Spite of his farming ox-stalls. Themis’ self
Would be cashier’d from one poor scrap of pelf.
If that she were incarnate in our time,
She might lusk,[485] scornèd in disdainèd slime,
Shaded from honour by some envious mist 10
Of wat’ry fogs, that fill the ill-stuff’d list
Of fair Desert, jealous even of blind dark,
Lest it should spy, and at their lameness bark.
“Honour’s shade thrusts honour’s substance from his place.”
’Tis strange, when shade the substance can disgrace.
“Harsh lines!” cries Curus, whose ears ne’er rejoice
But at the quavering of my lady’s voice.
Rude limping lines fits this lewd halting age:
Sweet-scenting Curus, pardon then my rage,
When wisards[486] swear plain virtue never thrives, 20
None but Priapus by plain dealing wives.
Then, subtile Hermes, are the destinies
Enamour’d on thee! Then up, mount the skies,
Advance, depose, do even what thou list,
So long as fates do grace thy juggling fist.
Tuscus, hast Beuclerc’s arms and strong sinews,
Large reach, full-fed veins, ample revenues?
Then make thy markets by thy proper arm;
O brawny strength is an all-canning[487] charm!
Thou dreadless Thracian![488] hast Hallirhothius slain? 30
What, is’t not possible thy cause maintain
Before the dozen Areopagites?
Come, Enagonian,[489] furnish him with sleights.
Tut, Pluto’s wrath Proserpina can melt,
So that thy sacrifice be freely felt.
What! cannot Juno force in bed with Jove,
Turn and return a sentence with her love?—
Thou art too dusky.—Fie, thou shallow ass!
Put on more eyes, and mark me as I pass.
Well, plainly thus: “Sleight, force are mighty things, 40
From which much (if not most) earth’s glory springs.
If virtue’s self were clad in human shape,
Virtue without these might go beg and scrape.
The naked truth is, a well-clothèd lie,
A nimble quick pate mounts to dignity;
By force or fraud, that matters not a jot,
So massy wealth may fall unto thy lot.”
I heard old Albius swear Flavus should have
His eldest girl, for Flavus was a knave,
A damn’d deep-reaching villain, and would mount 50
(He durst well warrant him) to great account;
What, though he laid forth all his stock and store
Upon some office, yet he’ll gain much more,
Though purchased dear; tut, he will treble it
In some few terms, by his extorting wit.
When I, in simple meaning, went to sue
For tongue-tied Damus, that would needs go woo,
I prais’d him for his virtuous honest life.
“By God,” cries Flora, “I’ll not be his wife!
He’ll ne’er come on.” Now I swear solemnly, 60
When I go next I’ll praise his villainy:
A better field to range in nowadays.
If vice be virtue, I can all men praise.
What, though pale Maurus paid huge simonies
For his half-dozen gelded vicaries,[490]
Yet, with good honest cut-throat usury,
I fear he’ll mount to reverent[491] dignity.
“O sleight, all-canning sleight, all-damning sleight,
The only gally-ladder unto might.”
Tuscus is trade-fall’n; yet great hope he’ll rise, 70
For now he makes no count of perjuries;
Hath drawn false lights[492] from pitch-black loveries,[493]
Glazed his braided[494] ware, cogs, swears, and lies;
Now since he hath the grace, thus graceless be,
His neighbours swear he’ll swell with treasury.
Tut, who maintains such goods, ill-got, decay?
No, they’ll stick by thy[495] soul, they’ll ne’er away.
Luscus, my lord’s perfumer, had no sale
Until he made his wife a brothel-stale.
Absurd, the gods sell all for industry, 80
When what’s not got by hell-bred villainy!
Codrus, my well-faced lady’s tail-bearer
(He that sometimes play’th Flavia’s usherer),
I heard one day complain to Lynceus
How vigilant, how right obsequious,
Modest in carriage, how true in trust,
And yet (alas!) ne’er guerdon’d with a crust.
But now I see he finds by his accounts
That sole Priapus, by plain-dealing, mounts.
How now? What, droops the new Pegasian inn? 90
I fear mine host is honest. Tut, begin
To set up whorehouse; ne’er too late to thrive;
By any means, at Porta Rich arrive;
Go use some sleight, or live poor Irus’ life;
Straight prostitute thy daughter or thy wife,
And soon be wealthy; but be damn’d with it.
Hath not rich Milo then deep-reaching wit?
Fair age!
When ’tis a high and hard thing t’ have repute
Of a complete villain, perfect, absolute; 100
And roguing virtue brings a man defame,
A packstaff[496] epithet, and scornèd name.
Fie, how my wit flags! How heavily
Methinks I vent dull sprightless poesy!
What cold black frost congeals my numbèd brain!
What envious power stops a satire’s vein!
O now I know the juggling god of sleights,
With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights,
And mists my wit; offended that my rhymes
Display his odious world-abusing crimes. 110
O be propitious, powerful god of arts!
I sheathe my weapons, and do break my darts.
Be then appeased; I’ll offer to thy shrine
An hecatomb of many spotted kine.
Myriads of beasts shall satisfy thy rage,
Which do profane thee in this apish age.
Infectious blood, ye gouty humours quake,
Whilst my sharp razor doth incision make.
[484] Hercules.
[485] Lie in idleness.
[486] i.e., wise men.
[487] i.e., all-powerful.
[488] Ares.—See Apollodorus’ Bibl., iii. 14.