the second English satyrist.
Enuy waits on my backe, truth on my side;
Enuy will be my page, and truth my guide.
Enuie the margent holds, and truth the line;
Truth doth approue, but enuie doth repine;
For in this smoothing age who durst indite,
Hath made his pen an hyred parasite,
To claw the back of him that beastly liues,
And pranck base men in proud superlatiues;
Whence damned vice is shrouded quite from shame,
And crown'd with vertues meed, immortall name;
Infamy dispossest of natiue due,
Ordain'd of old on looser life to sue;
The worlds eye bleared with those shamelesse lyes,
Mask'd in the shew of meal-mouth'd poesies.
Go, daring Muse, on with thy thanklesse taske,
And do the vgly face of vice vnmaske ;
And if thou canst not thine high flight remit,
So as it mought a lowly satyre fit,
Let lowly satyres rise aloft to thee:
Truth be thy speede, and truth thy patron bee.
NOR ladies wanton loue, nor wandring knight,
Legend I out in rimes all richly dight;
Nor fright the reader with the pagan vaunt
Of mightie Mahound, and great Termagaunt.
Nor list I sonnet of my mistresse face,
To paint some Blowesse with a borrowed grace;
Nor can I bide to pen some hungrie scene
For thick-skin eares, and vndescerning eyne.
Nor euer could my scornfull Muse abide
With tragick shooes her ankles for to hide.
Nor can I crouch, and writhe my fauning tayle
To some greate patron, for my best auayle.
Such hunger-staruen trencher poetrie,
Or let it neuer liue, or timely die ;
Nor vnder euerie bank, and euerie tree,
Speake rymes vnto my oten minstralsie ;
Nor caroll out so pleasing liuely laies,
As mought the Graces moue my mirth to praise.
Trumpet, and reeds, and socks, and buskins fine,
I them bequeath, whose statues wandring twine 20
Of
yuy, mixt with bayes, circlen around
Their liuing temples likewise laurell-bound.
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