As is the undergroom of the ostlery,
Husbanding it in workday yeomanry.

Lo, the long date of those expired days
Which the inspirèd Merlin's word foresays:
When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings,
Then one confusion another brings.

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Then farewell fairest age, the world's best days,
Thriving in ill as it in age decays.

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1597.

JOHN MARSTON

THE SCOURGE OF VILLAINY

FROM

SATIRE VII

“A man, a man, a kingdom for a man!"
"Why, how now, currish, mad Athenian,

Thou Cynic dog, see'st not the streets do swarm
With troops of men?" "No, no; for Circe's charm
Hath turned them all to swine. I never shall
Think those same Samian saws authentical;
But rather, I dare swear, the souls of swine
Do live in men. For that same radiant shine,
That lustre wherewith Nature's nature decked
Our intellectual part, that gloss is soiled
With staining spots of vile impiety

And muddy dirt of sensuality.

These are no men, but apparitions,

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ΙΟ

Ignes fatui, glow-worms, fictions,

Meteors, rats of Nilus, fantasies,

15

Colosses, pictures, shades, resemblances."

"A man, a man!” "Peace, Cynic, yon's a man!

Behold yon sprightly dread Mavortian;

With him I stop thy currish barking chops."

"What, mean'st thou him that in his swaggering slops Wallows unbraced all along the street?

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He that salutes each gallant he doth meet

With 'Farewell, sweet captain; kind heart, adieu';
He that, last night, tumbling thou didst view
From out the great man's head, and, thinking still
He had been sentinel of warlike Brill,
Cries out, 'Que va la? zounds, que?' and out doth draw
His transformed poniard to a syringe straw,
And stabs the drawer. What, that ringo-root?
Mean'st thou that wasted leg, puff bumbast boot?
What, he that's drawn and quarterèd with lace?
That Wesphalian gammon clove-stuck face?
Why, he is naught but huge blaspheming oaths,
Swart snout, big looks, misshapen Switzers' clothes:
Weak meagre lust hath now consumed quite
And wasted clean away his martial sprite;
Enfeebling riot, all vices' confluence,
Hath eaten out that sacred influence

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Which made him man."

"Peace, Cynic; see, what yonder doth approach:

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A cart? a tumbrel? No, a badged coach.

What's in't? Some man. No, nor yet womankind,

But a celestial angel, fair, refined."

"The devil as soon! Her mask so hinders me

I cannot see her beauty's deity.

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Now that is off, she is so vizarded,

So steeped in lemon's juice, so surphulèd,

I cannot see her face: under one hood

Two faces, but I never understood

Or saw one face under two hoods till now;

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'Tis the right resemblance of old Janus' brow.

Her mask, her vizard, her loose-hanging gown

(For her loose-lying body), her bright-spangled crown, Her long slit sleeve, stiff busk, puff verdingal, Is all that makes her thus angelical.

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Alas! her soul struts round about her neck;

Her seat of sense is her rebato set;

Her intellectual is a feignèd niceness,

Nothing but clothes and simpering preciseness."

THOMAS DEKKER

O SWEET CONTENT

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?

O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexèd
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?

O sweet content!

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?

O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears

No burden bears, but is a king, a king!

O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face.

Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

1599.

1599.

LULLABY

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes;
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby:

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

5

ΙΟ

15

20

ΙΟ

1603.

O SORROW, SORROW

O Sorrow, Sorrow, say, where dost thou dwell?
In the lowest room of hell.
Art thou born of human race?

No, no, I have a furier face.
Art thou in city, town, or court?
I to every place resort.

O, why into the world is Sorrow sent?
Men afflicted best repent.

What dost thou feed on?
Broken sleep.

What takest thou pleasure in?
To weep,

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,

To wring my hands, to sit alone.

O when, O when shall Sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never,
Never till she finds a grave.

1602?

1634.

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10

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BEN JONSON

QUEEN AND HUNTRESS, CHASTE AND FAIR

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heav'n to clear when day did close:
Bless us, then, with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;

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00

1600.

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever;
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

1600.

EPODE

Not to know Vice at all, and keep true state,

Is virtue and not fate.

Next to that virtue, is to know Vice well

And her black spite expel;

Which to effect (since no breast is so sure

Or safe but she'll procure

Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard
Of thoughts to watch and ward

At the eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,
That no strange or unkind

Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy,
Give knowledge instantly

To wakeful Reason, our affections' king,

Who in th' examining

Will quickly taste the treason and commit

Close the close cause of it.

'Tis the securest policy we have,

To make our sense our slave.

But this true course is not embraced by many

By many! scarce by any:

For either our affections do rebel;

Or else the sentinel,

That should ring 'larum to the heart, doth sleep;

Or some great thought doth keep

Back the intelligence, and falsely swears

They are base and idle fears

Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.
Thus by these subtle trains

Do several passions invade the mind,

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ΙΟ

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20

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And strike our Reason blind;

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Of which usurping rank, some have thought Love

The first, as prone to move