Though he perhaps ne'er pa.s.sed the English sh.o.r.e, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror.

His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, One lock[164] Amazon-like dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford.

All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard, both lip and chin; His linen collar labyrinthian set, Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, As if he meant to fly with linen wings.

But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, What monster meets mine eyes in human show?

So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, Did never sober nature sure conjoin.

Lik'st a strawn scarecrow in a new-sown field, Reared on some stick, the tender corn to shield, Or, if that semblance suit not every deal, Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel.

Despised nature suit them once aright, Their body to their coat both now disdight.

Their body to their clothes might shapen be, That will their clothes shape to their bodie.

Meanwhile I wonder at so proud a back, Whiles the empty guts loud rumblen for long lack.

[Footnote 163: long.]

[Footnote 164: the love-locks which were so condemned by the Puritan Prynne. Cf. Lyly's _Midas_ and Sir John Davies' Epigram 22, _In Ciprum_.]

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

(1559-1634.)

X. AN INVECTIVE WRITTEN BY MR. GEORGE CHAPMAN AGAINST MR. BEN JONSON.

This satire was discovered in a "Common-place Book" belonging to Chapman, preserved among the Ashmole MSS. in the Bodleian Library, Oxford.

Great, learned, witty Ben, be pleased to light The world with that three-forked fire; nor fright All us, thy sublearned, with luciferous boast That thou art most great, most learn'd, witty most Of all the kingdom, nay of all the earth; As being a thing betwixt a human birth And an infernal; no humanity Of the divine soul shewing man in thee.

Though thy play genius hang his broken wings Full of sick feathers, and with forced things, Imp thy scenes, labour'd and unnatural, And nothing good comes with thy thrice-vex'd call, Comest thou not yet, nor yet? O no, nor yet; Yet are thy learn'd admirers so deep set In thy preferment above all that cite The sun in challenge for the heat and light Of heaven's influences which of you two knew And have most power in them; Great Ben, 'tis you.

Examine him, some truly-judging spirit, That pride nor fortune hath to blind his merit, He match'd with all book-fires, he ever read His dusk poor candle-rents; his own fat head With all the learn'd world's, Alexander's flame That Caesar's conquest cow'd, and stript his fame, He shames not to give reckoning in with his; As if the king pardoning his petulancies Should pay his huge loss too in such a score As all earth's learned fires he gather'd for.

What think'st thou, just friend? equall'd not this pride All yet that ever h.e.l.l or Heaven defied?

And yet for all this, this club will inflict His faultful pain, and him enough convict He only reading show'd; learning, nor wit; Only Dame Gilian's fire his desk will fit.

But for his shift by fire to save the loss Of his vast learning, this may prove it gross: True Muses ever vent breaths mixt with fire Which, form'd in numbers, they in flames expire Not only flames kindled with their own bless'd breath That gave th' unborn life, and eternize death.

Great Ben, I know that this is in thy hand And how thou fix'd in heaven's fix'd star dost stand In all men's admirations and command; For all that can be scribbled 'gainst the sorter Of thy dead repercussions and reporter.

The kingdom yields not such another man; Wonder of men he is; the player can And bookseller prove true, if they could know Only one drop, that drives in such a flow.

Are they not learned beasts, the better far Their drossy exhalations a star Their brainless admirations may render; For learning in the wise sort is but lender Of men's prime notion's doctrine; their own way Of all skills' perceptible forms a key Forging to wealth, and honour-soothed sense, Never exploring truth or consequence, Informing any virtue or good life; And therefore Player, Bookseller, or Wife Of either, (needing no such curious key) All men and things, may know their own rude way.

Imagination and our appet.i.te Forming our speech no easier than they light All letterless companions; t' all they know Here or hereafter that like earth's sons plough All under-worlds and ever downwards grow, Nor let your learning think, egregious Ben, These letterless companions are not men With all the arts and sciences indued, If of man's true and worthiest knowledge rude, Which is to know and be one complete man, And that not all the swelling ocean Of arts and sciences, can pour both in: If that brave skill then when thou didst begin To study letters, thy great wit had plied, Freely and only thy disease of pride In vulgar praise had never bound thy [hide].

JOHN DONNE.

(1573-1631.)

XI. THE CHARACTER OF THE BORE.

From Donne's _Satires_, No. IV.; first published in the quarto edition of the "Poems" in 1633. See Dr. Grosart's interesting Essay on the Life and Writings of Donne, prefixed to Vol. II. of that scholar's excellent edition.

Well; I may now receive and die. My sin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in A purgatory, such as fear'd h.e.l.l is A recreation, and scant map of this.

My mind neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been Poison'd with love to see or to be seen.

I had no suit there, nor new suit to shew, Yet went to court: but as Glare, which did go To ma.s.s in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse The hundred marks, which is the statute's curse, Before he 'scap'd; so't pleas'd my Destiny (Guilty of my sin of going) to think me As p.r.o.ne to all ill, and of good as forget- Ful, as proud, l.u.s.tful, and as much in debt, As vain, as witless, and as false as they Which dwell in court, for once going that way, Therefore I suffer'd this: Towards me did run A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came; A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name: Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies, Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities; Stranger than strangers; one who for a Dane In the Danes' ma.s.sacre had sure been slain, If he had liv'd then, and without help dies When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise; One whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by; One t' whom th' examining justice sure would cry, Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are.

His clothes were strange, though coa.r.s.e, and black, though bare; Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen) Become tufftaffaty; and our children shall See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.

The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, speaks all tongues, And only knoweth what t' all states belongs.

Made of th' accents and best phrase of all these, He speaks one language. If strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste; But pedant's motley tongue, soldier's bombast, Mountebank's drug-tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong enough preparatives to draw Me to hear this, yet I must be content With his tongue, in his tongue call'd Compliment; In which he can win widows, and pay scores, Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest wh.o.r.es, Outflatter favourites, or outlie either Jovius or Surius, or both together.

He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, G.o.d!

How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod, This fellow, chooseth me? He saith, Sir, I love your judgment; whom do you prefer For the best linguist? and I sillily Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary.

Nay, but of men? Most sweet Sir! Beza, then Some Jesuits, and two reverend men Of our two academies, I nam'd. Here He stopt me, and said; Nay, your apostles were Good pretty linguists; so Panurgus was, Yet a poor gentleman; all these may pa.s.s By travel. Then, as if he would have sold His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told, That I was fain to say, If you had liv'd, Sir, Time enough to have been interpreter To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood.

He adds, If of court-life you knew the good, You would leave loneness. I said, Not alone My loneness is, but Spartan's fashion, To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste; No more can princes' courts, though there be few Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue.

He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string, squeakt, O, Sir!

'Tis sweet to talk of kings! At Westminster, Said I, the man that keeps the Abbey-tombs, And for his price doth, with who ever comes, Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk, From king to king, and all their kin can walk: Your ears shall hear naught but kings; your eyes meet Kings only; the way to it is King's street.

He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanic coa.r.s.e; So're all our Englishmen in their discourse.

Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, eyes you see, I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me.

Certes, they're neatly cloth'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your grogaram.

Not so, Sir; I have more. Under this pitch He would not fly. I chaf'd him; but as itch Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground Into an edge, hurts worse; so I (fool!) found Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness, He to another key his style doth dress, And asks, What news? I tell him of new plays: He takes my hand, and, as a still which stays A semibrief 'twixt each drop, he n.i.g.g.ardly As loth to enrich me, so tells many a lie, More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows, Of trivial household trash he knows. He knows When the queen frown'd or smil'd; and he knows what A subtile statesman may gather of that: He knows who loves whom, and who by poison Hastes to an office's reversion; He knows who hath sold his land, and now doth beg A license old iron, boots, shoes, and egg- Sh.e.l.ls to transport. Shortly boys shall not play At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall play Toll to some courtier; and, wiser than us all, He knows what lady is not painted. Thus He with home-meats cloys me. I belch, spue, spit, Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet He thrusts on more; and as he had undertook To say Gallo-Belgicus without book, Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens.

Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat, Ready to travail, so I sigh and sweat To hear this makaron[165] talk in vain; for yet, Either my humour or his own to fit, He, like a privileg'd spy, whom nothing can Discredit, libels now 'gainst each great man: He names a price for every office paid: He saith, Our wars thrive ill, because delay'd; That offices are entail'd, and that there are Perpetuities of them lasting as far As the last day; and that great officers Do with the pirates share and Dunkirkers.

Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes; Who loves wh.o.r.es, who boys, and who goats.

I, more amaz'd than Circe's prisoners, when They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then Becoming traitor, and methought I saw One of our giant statues ope his jaw To suck me in for hearing him: I found That as burnt venomous leachers do grow sound By giving others their sores, I might grow Guilty, and be free; therefore I did show All signs of loathing; but since I am in, I must pay mine and my forefathers' sin To the last farthing: therefore to my power Toughly and stubbornly I bear this cross; but th' hour Of mercy now was come: he tries to bring Me to pay a fine to 'scape his torturing, And says, Sir, can you spare me? I said, Willingly.

Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crown? Thankfully I Gave it as ransom. But as fiddlers still, Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will Thrust one more jigg upon you; so did he With his long complimented thanks vex me.

But he is gone, thanks to his needy want, And the prerogative of my crown. Scant His thanks were ended when I (which did see All the court fill'd with such strange things as he) Ran from thence with such or more haste than one Who fears more actions doth haste from prison.

At home in wholesome solitariness My piteous soul began the wretchedness Of suitors at court to mourn, and a trance Like his who dreamt he saw h.e.l.l did advance Itself o'er me: such men as he saw there I saw at court, and worse, and more. Low fear Becomes the guilty, not th' accuser; then Shall I, none's slave, of high born or rais'd men Fear frowns, and my mistress, Truth! betray thee To th' huffing braggart, puft n.o.bility?

No, no; thou which since yesterday hast been Almost about the whole world, hast thou seen, O Sun! in all thy journey vanity Such as swells the bladder of our court? I Think he which made your waxen garden, and Transported it from Italy, to stand With us at London, flouts our courtiers; for Just such gay painted things, which no sap nor Taste have in them, ours are!

[Footnote 165: fop, early form of macaroni.]

BEN JONSON.

(1573-1637.)

These two pieces are taken from Jonson's _Epigrams_. The first of them was exceedingly popular in the poet's own lifetime.

XII. THE NEW CRY.

Ere cherries ripe, and strawberries be gone; Unto the cries of London I'll add one; Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in ev'ry street; At six-and-twenty, ripe. You shall 'em meet, And have him yield no favour, but of state.

Ripe are their ruffs, their cuffs, their beards, their gate, And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces.

They know the states of Christendom, not the places: Yet have they seen the maps, and bought 'em too, And understand 'em, as most chapmen do.

The counsels, projects, practices they know, And what each prince doth for intelligence owe, And unto whom; they are the almanacks For twelve years yet to come, what each state lacks.

They carry in their pockets Tacitus, And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus: And talk reserv'd, lock'd up, and full of fear; Nay, ask you how the day goes, in your ear.

Keep a Star-chamber sentence close twelve days: And whisper what a Proclamation says.

They meet in sixes, and at ev'ry mart, Are sure to con the catalogue by heart; Or ev'ry day, some one at Rimee's looks, Or bills, and there he buys the name of books.

They all get Porta, for the sundry ways To write in cypher, and the several keys, To ope the character. They've found the slight With juice of lemons, onions, p.i.s.s, to write; To break up seals and close 'em. And they know, If the states make peace, how it will go With England. All forbidden books they get, And of the powder-plot, they will talk yet.