Who wots not yet how well this did beseeme

The learned maister of the Academe?

Plato is dead, and dead is his deuise,

Which some thought witty, none thought euer wise;

Yet certes Macha is a Platonist,

To all, they say, saue who so do not list,
Because her husband, a farre-trafiqu'd man,
Is a profest Peripatecian;

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And so our grandsires were in ages past,
That let their lands lye all so widely wast,
That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent
Within some prouince or whole shires extent;
As Nature made the earth, so did it lie,
Saue for the furrowes of their husbandrie;
When as the neighbour-lands so couched layne,
That all bore show of one fayre champian ;
Some head-lesse crosse they digged on their lea,
Or rol'd some marked meare-stone in the way.
Poor simple men! for what mought that auayle
That my field might not fill my neighbours payle, 45
More than a pilled sticke can stand in stead,
To barre Cynedo from his neighbours bed;
More than the thred bare clients pouertie
Debarres th'atturney of his wonted fee.
If they were thriftlesse, mote not we amend,
And with more care our dangered fields defend?
Ech man can gard what thing he deemeth deere,
As fearfull merchants doe their female heyre,
Which, were it not for promise of their welth,
Need not be stalled vp for feare of stealth;

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u let not lye in fallowed plaine

ch was wont yeeld vsurie of graine ; I see thy pitched stakes do stand croched peece of common land,

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ou discommonest thy neighbours keyne, 'st that none feed on thy field saue thine; more, Scrobius, of thy mudded bankes, eepe ditches, nor three quickset rankes. 75 daies of olde Deucalion,

e was land-lord of the world alone!

whose choler would not rise to yeeld
halfe-stakes of his new-mowne field,
et he may not for the treble price
the remnant of his royalties ?
d thriue, my pety tyrants pride,
ou to liue, if others liue beside;
e proud Castile, that aspires to be

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Or the red hat that cries the lucklesse mayne,
For welthy Thames to change his lowly Rhene.

SAT. IV.

POSSUNT, QUIA POSSE VIDENTUR.

VILLIUS, the welthy farmer, left his heire
Twise twenty sterling pounds to spend by yeare;
The neighbours praysen Villius hide-bound sonne,
And say it was a goodly portion,

Not knowing how some marchants dowre can rise 5
By sundaies tale to fiftie centuries;

Or to weigh downe a leaden bride with gold,
Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice sold;
But whiles ten pound goes to his wiues new gown,
Nor little lesse can serue to sute his owne,
Whiles one peece payes her idle wayting man,
Or buyes an hoode, or siluer-handled fanne,
Or hires a Friezeland trotter halfe yarde deepe,
To drag his tumbrell through the staring Cheape;
Or whiles he rideth with two liueries,

And's treble rated at the subsidies,

One end a kennell keeps of thriftlesse hounds; What think yow rest's of all my younkers pounds, To diet him, or deale out at his doore,

To cofer vp, or stocke his wasting store?

If then I reckon❜d right, it should

appeare,

That fourtie pounds serue not the farmers heyre.

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FINIS.

VIRGIDEMIARVM.

LIB. VI.

SAT. I.

SEMEL INSANIUIMUS.

LABEO reserues a long nayle for the nonce
To wound my margent through ten leaues at once,
Much worse than Aristarcus his blacke pile
That pierc'd olde Homers side;

And makes such faces, that mee seames I see
Some foule Megara in the tragedie,

Threatning her twined snakes at Tantales ghost ;
Or the grim visage of some frowning post,
The crab-tree porter of the Guild-hall gates;
Whiles he his frightfull beetle eleuates,
His angry eyne looke all so glaring bright,
Like th' hunted badger in a moonelesse night;
Or like a painted staring Saracin;

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His cheeks change hew like th'ayre-fed vermin skin, Now red, now pale, and swolne aboue his eyes, 15 Like to the old Colossian imageries.

But when he doth of my recanting heare,
Away ye angrie fires, and frostes of feare,
Giue place vnto his hopefull tempered thought,
That yeelds to peace, ere euer peace be sought. 20
Then let me now repent mee of my rage,

For writing Satyres in so righteous age;
Whereas I should haue strok't her towardly head,
And cry'd Euce in my Satyres stead,

Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,

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Was neuer age, I weene, so pure as this:

As pure as olde Labulla from the baynes,

As pure as through fare channels when it raynes,
As pure as is a black-moores face by night,

As dung-clad skin of dying Heraclite.

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Seeke ouer all the world, and tell mee where

Thou find❜st a proud man, or a flatterer,

A thiefe, a drunkard, or a parricide,

A lechor, lyer, or what vice beside ?

Merchants are no whit couetous of late,

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Nor make no mart of time, gaine of deceipt.

Patrons are honest now, ore they of olde;

Can now no benefice be bought nor sold;

Giue him a gelding, or some two-yeares tythe,
For he all bribes and Simony defi'th.

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Is not one pick-thanke stirring in the court,

That seld was free till now by all report?

But some one, like a clawbacke parasite,

Pick't mothes from his masters cloake in sight, Whiles he could picke out both his eyes for need, 45

Mought they but stand him in some better steed.