A scourge for paper-persecutors. Or Papers complaint, compil'd in ruthfull rimes, against the paper-spoylers of these times. / By I.D. With a continu'd iust inquisition of the same subiect, fit for this season. Against paper-persecutors. By A.H.

A Scourge for Paper-Persecutors , OR Papers Complaint compil'd in ruthfull Rimes Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times . WHat heart so hard , that splits not when it heares , What ruthlesse Martyrdome my Body beares By rude Barbarians of these latter Times , Blotting my spotlesse Brest with Prose and Rimes , That Impudence , it selfe , would blush to beare ; It is such shamelesse Stuffe and irkesome Geare ? Though I ( immaculate ) be white as Snow , ( Which Virgin Hue mine innocence doth shew ) Yet these remorcelesse Monsters on me piles A massie heape of blockish senselesse Stiles ; That I ne wot ( God wot ) which of the twaine Doe most torment me , heauy Shame , or Paine . No lesse than my whole Reames will some suffize , With mad-braine stuffe o're them to tyrannize . Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheetes to shake , To beare Rimes-doggrell making Dogs perbrake ; Whereto ( ayeme ) grosse Burthens still they adde , And to that put againe , light Notes and sad : O Man in desperation , what a dewce Meanst thou such filth in my white face to sluce ? One raies me with course rimes , and Chips them call , Offals of wit ; a fire burne them all . And then to make the mischeife more compleate , He blotts my Brow with verse as blacke as Ieat , Wherein he shewes where Ludlow hath her Scite , And how her Horse-high Market House is pight , Yet not so satisfied , but on he goes , And where one Berries meane house stands , he shewes . An other comes with Wit , too costiue then , Making a Glister-pipe of his rare pen : And through the same he all my brest becackes , And turnes me so , to nothing but Aiax . Yet Aiax ( I confesse ) was too supreme For Subiect of my-his wit royalld Reame , Exposed to the rancor of the rude , And wasted by the witlesse Multitude . He so adorned me , that I shall ne're More right , for kinde , than in his Robes appeare . Whose Lines shall circumscribe vncompast Times : And , past the wheeling of the Spheares , his Rimes Shall runne ( as right ) to immortality , And praisd ( as proper ) of posterity . Yet sith his wit was then with Will annoyd , And I enforct to beare what wit did void , I cannot choose but say as I haue said , His wit ( made loose ) defiled mee his maide . Another ( ah Lord helpe ) mee vilifies With Art of Loue , and how to subtilize , Making lewd Venus , with eternall Lines , To tye Adonis to her loues designes : Fine wit is shew'n therein : but finer 't were If not attired in such bawdy Geare . But be it as it will : the coyest Dames , In priuate reade it for their Closset-games : For , sooth to say , the Lines so draw them on , To the venerian speculation , That will they , nill they ( if of flesh they bee ) They will think of it , sith loose Thought is free . And thou ( O Poet ) that dost pen my Plaint , Thou art not scot-free from my iust complaint , For , thou hast plaid thy part , with thy rude Pen , To make vs both ridiculous to men . But O! my Soule is vext to thinke how euill I was abus'd to beare suits to the Deuill . Pierse-Pennilesse ( a Pies eat such a patch ) Made me ( aye me ) that businesse once dispatch . And hauing made me vndergoe the shame , Abusde me further in the Deuills name : And made Dildo ( dampned Dildo ) beare , Till good-mens hate did me in peeces teare . O they were mercifull therein ( God knowes ) It 's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes . How many Quires ( can any Stacioner tell ) Were bandied then , twixt him and Gabriel ? Who brutishly my beauty so did blot With Gaulie girds by pens pumpt from th' inke pot , That I more vgly than a Satyre seemd : Nay , for an hellish Monster was esteemd . Fiue grotes ( good Lord ! ) why what a rate was that , For one meere rayling Pamphlet to be at ? Well , God forgiue them both , they did me wrong , To make me beare their choller spude , so long . Yet if , in Iudgement , I should spend my breath , The Doctor foild him with his Dagger-sheath . The Conny-catcher now plaies least in sight , That wonted was on me to shew that slight . And made more hauock of my Reames and Quires , Than all the neckes are worth of such scald Squires . No Tearme could scape him , but he scraped me With Pens that spirtled mee with villany : And made me ope a gap , vnto each Gap , That leades to shame , to sorrow , and mishap . But let him goe , he long since dead hath beene , In body dead , but yet his name is Greene. What should I speake of infant - Rimers now , That ply their Pens as Plow-men do their Plow : And pester Postes with Titles of new bookes ? For , none but blockes such wooden Titles brookes . Ay me , how ill-bested am I the while , To see , how at my carriage , Carters smile : And yet such Rascall-writers finde a Presse , ( A mischiefe on t ) to make me to confesse I was in fault , for that I did not finde A way to flie from such Gulls with the wind . Then to recount the volumes hugely written , Where I lye soild as I were all be - ( ) Aiax , I le stand too t , did beseeme me better , For all 's vnsweete Sence , Sentence , Line and Letter . The Sonnes of Aymon , Beuis , Gawen , Guy , Arthur , the worthy , writ vnworthily ; Mirrour of Knighthood , with a number such , I might spend time ( past time ) them all to touch . And though I grieue , yet cannot choose but smile To see some moderne Poets seed my soile With mighty words that yeeld a monstrous Crop , Which they doe spur-gald in a false-gallop . Embellish , * * These words are good : but ill vsed : in ouer-much vse sauouring of witlesse affectation . Blandishment and Equipage Such Furies flie from their Muse holy rage . And if ( perchance ) one hit on Surquedry , O he writes rarely in sweet Poesie ! But , he that ( point-blanck ) hits Enueloped , He ( Lord receiue his Soule ) strikes Poetry dead . O Poetry ! that now ( as stands thy case ) Art the head game ; and yet art out an Ace : An Ace ? nay two : ( for on thee Fortune frownes ) That 's out of Credit quite , and out of Crownes . Thou art a worke of darknesse , that dost damne Thy Soule ( all Satire ) in an Epigram . Thou art , in this worlds reckoning , such a Botch As kills the English quite , how er'e the Scotch Escape the mortall mischiefe : but , indeed , Their Stars are better ; so , they better speed . Yet Poetry be blith , hold vp thy head , And liue by Aire till Earthly Lumpes be dead . But , if Aire fat not , as through thee it passes , Liue vpon Sentences gainst golden Asses . Some burden me , sith I oppresse the Stage , With all the grosse Abuses of this Age , And presse me after , that the world may see ( As in a soiled Glasse ) her selfe in me : Where each man in , and out of 's humour pries Vpon himselfe ; and laughs vntill he cries . Vntrussing humerous Poets , and such Stuffe ( As might put plainest Patience in a Ruffe ) I shew men : so , they see in mee and Elues Themselues scornd , & their Scorners scorne themselues . O wondrous Age ! when Phoebus Ympes doe turne Their Armes of Wit against themselues in scorne For lacke of better vse : alacke , alacke , That Lacke should make them so their credits cracke ! Is want of Wealth , or Wit the cause thereof , That they thus make themselues a publike scoffe ? I wot not I , but yet I greatly feare , It is not with them as I would it were : I would it were ; then Time should ne're report That in these Times , Wit spoild himselfe in sport . O poore Apollos Priests ( rich in reproch ) Is t not enough the base your blame should broch ? But you your selues ( vnhappie as ye are ) Must doo 't , as if your diuine fury were Turn'd into Hellish ; to excruciate none ( To glad your Scorners ) but your selues alone . And make me beare , to my eternall shame , Th' immortall Records of your Rancors Blame . Can you teach men how they themselues should vse , When you your selues your selues do so abuse ? Or sett this Chaos of confusion ( The World ) in order by abusion ? Alas ye cannot : For , Men will dispise The precepts of great Clarkes , if so unwise . Then Time redeeme , and in time that amisse , And I past-time will beare the blame of this . For , pale-fac'd paper cannot blush a whit , Though still it beare the greatest blame of Wit. Yet , Poets loue I , sith they make me weare ( What weares out Time ) my rich and gaudiest Geare . Yea , those I loue that in too earnest Game ( Or little spleene ) did me no little shame . Sith I can witnesse to succeeding Times , They oft haue me araid with royall Rimes , That rauish Readers ( though they ) enuious bee , Such sacred Raptures they haue put on me . Heere giue me leaue ( kinde Reader ) to digresse ; To speake of their vnhappy happinesse , Who can put words into the mouthes of kings , That make them more than seeme Celestiall things . And can their deeds so fashion with their Pen , That , doing so , they should be Gods with men ! Each Moode that moues the Minde , they so can moue , As doth the Wit , the Will , or Beauty , Loue . Yet , as they were accursed by the Fates , They can moue none to better their estates : Who do not onely hurt themselues alone , But Fortune ( that still hurts them ) do enthrone Among the Senate of those Deities That hisse ( like Geese ) at their kinde Gulleries . What bootes the Braines to haue a wit diuine , To make what ere it touch , in Glory shine ? If ( Midas like ) it famisht be with store Of golden Morsels set the same before : And for an hunger-staruen Fee ( alas ) To make an Idoll of a Golden Asse . It 's the worst way that wit can vse his trade , For Fee so light , with rich praise Blocks to lade . Yet will I not so wrong my selfe and you , To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue . For , then , in time , I might want change ( perchance ) Of Robes , that doe my glory most aduance . No : write ( kinde Patrons ) but let Patrons such Be prais'd as they deserue , a littl 's much : Because that little good in such is found , That giue but little to be much renownd . Yet write ( deare Gracers , that doe make me faire ) And liue the while ( Chamelion like ) by ayre . Your lines ( like shadowes ) set my Beauty forth , Shadowing the life of Art , Wits dearest worth . When you are gone ( for , long you cannot stay , Whose Braines your Pens picke out , to throw away ) I will remember you , and make you liue A life ( without worlds charge ) which Fame doth giue : For , should that life cost this Age more than breath , It soone would gnaw your deerest Fames to death . Mans life is but a dreame ; Nay , lesse then so ; A shadow of a Dreame ; that 's scarce a show : Then , in this Shadow , shadow out that Shade , That may the world substantially perswade You are halfe Gods , and more : so , cannot die By reason of your Wits Diuinitie ! How am I plagu'd with pettifogging Scribes , That load me with foule lies for Fees and Bribes ? And though wide Lines vpon my sheetes they put , Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shut : Which there in mystery obscurely lies That those which see it need haue Eagles eies , So I a Labyrinth am made thereby Where men oft lose themselues vntill they die : Or else a Traitrous trap , and subtle Snare , To crush rash fooles which runne in vnaware . But that which most my soule excruciates , Some Chroniclers that write of Kingdomes States , Doe so absurdly sableize my White With Maskes and Enterludes by day and night : Balld Maygames , Beare-baytings , and poore Orations Made to some Prince by some poore Corporations : And if a Brick-bat from a Chimney falls When puffing Boreas nere so little bralls : Or else a Knaue be hangd by iustice doome For cutting of a Purse in selfe-same roome : Or wanton Rig , or letcher dissolute Doe stand at Pauls-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute ; All these , and thousand such like toyes as these They clap in Chronicles like Butterflees , Of which there is no vse ; but spotteth me With Medley of their Motly Liuery . And so confound graue Matters of estate With plaies of Poppets , and I wot not what : Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost . Ah good Sir Thomas Moore , ( Fame be with thee ) Thy Hand did blesse the English Historie , Or else ( God knowes ) it had beene as a Pray To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day . Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse At her vnruly Matters much to muse : For ( ah ! ) that euer any should record And Chronicle the Sedges of a Lord : Seiges of Townes , or Castles ? No , ( alas ! ) That were too well , but sedges that doe passe Into the Draught , which none can well suruay Without he turne his face another way . Yet where that is , I may not well disclose : But you may finde it , follow but your Nose . As also when the Weather-cock of Poules Amended was , this Chronicler enroles . And O ( alas ! ) that er'e I was created Of Raggs , to be thus rudely lacerated : With such most ragged wilde , and childish Stuffe As might put plainest Patience in a Ruffe : For , this saies one : There was , on such a day , A disputation ( that 's a Grammer fray ) Betweene Pauls Schollers , and Saint Anthonies , Saint Bartholmewes among ; and , the best Prize A Pen was of fiue shillings price ; Alas ! That ere this Doteherd made me such an Asse To beare such Trash ; and that in such a Thing Which we call Chronicle : so , on me bring A world of shame : a shame vpon them all That make mine iniuries Historicall To weare out Time , that , euer ( without end ) My shame may last , without some one it mend . And then , like an Historian for the nonce , He tells how two Knights here were feasted once , At Mounsier Doysels lodging ( mong the rest ) With a whole powdred Palfray ( at the least ) That rosted was : so hee ( without remorse ) Tels vs a Tale but of a rosted Horse . Good God! who can endure , but silly I , To beare the burden of such Trumpery , As , could I blush , my face no inke would beare : For blushing Flames would burne it comming there ? But , Fame reports , ther 's one ( forth comming yet ) That 's comming forth with Notes of better Set : And of this Nature ; Who both can , and will With descant , more in tune , me fairely fill . And if a sencelesse creature ( as I am ; And , so am made , by those whom thus I blame ) May iudgement giue , from those that know it well , His Notes for Art and iudgement doe excell . Well fare thee man of Art , and World of wit , That by supreamest Mercy liuest yet : Yet , dost but liue ; yet , liu'st thou to the end : But so thou paist for Time , which thou dost spend , That the deare Treasure of thy precious Skills The World with pleasure , and with profit fills . Thy long-wingd , actiue , and ingenious Spright Is euer Towring to the highest height Of Wit , and Art ; to beautifie my face : So , deerely gracest life , for lifes deare Grace . Another in the Chronicle as great As some old Church-book ( that would make one sweat To turne it twice ) at large ( good man ) doth shew How his good Wife , good Beere , and Ale doth brew . With which ( lest Readers foulely might mistake ) He many Leaues , in Folio , vp doth take , To make them brew good Beere , and Ale aswell As his good wife ; and all the Art doth tell . So , for a booke of Cookery one would take That Chronicle that shewes to brew and bake . Heere is strong Stuffe , a Chronicle to line ; Wort varnish will ; then doth the Story shine : Wherein Historians still may see the face Of Wit , and Art , their Histories to grace . I must endure all this : but God forgiue them ; I can no more commend them then beleeue them . I scarce would venture Mault , a Pennies price ; To try the vertue of this Stories vice : For , as it marr'd the Chronicle before , So might it marre the mault , what euer more . With rancke Redundance being thus opprest , I ( as for speaking nought ) to death am prest . But now ( ah now ) ensues a pinching pang , A villaine vile , that sure in hell doth hang Hight Mach-euill , that euill none can match , Daub'd me with deu'llish Precepts soules to catch , And made me so ( poore silly Innocent ) Of good soules wrack● , the cursed instrument . Now not a Groome ( whose wits erst soard no higher Than how to pile the Logs on his Lords fire ) But plaies the Machiavillian ( with a pox ) And , in a Sheepe-skin clad , the Wolfe or Fox . I could heere speake what hauock still is made Of my faire Reames which quarrells ouer-lade In right Religions cause , as all pretend , Though nere so wrongly some her right defend . What neuer ending Strife they make me stirre : For , I am made the Trumpet of their warre . I pell-mell put together by the eares All Nations that the Earth turmoiled beares ; While wounded Consciences in such conflicts , Damnations terror euermore afflicts In desperate doubts ; with Winds of Doctrine tost , Still likely in Faiths Shipwracke to be lost : While learned Pilots striue which Course is best , Gods tempest-beaten Arke can take no rest , But vp and downe on Discords Billowes borne In dismall plight , and fares as quite forlorne . But thou sweet Concords cause , who with thy hand Dost tune the Deepes , and highest winds command , Looke downe from thine eternall Seat ( secure ) Vpon thy Church Storme-tossed euery houre ; And factious men inspire with better grace Than with defence of Sects to staine my face . But wretched I ( vnhappy that I am ) None , no not one , a'Pistle now can frame , T' addresse their Workes to any Personage , But they ( ay me ) must craue their Patronage , To be protected from the bitter blow Of Momus , Zoilus , and I wot not who . O Momus , Momus , Zoilus , Zoilus , yee In these Epistles too much pester me : For , vnder Lords wings Metaphoricall All Authors creepe , a shame vpon them all . And men you haue alas so much bewitcht That with your Names ( like Needles ) must be stitcht : All dedicating 'Pistles in my sheetes : For , first of all with you the Reader meets . And now that fashion is so stale become , That he in hate , crosse-wounds me with his Thumbe , And ready is to teare my tender sides To make me Scauenger for their Back-sides . Good gentle Writers for the Lord sake , for the Lord sake , Like Ludgate Prisner , lo , I ( begging ) make My mone to you ; O listen to my mone , Let Zoile and Momus ( for Gods loue ) alone ; Meddle not with them , Mome's a byting beast ; And men for his name sake your Bookes detest , And makes me shake for feare lest in a rage They should enforce me weare their Buttocks badge . Leaue off , leaue off your Tokens of good will ; The Poesies of old Rings new 'Pistles spill . Away with Patronage , a plague vpon 't , That hideous word is worse than Termagant . Call for no aid where none is to be found ; Protect my Booke : such Bookes O fates confound . To shew my gratefull minde : That 's stinking stale ; Yet in new 'Pistles such geare's set to sale . The poore mans present to the Emperor ; O that in 'Pistles keepes a stinking sturre . And not the Guift , but giuers poore good will : This , this , ( O this ) my vexed Soule doth kill ! This is a Pill ( in deed ) to giue more stooles Than Mouthes will fill of forty such fine-fooles . This heauy Sentence which I oft sustaine , Makes me to grone , it puts me to such paine . Therefore I pray such Writers , write no more ; Or if you doe , write better than before . Doth Nature new Heads bring forth eu'ry day ? And can those new heads no new Wit bewray ? Vnhappy Nature or vnhappy Heads , Its time for one or both to take your Beads . The World and most mens Writs are at an end , Pray for increase of faith , then Wit will mend ▪ For sure the cause why men too foolish are , They faint in search of Wisdome through despaire . Hath Aristotle left his wit behinde ; To helpe those Wits that seeke , yet cannot finde ? Hath Socrates and Plato broke the ice To many a Skill and most diuine Deuice ? And cannot After-commers too 't ariue ? And with those Helps not equall Skill atchieue ? Did they ( poore Men ) out of meere Industry Attaine to so great singularity , Having no Ground , or if Ground had but little Whereon their lofty buildings sure to settle : And can no Worke-man of this haplesse Time , Adde no Stone to it , nor no Dabbe of Lyme ? I wrong them now , that Word I countermand ; They adde much Lyme , but neither stone , nor sand . And that 's the cause ( as some good Authors say ) Their Workes , with Winde and Raine do dance the Hay ; For , they fall downe-right ; but the Raine and Winde Makes them runne in and out as they 're inclinde : And could the weather speake , it would commend Such toward workes as towards it doe bend ; And praise ( beyond the Moone ) their muddy Braine That builds with mudde to sport the wind and raine . Plato and Socrates ( the Mason free ) With Stone and Lime built too substantially . And Aristotle ( like a musing foole ) Would lay no stone without good Reasons rule ; What boot such BVILDINGS to weare Ages out ? A goodly peece of Worke it is no doubt : Ifaith , ifaith , their Wits were much misled , To build for others now themselues are dead . The wind may now goe whistle while it will , These waighty workes for all that stand doe still . The Raine , by soaking showres , may fall amaine ; Yet sure they stand for all such Showres of raine . Yea , let all Weathers ioyne their force in one , They all vnable are to stirre one stone . A mischiefe on the Fooles , what did they meane , To waste their Braines and make their Bodies leane , To profit others which they neuer knew , And build for Sots which after should ensue ? Who gape vpon it with great admiration ; But dare not stirre a foot from the foundation . Ye neede not feare to climbe , the worke is sure , Else could it not so many Ages dure . And , if a Flaw be found , through Builders blame , Now mother-wit ( some say ) can mend the same . And sith ye haue such stedfast footing there , And yet will sink through sloath or faint through feare , O Heau'ns increase your faith , and make it strong ; For ye , through weakenesse , doe your wisdomes wrong . The Soule of Man is like that Powre Diuine That in himselfe all wisdome doth conteine : Which Simily in Wisdomes facultie Doth hold , or else there is no Simily . Mans Reason ( if stird vp ) can mount as hie As Soules themselues , and they to heauen can flie , And from thence view what that Circumference Doth circumscribe , if subiect vnto sence . Homer ( though blinde ) yet saw with his Soules eie , The Secret hid in deep'st Philosophie ; In State-affaires , and in the high'st Designes ; All which he measures with immortall Lines ; Whereat we rather euer doe admire Than feele least feruour of his diuine fire . What Country , Marches , Nauy ; nay , what Hoast Yea what Mindes-motions ( both of man , and Ghost ) Are by Him , so exprest , that he ( we wot ) Makes vs to see that he himselefe saw not ! His Illiads describes the Bodies worth ; The Minde , his Odyssea setteth forth , For which seau'n Citties stroue , when he was gone , Which of them all should hold him as their owne . Then gentle Writers , be not so imploid In writing euerlastingly , ( vncloid ) And let your reason idle be the while , Let Reason worke , and spare your Writings toile , Till by degrees , she lifted hath your Spright Vnto the top of Humane-Wisdomes height . And when ye haue aspir'd aboue your Sires Then write a Gods-name , fill my Reames and Quires , And with huge Volumes build a Babel ▪ Towre As high as Heau'n ( that shall the Heau'ns out-dure ) For your Sonnes Sonnes to climbe ; if so they please , From Errors Flouds and Perturbations Seas . And flatter nor , ( alas ) O flatter not Your selues as wise ; for , you are wide ( God wot . ) And though ye knew what Aristotle holds , Thinke not , therefore , your Braine all truth infolds : For , there are Truths ( beside the Truth of Truth ) That ne're came neere his Braine , much lesse his mouth . All which ( when Pow'rs of the Intelligence , In their pursuit vse all their violence ) May well be apprehended , though blacke Clouds Of vtter-darkenesse their abiding shrowds : Which cannot be when Bounds are set to Wit In Plato his Plus Vltra , toucht not yet : Or Aristotles vtmost trauels reach , Whose Muse made , through the Marble Heau'ns a breach And past th' inferiour Orbes , vntill he came Vnto the highest Spheare of that huge Frame That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway , Yet had not power his mounting Muse to stay ; But it would pry into th' imperiall PLACE , Where Glory sits enthron'd in greatest grace . Yet these be not true Wisdomes Bounds , whose scope , Doe farre extend aboue the Heau'nly Cope ; And more profound than the infernall Deepe , Heauen earth , and Hell , her Greatnesse cannot keepe : And though such Wisdome properly with God , And not with mortall men doth make abode , Yet he imparts of his vnbounded grace So much as may Heau'n , Earth , and Hell imbrace With Contemplations Armes , that all infold Whose vncomprised reach no limits hold : But if , through sloath , those Armes be not extended , In Earths Circumference then , their Circuit's ended . Now , you that seeke by wisdome to aspire , With study , impe the wings of your Desire , And you thereby shall scale the highest Height , Although your Mindes be clogd with Bodies weight : So may ye grace me with eternall lines , That compasse can , and gage the deep'st Designes . Omnia sapientibus facilia .

A CONTINVED INQVISITION against Paper-Persecutors . By A. H. ANd shall it still be so ? norist more hard To repaire Pauls than to mend Pauls-Churchyard ? Shall still the Youths that walke the Middle-Ile , To whet their stomacks before meales , compile Their sudden volumes , and be neuer barr'd From scattering their Bastards through the Yard ? Shall still such fopperie fill vp each Stall , And neuer come to a due Funerall ? In so conuenient a place ? It is no wonder That Pauls so often hath beene strucke with Thunder : T' was aimed at these Shops , in which there lie Such a confused World of Trumpery , Whose Titles each Terme on the Posts are rear'd , In such abundance , it is to be fear'd That they in time , if thus they goe on , will Not only Little but Great Britaine fill , With their infectious Swarmes ; whose guilty sheetes , I haue obserued walking in the streets : Still lurking neere some Church , as if hereby They had retired to a Sanctuarie , For murdring Paper so : as in old time Persons that had committed some foule crime Thus sau'd their liues : Each driueling Lozel now That hath but seene a Colledge , and knows how To put a number to Iohn Setons Prose , Starts vp a sudden Muse-man , and streight throws A Packe of Epigrams into the light , Whose vndigested mish-mash would affright The very Ghost of Martiall , and make Th' authors of th' Anthologie to quake . Others dare venter a diuiner straine , 〈…〉 And * * The Bible rimed in a pettie volume like the Battle of Troy . Rime the Bible , whose foule Feet profane That holy ground , that wise-men may decide , The Bible ne're was more Apochryphide , Than by their bold Excursions : ( Bartas , thee , And thy Translatours , I absolue thee free From this my imputation : who in lines , ( Deseruing to be studied by Diuines , ) Didst maske thy Sacred Furie , whose rare wit , Did make the same another Holy Writ , Who , be it spoken to thy lasting praise , Gau'st Sunday rayment to the Working Dayes . Others that ne're search'd new borne Vice at all , But the seuen deadly Sinnes in generall , Drawne from the Tractate of some cloyster'd Frier , Will needs write Satyrs , and in raging fire Exasperate their sharpe Poeticke straine , And thinke they haue toucht it , if they raile at Spaine , The Pope and Deuill ; and while thus they vrge Their stinglesse gall , there 's none deserue the scourge More than themselues , whose weaknesse might suffice ▪ To furnish Satyres and poore Elegies . To runne through all the Pamphlets and the Toyes Which I haue seene in hands of Victoring Boyes , To raile at all the merrie Wherrie-Bookes , Which I haue found in Kitchen-cobweb-nookes : To reckon vp the verie Titles , which Doe please new Prentices , the Maids , and rich Wealth witt●'d Loobies , would require a Masse And Volume , bigger than would load an Asse : Nor is t their fault alone , they wisely poyse , How the blinde world doth onely like such Toyes . A generall Folly reigneth , and harsh Fate Hath made the World it selfe insatiate : It hugges these Monsters and deformed things , Better than what Iohnson or Drayton sings : As in North-Villages , where euery line Of Plumpton Parke is held a worke diuine . If o're the Chymney they some Ballads haue Of Chevy-Chase , or of some branded slaue Hang'd at Tyborne , they their Mattins make it , And Vespers too , and for the Bible take it . If a Choise-Piece should come into their hand , 'T would be as hatefull as a yellow-band Was at the first ; so if vpon the Wall They see an Antique in base Postures fall : As , a Frier blowing wind into the taile Of a Baboone , or an Ape drinking Ale , They admire that , when to their view perhaps If yee should set one of Mercators Mapps Or a rare Piece of Albert Durer , they Would hardly sticke to throw the toy away , And curse the botching Painter ; see , alas , The doting world is come vnto this passe , England is all turn'd Yorkeshire , and the Age Extremely sortish , or too nicely sage . To passe a thousand other , doe but looke Of late how they abus'd the Noble * * O 〈…〉 &c. Duke . What steeled patience could behold those Dawes Praeuaricate the Muses sacred Lawes , And blabber forth His Funerall , in Rimes , I needs must say , much like these wretched Times ? To heare the noselesse Ballad-woman raise Her snuffling throat to His ill-penned praise : Or the oft beaten fellow make his mone , Who in the streets is wont to reade Pope Ioane : To see each Wall and publike Post defil'd With diuers deadly Elegies , compil'd By a foule swarme of Cuckoes of our Times , In Lamentable Lachrymentall Rimes : By this I hope , y' haue wrongd him what you can By those abortiue Broods of Barbican , And such like Magazines of wofull things Such as I nor the sober Poet sings . Haue you yet not to soile His spotlesse life Ended those begging Chartells to His * * The Wife ? Who , could She but haue rais'd her wofull Eies , Had thought them Libells and not Elegies . And yee who with more secrecie did write Lines which you thought too precious for the light , In reseru'd Manuscripts , for shame giue o're Your hard-strain'd numbers , and disperse no more Your heauy Rimes , which seeme by quicker Eie Would make one quite abiure all Poetrie , And studie Stow and Hollinshed , and make Tractates of Trauells , or an Almanake : But sure the names were falsified , nor can I thinke a Schollar or a Gentleman , Would doe His Memorie so foule abuse : Sure t' was some Ballad-broker did traduce Their Fame , or th' one-leggd varlet who doth sing His roaring Non-sence , to a triuiall Ring Of Prentices , about some arrant sent , Or Boies , who , then leaue Iacke a Lent To heare the noise , or women who stand there , And at O-Hone ring forth a readie teare . Touching the State , Ambassadors or Kings , My Satyre shall not touch such sacred things : Nor list I purchase penance at that rate , As some Spoile-Papers haue deerely done of late . And such as these , whose names are iustly spred . Vnto their shame , are to be pittied , Rather than blam'd ; But to behold the wals Butter'd with weekely Newes compos'd in Pauls , By some Decaied Captaine , or those Rooks , Whose hungry braines compile prodigious Books , Of Bethlem Gabors preparations , and How termes betwixt him and th' Emperor stand : Of Denmarke , Swede , Poland , and of this and that , Their Wars , Iars , Stirs , and I wote not what : The Duke of Brunswicke , Mansfield , and Prince Maurice , Their Expeditions , and what else but true is , Yea of the Belgique state , yet scarcely know , Whether Brabant be in Christendome or no : To see such Batter euerie weeke besmeare Each publike post , and Church dore , and to heare These shamefull lies , would make a man in spight Of Nature , turne Satyrist , and write Reuenging lines , against these shamelesse men , Who thus torment both Paper , Presse , and Pen. Th' Impostors that these Trumperies doe vtter , Are , A , B , C , D , E , F , G , and ( — ) Who if they doe not soone these matters mend , I 'le shortly into th' world , a Satyre send , Who shall Them lash with dierie rods of Steele , That euer after They my ierks may feele . Mysteria mea mihi .