Lapas attēli
PDF
ePub

To do't with cloth, or stuffs, lust's name might

merit,

With velvet, plush, and tissues, it is spirit.

O these so ignorant monsters, light, as proud! Who can behold their manners, and not cloudLike, on them lighten? If that nature could Not make a verse," anger or laughter would, To see them aye discoursing with their glass, How they may make some one that day an ass, Planting their purls, and curls, spread forth like net, And every dressing for a pit-fall set

To catch the flesh in, and to pound a

Be at their visits, see them squeamish, sick,
Ready to cast at one whose band sits ill,
And then leap mad on a neat picardill,
As if a brize were gotten in their tail;
And firk, and jerk, and for the coachman rail,
And jealous each of other, yet think long
To be abroad chanting some bawdy song,

And laugh, and measure thighs, then squeak, spring, itch,

Do all the tricks of a salt lady bitch!

For t'other pound of sweetmeats, he shall feel
That pays, or what he will: the dame is steel.
For these with her young company she'll enter,
Where Pitts, or Wright, or Modet would not venture;

[ocr errors][merged small]

Not make a verse, &c.] This epistle, which possesses no ordinary degree of merit, partakes of the nature of satire. The author had his favourite, Horace, in view, when he drew it up, though the particular allusion in the quotation is to Juvenal:

Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.

The couplet just above,

To dot with cloth, &c. is also from this author, but in a higher

tone:

alea turpis

Turpe et adulterium mediocribus, hæc eadem illi

Omnia cum faciant nitidi hilaresque vocantur. Sat. xi.

And comes by these degrees the style t'inherit
Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit.
Nor is the title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folk, these are allow'd;
Adulteries now are not so hid, or strange,
They're grown commodity upon Exchange:
He that will follow but another's wife,

Is loved, though he let out his own for life;
The husband now's call'd churlish, or a poor
Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore;
Or use all arts, or haunt all companies
That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
The brother trades a sister, and the friend
Lives to the lord, but to the lady's end.
Less must not be thought on than mistress; or
If it be thought, kill'd like her embrions; for
Whom no great mistress hath as yet infám'd
A fellow of coarse letchery, is nam'd,
The servant of the serving-woman, in scorn,
Ne'er came to taste the plenteous marriage-horn.
Thus they do talk. And are these objects fit
For man so spend his money on? his wit?

His time, health, soul? Will he for these go throw
Those thousands on his back, shall after blow
His body to the Counters, or the Fleet?

Is it for these that Fine-man meets the street
Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each suit he has, the ready way
From Hyde-park to the stage, where at the last
His dear and borrow'd bravery he must cast?
When not his combs, his curling-irons, his glass,
Sweet bags, sweet powders, nor sweet words will
pass

For less security. O heavens! for these

Is it that man pulls on himself disease,

Surfeit, and quarrel? drinks the t'other health?

Or by damnation voids it, or by stealth?

What fury of late is crept into our feasts?
What honour given to the drunkenest guests?
What reputation to bear one glass more,
When oft the bearer is born out of door?
This hath our ill-us'd freedom, and soft peace
Brought on us, and will every hour increase.
Our vices do not tarry in a place,

But being in motion still, or rather in race,
Tilt one upon another, and now bear

This way, now that, as if their number were

More than themselves, or than our lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.
I'll bid thee look no more, but flee, flee, friend,
This precipice, and rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens ruin. The whole day
Is not enough, now, but the nights to play:
And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we

waste,

Go make ourselves the usurers at a cast.
He that no more for age, cramps, palsies can
Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man
To take the box up for him; and pursues
The dice with glassen eyes, to the glad views
Of what he throws: like letchers grown content
To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

Can we not leave this worm? or will we not?
Is that the truer excuse? or have we got
In this, and like, an itch of vanity,
That scratching now's our best felicity?
Well, let it go. Yet this is better, then
To lose the forms and dignities of men,
To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowl
Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soul :
Although, perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will he,
When I am hoarse with praising his each cast,
Give me but that again, that I must waste

In sugar candied, or in butter'd beer,

For the recovery of my voice? No, there
Pardon his lordship; flatt'ry's grown so cheap
With him, for he is followed with that heap,
That watch and catch, at what they may applaud,
As a poor single flatterer, without bawd

Is nothing, such scarce meat and drink he'll give
But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,
And be belov'd, while the whores last. O times!
Friend, fly from hence, and let these kindled rhymes
Light thee from hell on earth; where flatterers, spies,
Informers, masters both of arts and lies;

Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers, that let blood
The life, and fame-veins, yet not understood
Of the poor sufferers; where the envious, proud,
Ambitious, factious, superstitious, loud

Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more
Prevaricators swarm of which the store
(Because they're every where amongst mankind
Spread through the world) is easier far to find,
Than once to number, or bring forth to hand,
Though thou wert Muster-master of the land.

6

Go, quit them all! And take along with thee, Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be, That thine be just and honest, that thy deeds Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds; That thou dost all things more for truth than glory, And never but for doing wrong be sorry; That by commanding first thyself, thou mak'st Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st: That fortune never make thee to complain, But what she gives, thou dar'st give her again;

[blocks in formation]

Thy true friend's wishes, Colby.] The name of the person to whom this epistle is addressed; he appears to have been in the military service, and from the preceding line, was probably mustermaster of the forces. WHAL.

That whatsoever face thy fate puts on,

Thou shrink or start not; but be always one;
That thou think nothing great but what is good;
And from that thought strive to be understood.
So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame
Still precious with the odour of thy name.
And last, blaspheme not; we did never hear
Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst swear;
No more, than we should think a lord had had
More honour in him, 'cause we've known him mad :
These take, and now go seek thy peace in war,
Who falls for love of God, shall rise a star.

R

XXXIII.

AN EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY.

EADER, stay,

And if I had no more to say,

But here doth lie, till the last day,
All that is left of Philip Gray,

It might thy patience richly pay:

For if such men as he could die,'
What surety' of life have thou and I?

For if such men, &c.] The force of this Epitaph is not felt, for want of knowing the character whose fate led to these reflections.

Chetwood has an Epitaph on prince Henry, which he ascribes to Jonson, and which the reader may perhaps expect to find in a collection of his works. I have little confidence in this writer, who seldom mentions his authorities; and, to say the truth, can discover nothing of our author's manner in the composition itselt, which appears to be patched up from different poems, and is therefore omitted; though I have thought it right to mention the circum

stance.

« iepriekšējāTurpināt »