Chapter 6

Well; I may now receive and die. My sin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in A purgatory, such as fear'd hell 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 mass 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 prone to all ill, and of good as forget- Ful, as proud, lustful, 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' massacre 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 coarse, 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 whores, Outflatter favourites, or outlie either Jovius or Surius, or both together. He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God! 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 pass 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 coarse; 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 niggardly 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- Shells 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 whores, 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 hell 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 nobility? 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, piss, 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. At naming the French king, their heads they shake, And at the Pope, and Spain, slight faces make. Or 'gainst the bishops, for the brethren rail Much like those brethren; thinking to prevail With ignorance on us, as they have done On them: and therefore do not only shun Others more modest, but contemn us too, That know not so much state, wrong, as they do.

XIII. ON DON SURLY.

Don Surly to aspire the glorious name Of a great man, and to be thought the same, Makes serious use of all great trade he knows. He speaks to men with a rhinocerote's nose, Which he thinks great; and so reads verses too: And that is done, as he saw great men do. He has tympanies of business, in his face, And can forget men's names, with a great grace. He will both argue, and discourse in oaths, Both which are great. And laugh at ill-made clothes; That's greater yet: to cry his own up neat. He doth, at meals, alone his pheasant eat, Which is main greatness. And, at his still board, He drinks to no man: that's, too, like a lord. He keeps another's wife, which is a spice Of solemn greatness. And he dares, at dice, Blaspheme God greatly. Or some poor hind beat, That breathes in his dog's way: and this is great. Nay more, for greatness' sake, he will be one May hear my epigrams, but like of none. Surly, use other arts, these only can Style thee a most great fool, but no great man.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

(1612-1680.)

XIV. THE CHARACTER OF HUDIBRAS.

This extract is taken from the first canto of Hudibras, and contains the complete portrait of the Knight, Butler's aim in the presentation of this character being to satirize those fanatics and pretenders to religion who flourished during the Commonwealth.

When civil dudgeon first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why; When hard words, jealousies and fears, Set folks together by the ears, And made them fight like mad or drunk, For Dame Religion as for punk: Whose honesty they all durst swear for, Though not a man of them knew wherefore: When gospel-trumpeter surrounded With long-ear'd rout to battle sounded, And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick: Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rode a-colonelling, A wight he was, whose very sight wou'd Intitle him, _Mirrour of Knighthood_; That never bow'd his stubborn knee To any thing but chivalry; Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right Worshipful on shoulder-blade: Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for chartel or for warrant: Great in the bench, great in the saddle, That could as well bind o'er as swaddle: Mighty he was at both of these, And styl'd of _war_, as well as _peace_, (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water). But here our authors make a doubt, Whether he were more wise or stout. Some hold the one, and some the other: But howsoe'er they make a pother, The diff'rence was so small his brain Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain; Which made some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, call'd a _fool_. For 't has been held by many, that As Montaigne, playing with his cat, Complains she thought him but an ass, Much more she would Sir Hudibras, (For that the name our valiant Knight To all his challenges did write) But they're mistaken very much, 'Tis plain enough he was no such. We grant although he had much wit, H' was very shy of using it; As being loth to wear it out, And therefore bore it not about Unless on holidays, or so, As men their best apparel do. Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak: That Latin was no more difficile, Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle. B'ing rich in both, he never scanted His bounty unto such as wanted; But much of either would afford To many that had not one word. For Hebrew roots, although they're found To flourish most in barren ground, He had such plenty as suffic'd To make some think him circumcis'd: And truly so he was, perhaps, Not as a proselyte, but for claps, He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic; He could distinguish, and divide A hair 'twixt south and south west side; On either which he could dispute, Confute, change hands, and still confute; He'd undertake to prove by force Of argument, a man's no horse; He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee-men and trustees, He'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination: All this by syllogism, true In mood and figure, he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope; And when he happened to break off I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, H' had hard words, ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by: Else when with greatest art he spoke, You'd think he talk'd like other folk, For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. But, when he pleas'd to show't his speech In loftiness of sound was rich; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect: It was a party-coloured dress Of patch'd and pye-ball'd languages; 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin. It had an odd promiscuous tone, As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; Which made some think when he did gabble, Th' had heard three labourers of Babel; Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. This he as volubly would vent As if his stock would ne'er be spent; And truly, to support that charge, He had supplies as vast as large: For he could coin or counterfeit New words with little or no wit: Words so debas'd and hard, no stone Was hard enough to touch them on: And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, The ignorant for current took 'em, That had the orator who once Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones When he harangu'd but known his phrase, He would have us'd no other ways. In mathematics he was greater Then Tycho Brahe, or Erra Pater: For he, by geometric scale, Could take the size of pots of ale; Resolve by sines and tangents, straight, If bread and butter wanted weight; And wisely tell what hour o' th' day The clock does strike by algebra. Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, And had read ev'ry text and gloss over; Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, He understood b' implicit faith: Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For every _why_ he had a _wherefore_, Knew more than forty of them do, As far as words and terms could go. All which he understood by rote, And as occasion serv'd, would quote: No matter whether right or wrong, They must be either said or sung. His notions fitted things so well, That which was which he could not tell; But oftentimes mistook the one For th' other, as great clerks have done. He cou'd reduce all things to acts, And knew their natures by abstracts; Where entity and quiddity, The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly; Where Truth in persons does appear, Like words congeal'd in northern air. He knew what's what, and that's as high As metaphysic wit can fly. In school divinity as able, As he that hight, Irrefragable; A second Thomas, or at once To name them all, another Duns: Profound in all the Nominal And Real ways beyond them all; For he a rope of sand could twist As tough as learned Sorbonist: And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scull; That's empty when the moon is full: Such as lodgings in a head That's to be let unfurnished. He could raise scruples dark and nice, And after solve 'em in a trice, As if divinity had catch'd The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd; Or, like a mountebank, did wound And stab herself with doubts profound, Only to show with how small pain The sores of faith are cur'd again; Although by woful proof we find, They always leave a scar behind. He knew the seat of paradise, Cou'd tell in what degree it lies; And, as he was dispos'd could prove it, Below the moon, or else above it. What Adam dream'd of when his bride Came from her closet in his side; Whether the devil tempted her By a High-Dutch interpreter; If either of them had a navel; Who first made music malleable; Whether the serpent, at the fall, Had cloven feet, or none at all; All this without a gloss or comment, He could unriddle in a moment, In proper terms such as men smatter, When they throw out and miss the matter. For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit; 'Twas Presbyterian true blue, For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant: Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done: As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended. A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies: In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick That with more care keep holiday The wrong, than others the right way: Compound for sins they are inclin'd to, By damning those they have no mind to. Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipp'd God for spite. The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for. Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow.

XV. THE CHARACTER OF A SMALL POET.

From Butler's "Characters", a series of satirical portraits akin to those of Theophrastus.

The Small Poet is one that would fain make himself that which nature never meant him; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. He sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very small stock and no credit. He believes it is invention enough to find out other men's wit; and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his own. This he puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit as the rickets, by the swelling disproportion of the joints. You may know his wit not to be natural, 'tis so unquiet and troublesome in him: for as those that have money but seldom, are always shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he, when he thinks he has got something that will make him appear witty. He is a perpetual talker; and you may know by the freedom of his discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery; so sure is he to cry down the man from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass unsuspected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, as if they were but disparagements of his own; and cries down all they do, as if they were encroachments upon him. He takes jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do false weights, and pots that want measure. When he meets with anything that is very good, he changes it into small money, like three groats for a shilling, to serve several occasions. He disclaims study, pretends to take things in motion, and to shoot flying, which appears to be very true, by his often missing of his mark. As for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the sense. Such matches are unlawful and not fit to be made by a Christian poet; and therefore all his care is to choose out such as will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that wants a foot or two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into the bargain, or run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. For similitudes, he likes the hardest and most obscure best; for as ladies wear black patches to make their complexions seem fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than the sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear clearer than it did; for contraries are best set off with contraries. He has found out a new sort of poetical Georgics--a trick of sowing wit like clover-grass on barren subjects, which would yield nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some men say, there is no room left for new invention. He will take three grains of wit like the elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron age, turn it immediately into gold. All the business of mankind has presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday; there has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphs and shepherdesses: trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed plum-porridge. When he writes, he commonly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art in the world so rich in terms as poetry; a whole dictionary is scarce able to contain them; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep-walk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as dryades, hamadryades, aönides, fauni, nymphæ, sylvani, &c. that signify nothing at all; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and "thorough reformations" that can happen between this and Plato's great year.

ANDREW MARVELL.

(1621-1678.)

XVI. NOSTRADAMUS'S PROPHECY.

From _Political Satires and other Pieces_. It is curious to note how much of the prophecy was actually fulfilled.