Act IV
SCENE I.-A Room in ALBIUS’S House.
enter CHLOE, CYTHERIS, and Attendants.
Chloe. But, sweet lady, say; am I well enough attired for the court, in sadness?
Cyth. Well enough! excellent well, sweet mistress Chloe; this strait-bodied city attire, I can tell you, will stir a courtier’s blood, more than the finest loose sacks the ladies use to be put in; and then you are as well jewell’d as any of them; your ruff and linen about you is much more pure than theirs; and for your beauty, I can tell you, there’s many of them would defy the painter, if they could change with you. Marry, the worst is, you must look to be envied, and endure a few court-frumps for it.
Chloe. O Jove, madam, I shall buy them too cheap!—Give me my muff, and my dog there.-And will the ladies be any thing familiar with me, think you?
Cyth. O Juno! why you shall see them flock about you with their puff-wings, and ask you where you bought your lawn, and what you paid for it? who starches you? and entreat you to help ’em to some pure laundresses out of the city.
Chloe. O Cupid!—Give me my fan, and my mask too.—And will the lords, and the poets there, use one well too, lady?
Cyth. Doubt not of that; you shall have kisses from them, go pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, upon your lips, as thick as stones out of slings at the assault of a city. And then your ears will be so furr’d with the breath of their compliments, that you cannot catch cold of your head, if you would, in three winters after.
Chloe. Thank you, sweet lady. O heaven! and how must one behave herself amongst ’em? You know all.
Cyth. Faith, impudently enough, mistress Chloe, and well enough. Carry not too much under thought betwixt yourself and them; nor your city-mannerly word, forsooth, use it not too often in any case; but plain, Ay, madam, and no, madam: nor never say, your lordship, nor your honour; but, you, and you, my lord, and my lady: the other they count too simple and minsitive. And though they desire to kiss heaven with their titles, yet they will count them fools that give them too humbly.
Chloe. O intolerable, Jupiter! by my troth, lady, I would not for a world but you had lain in my house; and, i’faith, you shall not pay a farthing for your board, nor your chambers.
Cyth. O, sweet mistress Chloe! Chloe. I’faith you shall not, lady; nay, good lady, do not offer it. [Enter GALLUS and TIBULLUS. Gal. Come, where be these ladies? By your leave, bright stars, this gentleman and I are come to man you to court; where your late kind entertainment is now to be requited with a heavenly banquet.
Cyth. A heavenly banquet; Gallus!
Gal. No less, my dear Cytheris.
Tib. That were not strange, lady, if the epithet were only given for the company invited thither; your self, and this fair gentle-woman.
Chloe. Are we invited to court, sir?
Tib. You are, lady, by the great princess Julia; who longs to greet you with any favours that may worthily make you an often courtier.
Chloe. In sincerity, I thank her, sir. You have a coach, have you not?
Tib. The princess hath sent her own, lady.
Chloe. O Venus! that’s well: I do long to ride in a coach most vehemently.
Cyth. But, sweet Gallus, pray you resolve me why you give that heavenly praise to this earthly banquet?
Gal. Because, Cytheris, it must be celebrated by the heavenly powers: all the gods and goddesses will be there; to two of which you two must be exalted.
Chloe. A pretty fiction, in truth.
Cyth. A fiction, indeed, Chloe, and fit for the fit of a poet.
Gal. Why, Cytheris, may not poets (from whose divine spirits all the honours of the gods have been deduced) entreat so much honour of the gods, to have their divine presence at a poetical banquet?
Cyth. Suppose that no fiction; yet, where are your habilities to make us two goddesses at your feast?
Gal. Who knows not, Cytheris, that the sacred breath of a true poet can blow any virtuous humanity up to deity?
Tib. To tell you the female truth, which is the simple truth, ladies; and to shew that poets, in spite of the world, are able to deify themselves; at this banquet, to which you are invited, we intend to assume the figures of the gods; and to give our several loves the forms of goddesses. Ovid will be Jupiter; the princess Julia, Juno; Gallus here, Apollo; you, Cytheris, Pallas; I will be Bacchus; and my love Plautia, Ceres: and to install you and your husband, fair Chloe, in honours equal with ours, you shall be a goddess, and your husband a god.
Chloe. A god!—O my gods!
Tib. A god, but a lame god, lady; for he shall be Vulcan, and you Venus: and this will make our banquet no less than heavenly.
Chloe. In sincerity, it will be sugared. Good Jove, what a pretty foolish thing it is to be a poet! but, hark you, sweet Cytheris, could they not possibly leave out my husband? methinks a body’s husband does not so well at court; a body’s friend, or so—but, husband! ’tis like your clog to your marmoset, for all the world, and the heavens.
Cyth. Tut, never fear, Chloe! your husband will be left without in the lobby, or the great chamber, when you shall be put in, i’the closet, by this lord, and by that lady.
Chloe. Nay, then I am certified; he shall go.
[Enter HORACE.
Gal. Horace! welcome.
Hor. Gentlemen, hear you the news?
Tib. What news, my Quintus!
Hor.
Our melancholic friend, Propertius,
Hath closed himself up in his Cynthia’s tomb;
And will by no entreaties be drawn thence.
[Enter Albius, introducing CRISPINUS and DEMETRIUS,
followed by Tucca.
Alb. Nay, good Master Crispinus, pray you bring near the gentleman.
[Going
Hor. Crispinus! Hide me, good Gallus; Tibullus, shelter me.
Cris. Make your approach, sweet captain.
Tib. What means this, Horace?
Hor. I am surprised again; farewell.
Gal. Stay, Horace.
[Exit hastily.
Tib ‘Slight, I hold my life
This same is he met him in Holy-street.
Hor. What, and be tired on by yond’ vulture! No: Phoebus defend me!
Gal. Troth, ’tis like enough.—This act of Propertius relisheth very strange with me.
Tuc. By thy leave, my neat scoundrel: what, is this the mad boy you talk’d on?
Cris. Ay, this is master Albius, captain.
Tuc. Give me thy hand, Agamemnon; we hear abroad thou art the Hector of citizens: What sayest thou? are we welcome to thee, noble Neoptolemus?
Alb. Welcome, captain, by Jove and all the gods in the Capitol—
Tuc. No more, we conceive thee. Which of these is thy wedlock, Menelaus? thy Helen, thy Lucrece? that we may do her honour, mad boy.
Cris. She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress.
Alb. For fault of a better, sir.
Tuc. A better! profane rascal: I cry thee mercy, my good scroyle, was’t thou?
Alb. No harm, captain.
Tuc. She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene: come hither, Penelope; what’s thy name, Iris?
Chloe. My name is Chloe, sir; I am a gentlewoman.
Tuc. Thou art in merit to be an empress, Chloe, for an eye and a lip; thou hast an emperor’s nose: kiss me again: ’tis a virtuous punk; so! Before Jove, the gods were a sort of goslings, when they suffered so sweet a breath to perfume the bed of a stinkard: thou hadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate, they were, punk, they were.
Chloe. That’s sure, sir: let me crave your name, I pray you, sir.
Tuc. I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, punk; the noble
Roman, punk: a gentleman, and a commander, punk.
[Walks aside.
Chloe. In good time: a gentleman, and a commander! that’s as good
as a poet, methinks.
Cris. A pretty instrument! It’s my cousin Cytheris’ viol this, is it not?
Cyth. Nay, play, cousin; it wants but such a voice and hand to grace it, as yours is.
Cris. Alas, cousin, you are merrily inspired.
Cyth. Pray you play, if you love me.
Cris. Yes, cousin; you know I do not hate you.
Tib. A most subtile wench! how she hath baited him with a viol yonder, for a song!
Cris. Cousin, ‘pray you call mistress Chloe! she shall hear an essay of my poetry.
Tuc. I’ll call her.—Come hither, cockatrice: here’s one will set thee up, my sweet punk, set thee up.
Chloe. Are you a poet so soon, sir?
CRlSPINUS plays and sings.
Love is blind, and a wanton;
In the whole world, there is scant one
——Such another:
No, not his mother.
He hath pluck’d her doves and sparrows,
To feather his sharp arrows,
And alone prevaileth,
While sick Venus waileth.
But if Cypris once recover
The wag; it shall behove her
To look better to him:
Or she will undo him.
Alb. Wife, mum.
Alb. O, most odoriferous music!
Tuc. Aha, stinkard! Another Orpheus, you slave, another Orpheus! an Arion riding on the back of a dolphin, rascal!
Gal. Have you a copy of this ditty, sir?
Cris. Master Albius has.
Alb. Ay, but in truth they are my Wife’s verses; I must not shew them.
Tuc. Shew them, bankrupt, shew them; they have salt in them, and will brook the air, stinkard.
Gal. How! To his bright mistress Canidia!
Cris. Ay, sir, that’s but a borrowed name; as Ovid’s Corinna, or Propertius his Cynthia, or your Nemesis, or Delia, Tibullus.
Gal. It’s the name of Horace his witch, as I remember.
Tib. Why, the ditty’s all borrowed; ’tis Horace’s: hang him, plagiary!
Tut. How! he borrow of Horace? he shall pawn himself to ten brokers first. Do you hear, Poetasters? I know you to be men of worship—He shall write with Horace, for a talent! and let Mecaenas and his whole college of critics take his part: thou shalt do’t, young Phoebus; thou shalt, Phaeton, thou shalt.
Dem. Alas, sir, Horace! he is a mere sponge; nothing but Humours and observation; he goes up and down sucking from every society, and when he comes home squeezes himself dry again. I know him, I.
Tuc. Thou say’st true, my poor poetical fury, he will pen all he knows. A sharp thorny-tooth, a satirical rascal, By him; he carries hay in his horn: he will sooner lose his best friend, than his least jest. What he once drops upon paper, against a man, lives eternally to upbraid him in the mouth of every slave, tankard-bearer, or waterman; not a bawd, or a boy that comes from the bake-house, but shall point at him: ’tis all dog, and scorpion; he carries poison in his teeth, and a sting in his tail. Fough! body of Jove! I’ll have the slave whipt one of these days for his Satires and his Humours, by one cashier’d clerk or another.
Cris. We’ll undertake him, captain.
Dem. Ay, and tickle him i’faith, for his arrogancy and his impudence, in commending his own things; and for his translating, I can trace him, i’faith. O, he is the most open fellow living; I had as lieve as a new suit I were at it.
Tuc. Say no more then, but do it; ’tis the only way to get thee a new suit; sting him, my little neufts; I’ll give you instructions: I’ll be your intelligencer; we’ll all join, and hang upon him like so many horse-leeches, the players and all. We shall sup together, soon; and then we’ll conspire, i’faith.
Gal. O that Horace had stayed still here!
Tib. So would not I; for both these would have turn’d Pythagoreans then.
Gal. What, mute?
Tib. Ay, as fishes, i’faith: come, ladies, shall we go?
Cyth. We wait you, sir. But mistress Chloe asks, if you have not a god to spare for this gentleman.
Gal. Who, captain Tucca?
Cyth. Ay, he.
Gal. Yes, if we can invite him along, he shall be Mars.
Chloe. Has Mars any thing to do with Venus?
Tib. O, most of all, lady.
Chloe. Nay, then I pray let him be invited: And what shall
Crispinus be?
Tib. Mercury, mistress Chloe.
Chloe. Mercury! that’s a poet, is it?
Gal. No, lady, but somewhat inclining that way; he is a herald at arms.
Chloe. A herald at arms! good; and Mercury! pretty: he has to do with Venus too?
Tib. A little with her face, lady; or so.
Chloe. ’Tis very well; pray let us go, I long to be at it.
Cyth. Gentlemen, shall we pray your companies along?
Cris. You shall not only pray, but prevail, lady.—Come, sweet captain.
Tuc. Yes, I follow: but thou must not talk of this now, my little bankrupt.
Alb. Captain, look here, mum.
Dem. I’ll go write, sir.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.-A Room in Lupus’s House.
Enter Lupus, HISTRIO, and Lictors.
Tuc. Do, do: stay, there’s a drachm to purchase ginger-bread for thy muse.
Lup. Come, let us talk here; here we may be private; shut the door, lictor. You are a player, you say.
Hist. Ay, an’t please your worship.
Lup. Good; and how are you able to give this intelligence?
Hist. Marry, sir, they directed a letter to me and my fellow— sharers.
Lup. Speak lower, you are not now in your theatre, stager:—my sword, knave. They directed a letter to you, and your fellow-sharers: forward.
Hist. Yes, sir, to hire some of our properties; as a sceptre and crown for Jove; and a caduceus for Mercury; and a petasus— [Reenter Lictor. Lup. Caduceus and petasus! let me see your letter. This is a conjuration: a conspiracy, this. Quickly, on with my buskins: I’ll act a tragedy, i’faith. Will nothing but our gods serve these poets to profane? dispatch! Player, I thank thee. The emperor shall take knowledge of thy good service. [A knocking within.] Who’s there now? Look, knave. [Exit Lictor.] A crown and a sceptre! this is good rebellion, now.
Lic. ’Tis your pothecary, sir, master Minos.
Lup. What tell’st thou me of pothecaries, knave! Tell him, I have affairs of state in hand; I can talk to no apothecaries now. Heart of me! Stay the pothecary there. [Walks in a musing posture.] You shall see, I have fish’d out a cunning piece of plot now: they have had some intelligence, that their project is discover’d, and now have they dealt with my apothecary, to poison me; ’tis so; knowing that I meant to take physic to-day: as sure as death, ’tis there. Jupiter, I thank thee, that thou hast. yet made me so much of a politician. [Enter Minos. You are welcome, sir; take the potion from him there; I have an antidote more than you wot of, sir; throw it on the ground there: so! Now fetch in the dog; and yet we cannot tarry to try experiments now: arrest him; you shall go with me, sir; I’ll tickle you, pothecary; I’ll give you a glister, i’faith. Have I the letter? ay, ’tis here.—Come, your fasces, lictors: the half pikes and the Halberds, take them down from the Lares there. Player, assist me. [As they are going out, enter MECAENAS and HORACE. Mec. Whither now, Asinius Lupus, with this armory?
Lup. I cannot talk now; I charge you assist me: treason! treason!
Hor. How! treason?
Lup. Ay: if you love the emperor, and the state, follow me.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.-An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter OVID, JULIA, GALLUS, CYTHERIS, TIBULLUS, PLAUTIA, ALBIUS, CHLOE, TUCCA, CRISPINUS, HERMOGENES, PYRGUS, characteristically habited, as gods and goddesses.
Ovid. Gods and goddesses, take your several seats. Now, Mercury, move your caduceus, and, in Jupiter’s name, command silence.
Cris. In the name of Jupiter, silence.
Her. The crier of the court hath too clarified a voice.
Gal. Peace, Momus.
Ovid. Oh, he is the god of reprehension; let him alone: ’tis his office. Mercury, go forward, and proclaim, after Phoebus, our high pleasure, to all the deities that shall partake this high banquet.
Cris. Yes, sir.
Gal. The great god, Jupiter,—[Here, and at every break in the line, Crispinus repeats aloud the words of Gallus.]—Of his licentious goodness,—Willing to make this feast no fast—From any manner of pleasure;—Nor to bind any god or goddess—To be any thing the more god or goddess, for their names:—He gives them all free license—To speak no wiser than persons of baser titles;—And to be nothing better, than common men, or women.—And therefore no god—Shall need to keep himself more strictly to his goddess—Than any man does to his wife:—Nor any goddess—Shall need to keep herself more strictly to her god—Than any woman does to her husband.—But, since it is no part of wisdom,—In these days, to come into bonds;—It shall be lawful for every lover—To break loving oaths,—To change their lovers, and make love to others,—As the heat of every one’s blood,—And the spirit of our nectar, shall inspire.—And Jupiter save Jupiter!
Tib. So; now we may play the fools by authority.
Her. To play the fool by authority is wisdom.
Jul. Away with your mattery sentences, Momus; they are too grave and wise for this meeting.
Ovid. Mercury, give our jester a stool, let him sit by; and reach him one of our cates.
Tuc. Dost hear, mad Jupiter? we’ll have it enacted, he that speaks the first wise word, shall be made cuckold. What say’st thou? Is it not a good motion?
Ovid. Deities, are you all agreed?
All, Agreed, great Jupiter.
Alb. I have read in a book, that to play the fool wisely, is high wisdom.
Gal. How now, Vulcan! will you be the first wizard?
Ovid. Take his wife, Mars, and make him cuckold quickly.
Tuc. Come, cockatrice.
Chloe. No, let me alone with him, Jupiter: I’ll make you take heed, sir, while you live again; if there be twelve in a company, that you be not the wisest of ’em.
Alb. No more; I will not indeed, wife, hereafter; I’ll be here: mum.
Ovid. Fill us a bowl of nectar, Ganymede: we will drink to our daughter Venus.
Gal. Look to your wife, Vulcan: Jupiter begins to court her.
Tib. Nay, let Mars look to it: Vulcan must do as Venus does, bear.
Tuc. Sirrah, boy; catamite: Look you play Ganymede well now, you slave. Do not spill your nectar; carry your cup even: so! You should have rubbed your face with whites of eggs, you rascal; till your brows had shone like our sooty brother’s here, as sleek as a horn-book: or have steept your lips in wine, till you made them so plump, that Juno might have been jealous of them. Punk, kiss me, punk.
Ovid. Here, daughter Venus, I drink to thee.
Chloe. Thank you, good father Jupiter.
Tuc. Why, mother Juno! gods and fiends! what, wilt thou suffer this ocular temptation?
Tib. Mars is enraged, he looks big, and begins to stut for anger.
Her. Well played, captain Mars.
Tuc. Well said, minstrel Momus: I must put you in, must I? when will you be in good fooling of yourself, fidler, never?
Her. O, ’tis our fashion to be silent, when there is a better fool in place ever.
Tuc. Thank you, rascal.
Ovid. Fill to our daughter Venus, Ganymede, who fills her father with affection.
Jul. Wilt thou be ranging, Jupiter, before my face?
Ovid. Why not, Juno? why should Jupiter stand in awe of thy face, Juno?
Jul. Because it is thy wife’s face, Jupiter.
Ovid. What, shall a husband be afraid of his wife’s face? will she paint it so horribly? we are a king, cotquean; and we will reign in our pleasures; and we will cudgel thee to death, if thou find fault with us.
Jul. I will find fault with thee, king cuckold-maker: What, shall the king of gods turn the king of good-fellows, and have no fellow in wickedness? This makes our poets, that know our profaneness, live as profane as we: By my godhead, Jupiter, 1 will join with all the other gods here, bind thee hand and foot, throw thee down into the earth and make a poor poet of thee, if thou abuse me thus.
Gal. A good smart-tongued goddess, a right Juno!
Ovid. Juno, we will cudgel thee, Juno: we told thee so yesterday, when thou wert jealous of us for Thetis.
Pyr. Nay, to-day she had me in inquisition too.
Tuc. Well said, my fine Phrygian fry; inform, inform. Give me some wine, king of heralds, I may drink to my cockatrice.
Ovid. No more, Ganymede; we will cudgel thee, Juno; by Styx we will.
Jul. Ay, ’tis well; gods may grow impudent in iniquity, and they must not be told of it
Ovid. Yea, we will knock our chin against our breast, and shake thee out of Olympus into an oyster-boat, for thy scolding.
Jul. Your nose is not long enough to do it, Jupiter, if all thy strumpets thou hast among the stars took thy part. And there is never a star in thy forehead but shall be a horn, if thou persist to abuse me.
Cris. A good jest, i’faith.
Ovid. We tell thee thou angerest us, cotquean; and we will thunder thee in pieces for thy cotqueanity.
Cris. Another good jest.
Alb. O, my hammers and my Cyclops! This boy fills not wine enough to make us kind enough to one another.
Tuc. Nor thou hast not collied thy face enough, stinkard.
Alb. I’ll ply the table with nectar, and make them friends.
Her. Heaven is like to have but a lame skinker, then.
Alb. Wine and good livers make true lovers: I’ll sentence them together. Here, father, here, mother, for shame, drink yourselves drunk, and forget this dissension; you two should cling together before our faces, and give us example of unity.
Gal O, excellently spoken, Vulcan, on the sudden!
Tib. Jupiter may do well to prefer his tongue to some office for his eloquence. Tuc. His tongue shall be gentleman-usher to his wit, and still go before it.
Alb. An excellent fit office!
Cris. Ay, and an excellent good jest besides.
Her. What, have you hired Mercury to cry your jests you make?
Ovid. Momus, you are envious.
Tuc. Why, ay, you whoreson blockhead, ’tis your only block of wit in fashion now-a-days, to applaud other folks’ jests.
Her. True; with those that are not artificers themselves. Vulcan, you nod, and the mirth of the jest droops.
Pyr. He has filled nectar so long, till his brain swims in it.
Gal. What, do we nod, fellow-gods! Sound music, and let us startle our spirits with a song.
Tuc. Do, Apollo, thou art a good musician.
Gal. What says Jupiter?
Ovid. Ha! ha!
Gal. A song.
Ovid. Why, do, do, sing.
Pla. Bacchus, what say you?
Tib. Ceres?
Pla. But, to this song?
Tib. Sing, for my part.
Jul. Your belly weighs down your head, Bacchus; here’s a song toward.
Tib. Begin, Vulcan.
Alb. What else, what else?
Tuc. Say, Jupiter
Ovid. Mercury—-
Cris. Ay, say, say.
[Music
Alb. Wake! our mirth begins to die;
Quicken it with tunes and wine.
Raise your notes; you’re out; fie, fie!
This drowsiness is an ill sign.
We banish him the quire of gods,
That droops agen:
Then all are men,
For here’s not one but nods.
Ovid. I like not this sudden and general heaviness amongst
our godheads; ’tis somewhat ominous. Apollo, command us
louder music, and let Mercury and Momus contend to please
and revive our senses.
[Music
Herm. Then, in a free and lofty strain.
Our broken tunes we thus repair;
Cris. And we answer them again,
Running division on the panting air;
Ambo. To celebrate this, feast of sense,
As free from scandal as offence.
Herm. Here is beauty for the eye,
Cris. For the ear sweet melody.
Herm. Ambrosiac odours, for the smell,
Cris. Delicious nectar, for the taste;
Ambo. For the touch, a lady’s waist;
Which doth all the rest excel.
Ovid. Ay, this has waked us. Mercury, our herald; go from ourself, the great god Jupiter, to the great emperor Augustus Caesar, and command him from us, of whose bounty he hath received the sirname of Augustus, that, for a thank-offering to our beneficence, he presently sacrifice, as a dish to this banquet, his beautiful and wanton daughter Julia: she’s a curst quean, tell him, and plays the scold behind his back; therefore let her be sacrificed. Command him this, Mercury, in our high name of Jupiter Altitonans.
Jul. Stay, feather-footed Mercury, and tell Augustus, from us, the
great Juno Saturnia; if he think it hard to do as Jupiter hath
commanded him, and sacrifice his daughter, that he had better do
so ten times, than suffer her to love the well-nosed poet, Ovid;
whom he shall do well to whip or cause to be whipped, about the
capitol, for soothing her in her follies.
[ Enter AUGUSTUS CAESAR, MECAENAS, HORACE, LUPUS,
HISTRIO, MINUS, and Lictors.
Caes.
What sight is this? Mecaenas! Horace! say?
Have we our senses? do we hear and see?
Or are these but imaginary objects
Drawn by our phantasy! Why speak you not?
Let us do sacrifice. Are they the gods?
[Ovid and the rest kneel.
Reverence, amaze, and fury fight in me.
What, do they kneel! Nay, then I see ’tis true
I thought impossible: O, impious sight!
Let me divert mine eyes; the very thought
Everts my soul with passion: Look not, man,
There is a panther, whose unnatural eyes
Will strike thee dead: turn, then, and die on her
With her own death.
[Offers to kill his daughter.
Mec. Hor. What means imperial Caesar?
Caes. What would you have me let the strumpet live That, for this pageant, earns so many deaths?
Tuc. Boy, slink, boy.
[Exeunt Tucca and Pyrgus.
Pyr. Pray Jupiter we be not followed by the scent, master.
Caes. Say, sir, what are you?
Alb. I play Vulcan, sir.
Caes. But what are you, sir?
Alb. Your citizen and jeweller, sir.
Caes. And what are you, dame?
Chloe. I play Venus, forsooth.
Caes. I ask not what you play, but what you are.
Chloe. Your citizen and jeweller’s wife, sir.
Caes. And you, good sir?
[Exit.
Caes.
O, that profaned name!—-
And are these seemly company for thee, [To Julia.
Degenerate monster? All the rest I know,
And hate all knowledge for their hateful sakes.
Are you, that first the deities inspired
With skill of their high natures and their powers,
The first abusers of their useful light;
Profaning thus their dignities in their forms,
And making them, like you, but counterfeits?
O, who shall follow Virtue and embrace her,
When her false bosom is found nought but air?
And yet of those embraces centaurs spring,
That war with human peace, and poison men.—-
Who shall, with greater comforts comprehend
Her unseen being and her excellence;
When you, that teach, and should eternise her,
Live as she were no law unto your lives,
Nor lived herself, but with your idle breaths?
If you think gods but feign’d, and virtue painted,
Know we sustain an actual residence,
And with the title of an emperor,
Retain his spirit and imperial power;
By which, in imposition too remiss,
Licentious Naso, for thy violent wrong,
In soothing the declined affections
Of our base daughter, we exile thy feet
From all approach to our imperial court,
On pain of death; and thy misgotten love
Commit to patronage of iron doors;
Since her soft-hearted sire cannot contain her.
Cris. Your gentleman parcel-poet, sir.
Mec. O, good my lord, forgive! be like the gods.
Hor. Let royal bounty, Caesar, mediate.
Caes.
There is no bounty to be shew’d to such
As have no real goodness: bounty is
A spice of virtue; and what virtuous act
Can take effect on them, that have no power
Of equal habitude to apprehend it,
But live in worship of that idol, vice,
As if there were no virtue, but in shade
Of strong imagination, merely enforced?
This shews their knowledge is mere ignorance,
Their far-fetch’d dignity of soul a fancy,
And all their square pretext of gravity
A mere vain-glory; hence, away with them!
I will prefer for knowledge, none but such
As rule their lives by it, and can becalm
All sea of Humour with the marble trident
Of their strong spirits: others fight below
With gnats and shadows; others nothing know.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.-A Street before the Palace.
Enter TUCCA, CRISPINUS, and PYRGUS.
Tuc. What’s become of my little punk, Venus, and the poultfoot stinkard, her husband, ha?
Cris. O; they are rid home in the coach, as fast as the wheels can run.
Tuc. God Jupiter is banished, I hear, and his cockatrice Juno lock’d up. ‘Heart, an all the poetry in Parnassus get me to be a player again, I’ll sell ’em my share for a sesterce. But this is Humours, Horace, that goat-footed envious slave; he’s turn’d fawn now; an informer, the rogue! ’tis he has betray’d us all. Did you not see him with the emperor crouching?
Cris. Yes.
Tuc. Well, follow me. Thou shalt libel, and I’ll cudgel the rascal. Boy, provide me a truncheon. Revenge shall gratulate him, tam Marti, quam Mercurio.
Pyr. Ay, but master, take heed how you give this out; Horace is a man of the sword.
Cris. ’Tis true, in troth; they say he’s valiant.
[Horace passes over the stage. Tuc. Valiant? so is mine a—. Gods and fiends! I’ll blow him into air when I meet him next: he dares not fight with a puck-fist.
Pyr. Master, he comes!
Tuc. Where? Jupiter save thee, my good poet, my noble prophet, my little fat Horace.—I scorn to beat the rogue in the court; and I saluted him thus fair, because he should suspect nothing, the rascal. Come, we’ll go see how far forward our journeyman is toward the untrussing of him. [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Enter HORACE, MECAENAS, LUPUS, HISTRIO, and Lictors.
Cris. Do you hear, captain? I’ll write nothing in it but innocence, because I may swear I am innocent.
Hor. Nay, why pursue you not the emperor for your reward now,
Lupus?
Mec.
Stay, Asinius;
You and your stager, and your band of lictors:
I hope your service merits more respect,
Than thus, without a thanks, to be sent hence.
His. Well, well, jest on, jest on.
Hor. Thou base, unworthy groom!
Lup. Ay, ay, ’tis good.
Hor.
Was this the treason, this the dangerous plot,
Thy clamorous tongue so bellow’d through the court?
Hadst thou no other project to encrease
Thy grace with Caesar, but this wolfish train,
To prey upon the life of innocent mirth
And harmless pleasures, bred of noble wit? Away!
I loath thy presence; such as thou,
They are the moths and scarabs of a state,
The bane of empires, and the dregs of courts;
Who, to endear themselves to an employment,
Care not whose fame they blast, whose life they endanger;
And, under a disguised and cobweb mask
Of love unto their sovereign, vomit forth
Their own prodigious malice; and pretending
To be the props and columns of their safety,
The guards unto his person and his peace.
Disturb it most, with their false, lapwing-cries.
Lup. Good! Caesar shall know of this, believe it!
Mec.
Caesar doth know it, wolf, and to his knowledge,
He will, I hope, reward your base endeavours.
Princes that will but hear, or give access
To such officious spies, can ne’er be safe:
They take in poison with an open ear,
And, free from danger, become slaves to fear.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.-An open Space before the Palace.
Enter OVID.
Banish’d the court! Let me be banish’d life,
Since the chief end of life is there concluded:
Within the court is all the kingdom bounded,
And as her sacred sphere doth comprehend
Ten thousand times so much, as so much place
In any part of all the empire else;
So every body, moving in her sphere,
Contains ten thousand times as much in him,
As any other her choice orb excludes.
As in a circle, a magician then
Is safe against the spirit he excites;
But, out of it, is subject to his rage,
And loseth all the virtue of his art:
So I, exiled the circle of the court,
Lose all the good gifts that in it I ‘joy’d.
No virtue current is, but with her stamp,
And no vice vicious, blanch’d with her white hand.
The court’s the abstract of all Rome’s desert,
And my dear Julia the abstract of the court.
Methinks, now I come near her, I respire
Some air of that late comfort I received;
And while the evening, with her modest veil,
Gives leave to such poor shadows as myself
To steal abroad, I, like a heartless ghost,
Without the living body of my love,
Will here walk and attend her: for I know
Not far from hence she is imprisoned,
And hopes, of her strict guardian, to bribe
So much admittance, as to speak to me,
And cheer my fainting spirits with her breath.
Julia. [appears above at her chamber window.] Ovid? my love?
Ovid. Here, heavenly Julia.
Jul.
Here! and not here! O, how that word doth play
With both our fortunes, differing, like ourselves,
Both one; and yet divided, as opposed!
I high, thou low: O, this our plight of place
Doubly presents the two lets of our love,
Local and ceremonial height, and lowness:
Both ways, I am too high, and thou too low,
Our minds are even yet; O, why should our bodies,
That are their slaves, be so without their rule?
I’ll cast myself down to thee; if I die,
I’ll ever live with thee: no height of birth,
Of place, of duty, or of cruel power,
Shall keep me from thee; should my father lock
This body up within a tomb of brass,
Yet I’ll be with thee. If the forms I hold
Now in my soul, be made one substance with it;
That soul immortal, and the same ’tis now;
Death cannot raze the affects she now retaineth:
And then, may she be any where she will.
The souls of parents rule not children’s souls,
When death sets both in their dissolv’d estates;
Then is no child nor father; then eternity
Frees all from any temporal respect.
I come, my Ovid; take me in thine arms,
And let me breathe my soul into thy breast.
Ovid.
O stay, my love; the hopes thou dost conceive
Of thy quick death, and of thy future life,
Are not authentical. Thou choosest death,
So thou might’st ‘joy thy love in the other life:
But know, my princely love, when thou art dead,
Thou only must survive in perfect soul;
And in the soul are no affections.
We pour out our affections with our blood,
And, with our blood’s affections, fade our loves.
No life hath love in such sweet state as this;
No essence is so dear to moody sense
As flesh and blood, whose quintessence is sense.
Beauty, composed of blood and flesh, moves more,
And is more plausible to blood and flesh,
Than spiritual beauty can be to the spirit.
Such apprehension as we have in dreams,
When, sleep, the bond of senses, locks them up,
Such shall we have, when death destroys them quite.
If love be then thy object, change not life;
Live high and happy still: I still below,
Close with my fortunes, in thy height shall joy.
Jul.
Ay me, that virtue, whose brave eagle’s wings,
With every stroke blow stairs in burning heaven,
Should, like a swallow, preying towards storms,
Fly close to earth, and with an eager plume,
Pursue those objects which none else can see,
But seem to all the world the empty air!
Thus thou, poor Ovid, and all virtuous men,
Must prey, like swallows, on invisible food,
Pursuing flies, or nothing: and thus love.
And every worldly fancy, is transposed
By worldly tyranny to what plight it list.
O father, since thou gav’st me not my mind,
Strive not to rule it; take but what thou gav’st
To thy disposure: thy affections
Rule not in me; I must bear all my griefs,
Let me use all my pleasures; virtuous love
Was never scandal to a goddess’ state.—
But he’s inflexible! and, my dear love,
Thy life may chance be shorten’d by the length
Of my unwilling speeches to depart.
Farewell, sweet life; though thou be yet exiled
The officious court, enjoy me amply still:
My soul, in this my breath, enters thine ears,
And on this turret’s floor Will I lie dead,
Till we may meet again: In this proud height,
I kneel beneath thee in my prostrate love,
And kiss the happy sands that kiss thy feet.
Great Jove submits a sceptre to a cell,
And lovers, ere they part, will meet in hell.
Ovid.
Farewell all company, and, if l could,
All light with thee! hell’s shade should hide my brows,
Till thy dear beauty’s beams redeem’d my vows.
[Going
Jul.
Ovid, my love; alas! may we not stay.
A little longer, think’st thou, undiscern’d?
Ovid.
For thine own good, fair goddess, do not stay.
Who would engage a firmament of fires
Shining in thee, for me, a falling star?
Be gone, sweet life-blood; if I should discern
Thyself but touch’d for my sake, I should die.
Jul.
I will begone, then; and not heaven itself
Shall draw me back. [Going.
Ovid.
Yet, Julia, if thou Wilt, A little longer stay.
Jul.
I am content.
Ovid.
O, mighty Ovid! what the sway of heaven
Could not retire, my breath hath turned back.
Jul.
Who shall go first, my love? my passionate eyes
Will not endure to see thee turn from me.
Ovid.
If thou go first, my soul
Will follow thee.
Jul.
Then we must stay.
Ovid.
Ay me, there is no stay
In amorous pleasures; if both stay, both die.
I hear thy father; hence, my deity.
[Julia retires from the window.
Fear forgeth sounds in my deluded ears;
I did not hear him; I am mad with love.
There is no spirit under heaven, that works
With such illusion; yet such witchcraft kill me,
Ere a sound mind, without it, save my life!
Here, on my knees, I worship the blest place
That held my goddess; and the loving air,
That closed her body in his silken arms.
Vain Ovid! kneel not to the place, nor air;
She’s in thy heart; rise then, and worship there.
The truest wisdom silly men can have,
Is dotage on the follies of their flesh. [Exit.
ACT V SCENE I.-An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter CAESAR, MECAENAS, GALLUS, TIBULLUS, HORACE,
and Equites Romani.
Caes.
We, that have conquer’d still, to save the conquer’d,
And loved to make inflictions fear’d, not felt;
Grieved to reprove, and joyful to reward;
More proud of reconcilement than revenge;
Resume into the late state of our love,
Worthy Cornelius Gallus, and Tibullus:
You both are gentlemen: and, you, Cornelius,
A soldier of renown, and the first provost
That ever let our Roman eagles fly
On swarthy AEgypt, quarried with her spoils.
Yet (not to bear cold forms, nor men’s out-terms,
Without the inward fires, and lives of men)
You both have virtues shining through your shapes;
To shew, your titles are not writ on posts,
Or hollow statues which the best men are,
Without Promethean stuffings reach’d from heaven!
Sweet poesy’s sacred garlands crown your gentry:
Which is, of all the faculties on earth,
The most abstract and perfect; if she be
True-born, and nursed with all the sciences.
She can so mould Rome, and her monuments,
Within the liquid marble of her lines,
That they shall stand fresh and miraculous,
Even when they mix with innovating dust;
In her sweet streams shall our brave Roman spirits
Chase, and swim after death, with their choice deeds
Shining on their white shoulders; and therein
Shall Tyber, and our famous rivers fall
With such attraction, that the ambitious line
Of the round world shall to her centre shrink,
To hear their music: and, for these high parts,
Caesar shall reverence the Pierian arts.
Mec.
Your majesty’s high grace to poesy,
Shall stand ’gainst all the dull detractions
Of leaden souls; who, for the vain assumings
Of some, quite worthless of her sovereign wreaths,
Contain her worthiest prophets in contempt.
Gal. Happy is Rome of all earth’s other states,
To have so true and great a president,
For her inferior spirits to imitate,
As Caesar is; who addeth to the sun
Influence and lustre; in increasing thus
His inspirations, kindling fire in us.
Hor.
Phoebus himself shall kneel at Caesar’s shrine,
And deck it with bay garlands dew’d with wine,
To quit the worship Caesar does to him:
Where other princes, hoisted to their thrones
By Fortune’s passionate and disorder’d power,
Sit in their height, like clouds before the sun,
Hindering his comforts; and, by their excess
Of cold in virtue, and cross heat in vice,
Thunder and tempest on those learned heads,
Whom Caesar with such honour doth advance.
Tib.
All human business fortune doth command
Without all order; and with her blind hand,
She, blind, bestows blind gifts, that still have nurst,
They see not who, nor how, but still, the worst.
Caes.
Caesar, for his rule, and for so much stuff
As Fortune puts in his hand, shall dispose it,
As if his hand had eyes and soul in it,
With worth and judgment. Hands, that part with gifts
Or will restrain their use, without desert,
Or with a misery numb’d to virtue’s right,
Work, as they had no soul to govern them,
And quite reject her; severing their estates
From human order. Whosoever can,
And will not cherish virtue, is no man.
[Enter some of the Equestrian Order.
Eques. Virgil is now at hand, imperial Caesar.
Caes.
Rome’s honour is at hand then. Fetch a chair,
And set it on our right hand, where ’tis fit
Rome’s honour and our own should ever sit.
Now he is come out of Campania,
I doubt not he hath finish’d all his AEneids.
Which, like another soul, I long to enjoy.
What think you three of Virgil, gentlemen,
That are of his profession, though rank’d higher;
Or, Horace, what say’st thou, that art the poorest,
And likeliest to envy, or to detract
Hor.
Caesar speaks after common men in this,
To make a difference of me for my poorness;
As if the filth of poverty sunk as deep
Into a knowing spirit, as the bane
Of riches doth into an ignorant soul.
No, Caesar, they be pathless, moorish minds
That being once made rotten with the dung
Of damned riches, ever after sink
Beneath the steps of any villainy.
But knowledge is the nectar that keeps sweet
A perfect soul, even in this grave of sin;
And for my soul, it is as free as Caesar’s,
For what 1 know is due I’ll give to all.
He that detracts or envies virtuous merit,
Is still the covetous and the ignorant spirit.
Caes.
Thanks, Horace, for thy free and wholesome sharpness,
Which pleaseth Caesar more than servile fawns.
A flatter’d prince soon turns the prince of fools.
And for thy sake, we’ll put no difference more
Between the great and good for being poor.
Say then, loved Horace, thy true thought of Virgil.
Hor.
I judge him of a rectified spirit,
By many revolutions of discourse,
(In his bright reason’s influence,) refined
From all the tartarous moods of common men;
Bearing the nature and similitude
Of a right heavenly body; most severe
In fashion and collection of himself;
And, then, as clear and confident as Jove.
Gal.
And yet so chaste and tender is his ear,
In suffering any syllable to pass,
That he thinks may become the honour’d name
Of issue to his so examined self,
That all the lasting fruits of his full merit,
In his own poems, he doth still distaste;
And if his mind’s piece, which he strove to paint,
Could not with fleshly pencils have her right.
Tib.
But to approve his works of sovereign worth,
This observation, methinks, more than serves,
And is not vulgar. That which he hath writ
Is with such judgment labour’d, and distill’d
Through all the needful uses of our lives,
That could a man remember but his lines,
He should not touch at any serious point,
But he might breathe his spirit out of him.
Caes.
You mean, he might repeat part of his works,
As fit for any conference he can use?
Tib. True, royal Caesar.
Caes.
Worthily observed;
And a most worthy virtue in his works.
What thinks material Horace of his learning?
Hor.
His learning savours not the school-like gloss,
That most consists in echoing words and terms,
And soonest wins a man an empty name;
Nor any long or far-fetch’d circumstance
Wrapp’d in the curious generalities of arts;
But a direct and analytic sum
Of all the worth and first effects of arts.
And for his poesy, ’tis so ramm’d with life,
That it shall gather strength of life, with being,
And live hereafter more admired than now.
Caes.
This one consent in all your dooms of him,
And mutual loves of all your several merits,
Argues a truth of merit in you all.—-
[Enter VIRGIL.
See, here comes Virgil; we will rise and greet him.
Welcome to Caesar, Virgil! Caesar and Virgil
Shall differ but in sound; to Caesar, Virgil,
Of his expressed greatness, shall be made
A second sirname, and to Virgil, Caesar.
Where are thy famous AEneids? do us grace
To let us see, and surfeit on their sight.
Virg.
Worthless they are of Caesar’s gracious eyes,
If they were perfect; much more with their wants,
Which are yet more than my time could supply.
And, could great Caesar’s expectation
Be satisfied with any other service,
I would not shew them.
Caes.
Virgil is too modest;
Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more:
Shew them, sweet Virgil.
Virg.
Then, in such due fear
As fits presenters of great works to Caesar,
I humbly shew them.
Caes.
Let us now behold
A human soul made visible in life;
And more refulgent in a senseless paper
Than in the sensual complement of kings.
Read, read thyself, dear Virgil; let not me
Profane one accent with an untuned tongue:
Best matter, badly shewn, shews worse than bad.
See then this chair, of purpose set for thee
To read thy poem in; refuse it not.
Virtue, without presumption, place may take
Above best kings, whom only she should make.
Virg.
It will be thought a thing ridiculous
To present eyes, and to all future times
A gross untruth, that any poet, void
Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity,
Should, with decorum, transcend Caesar’s chair.
Poor virtue raised, high birth and wealth set under,
Crosseth heaven’s courses, and makes worldlings wonder.
Caes.
The course of heaven, and fate itself, in this,
Will Ceasar cross; much more all worldly custom.
Hor.
Custom, in course of honour, ever errs;
And they are best whom fortune least prefers.
Caes.
Horace hath but more strictly spoke our thoughts.
The vast rude swing of general confluence
Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense:
And therefore reason (which in right should be
The special rector of all harmony)
Shall shew we are a man distinct by it,
From those, whom custom rapteth in her press.
Ascend then, Virgil; and where first by chance
We here have turn’d thy book, do thou first read.
Virg.
Great Caesar hath his will; I will ascend.
’Twere simple injury to his free hand,
That sweeps the cobwebs from unused virtue,
And makes her shine proportion’d to her worth,
To be more nice to entertain his grace,
Than he is choice, and liberal to afford it.
Caes.
Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors,
And let none enter;
[Exeunt Equites.]
peace. Begin, good Virgil.
Virg.
Meanwhile the skies ‘gan thunder, and in tail
Of that, fell pouring storms of sleet and hail:
The Tyrian lords and Trojan youth, each where
With Venus’ Dardane nephew, now, in fear,
Seek out for several shelter through the plain,
Whilst floods come rolling from the hills amain.
Dido a cave, the Trojan prince the same
Lighted upon. There earth and heaven’s great dame,
That hath the charge of marriage, first gave sign
Unto his contract; fire and air did shine,
As guilty of the match; and from the hill
The nymphs with shriekings do the region fill.
Here first began their bane; this day was ground
Of all their ills; for now, nor rumour’s sound,
Nor nice respect of state, moves Dido ought;
Her love no longer now by stealth is sought:
She calls this wedlock, and with that fair name
Covers her fault. Forthwith the bruit and fame,
Through all the greatest Lybian towns is gone;
Fame, a fleet evil, than which is swifter none,
That moving grows, and flying gathers strength,
Little at first, and fearful; but at length
She dares attempt the skies, and stalking proud
With feet on ground, her head doth pierce a cloud!
This child, our parent earth, stirr’d up with spite
Of all the gods, brought forth; and, as some write,
She was last sister of that giant race
That thought to scale Jove’ s court; right swift of pace,
And swifter far of wing; a monster vast,
And dreadful. Look, how many plumes are placed
On her huge corps, so many waking eyes
Stick underneath; and, which may stranger rise
In the report, as many tongues she bears,
As many mouths, as many listening ears.
Nightly, in midst of all the heaven, she flies,
And through the earth’s dark shadow shrieking cries,
Nor do her eyes once bend to taste sweet sleep;
By day on tops of houses she doth keep,
Or on high towers; and doth thence affright
Cities and towns of most conspicuous site:
As covetous she is of tales and lies,
As prodigal of truth: this monster—
Lup. [within.] Come, follow me, assist me, second me! Where’! the emperor?
1 Eques. [within.] Sir, you must pardon us.
2 Eques. [within.] Caesar is private now; you may not enter.
Tuc. [within.] Not enter! Charge them upon their allegiance, cropshin.
1 Eques. [within.] We have a charge to the contrary, sir.
Lup. [within.] I pronounce you all traitors, horrible traitors: What! do you know my affairs? I have matter of danger and state to impart to Caesar.
Caes. What noise is there? who’s that names Caesar?
Lup. [within.] A friend to Caesar. One that, for Caesar’s good, would speak with Caesar.
Caes. Who is it? look, Cornelius.
1 Eques. [within.] Asinius Lupus.
Caes.
O, bid the turbulent informer hence;
We have no vacant ear now, to receive
The unseason’d fruits of his officious tongue.
Mec. You must avoid him there.
Lup. [within.] I conjure thee, as thou art. Caesar, or respectest thine own safety, or the safety of the state, Caesar, hear me, speak with me, Caesar; ’tis no common business I come about, but such, as being neglected, may concern the life of Caesar.
Caes. The life of Caesar! Let him enter. Virgil, keep thy seat.
Enter Lupus, Tucca, and Lictors.
Eques. [within.] Bear back, there: whither will you? keep back!
Tuc. By thy leave, goodman usher: mend thy peruke; so.
Lup. Lay hold on Horace there; and on Mecaenas, lictors. Romans, offer no rescue, upon your allegiance: read, royal Caesar. [Gives a paper.] I’ll tickle you, Satyr.
Tuc. He will, Humours, he will; he will squeeze you, poet puck-fist.
Lup. I’ll lop you off for an unprofitable branch, you satirical varlet.
Tuc. Ay, and Epaminondas your patron here, with his flagon chain; come, resign: [takes off Mecaenas’ chain,] though ’twere your great grandfather’s, the law has made it mine now, sir. Look to him, my party-coloured rascals; look to him.
Caes. What is this, Asinius Lupus? I understand it not.
Lup. Not understand it! A libel, Caesar; a dangerous, seditious libel; a libel in picture.
Caes. A libel!
Lup. Ay, I found it in this Horace his study, in Mecaenas his house, here; I challenge the penalty of the laws against them.
Tuc. Ay, and remember to beg their land betimes; before some of these hungry court-hounds scent it out.
Caes. Shew it to Horace: ask him if he know it.
Lup. Know it! his hand is at it, Caesar.
Caes. Then ’tis no libel.
Hor. It is the imperfect body of an emblem, Caesar, I began for Mecaenas.
Lup. An emblem! right: that’s Greek for a libel. Do but mark how confident he is.
Hor.
A just man cannot fear, thou foolish tribune;
Not, though the malice of traducing tongues,
The open vastness of a tyrant’s ear,
The senseless rigour of the wrested laws,
Or the red eyes of strain’d authority,
Should, in a point, meet all to take his life:
His innocence is armour ’gainst all these.
Lup. Innocence! O impudence! let me see, let me see! Is not here an eagle! and is not that eagle meant by Caesar, ha? Does not Caesar give the eagle? answer me; what sayest thou?
Tuc. Hast thou any evasion, stinkard?
Lup. Now he’s turn’d dumb. I’ll tickle you, Satyr.
Hor. Pish: ha, ha!
Lup. Dost thou pish me? Give me my long sword.
Hor.
With reverence to great Caesar, worthy Romans,
Observe but this ridiculous commenter;
The soul ‘to my device was in this distich:
Thus oft, the base and ravenous multitude
Survive, to share the spoils of fortitude.
Which in this body I have figured here,
A vulture—
Lup. A vulture! Ay, now, ’tis a vulture. O abominable! monstrous! monstrous! has not your vulture a beak? has it not legs, and talons, and wings, and feathers?
Tuc. Touch him, old buskins.
Hor. And therefore must it be an eagle?
Mec. Respect him not, good Horace: say your device.
Hor. A vulture and a wolf
Lup. A wolf! good: that’s I; I am the wolf: my name’s Lupus; I am meant by the wolf. On, on; a vulture and a wolf
Hor. Preying upon the carcass of an ass—
Lup. An ass! good still: that’s I too; I am the ass. You mean me by the ass.
Mec. Prithee, leave braying then.
Hor. If you will needs take it, I cannot with modesty give it from you.
Mec.
But, by that beast, the old Egyptians
Were wont to figure, in their hieroglyphics,
Patience, frugality, and fortitude;
For none of which we can suspect you, tribune.
Caes. Who was it, Lupus, that inform’d you first, This should be meant by us? Or was’t your comment?
Lup. No, Caesar; a player gave me the first light of it indeed.
Tuc. Ay, an honest sycophant-like slave, and a politician besides
Caes. Where is that player?
Tuc. He is without here.
Caes. Call him in.
Tuc. Call in the player there: master AEsop, call him.
Equites. [within.] Player! where is the player? bear back: none but the player enter. [Enter AESOP, followed by CRISPINUS and DEMETRIUS. Tuc. Yes, this gentleman and his Achates must.
Cris. Pray you, master usher:—we’ll stand close, here.
Tuc. ’Tis a gentleman of quality, this; though he be somewhat out of clothes, I tell ye.—Come, AEsop, hast a bay-leaf in thy mouth? Well said; be not out, stinkard. Thou shalt have a monopoly of playing confirm’d to thee, and thy covey, under the emperor’s broad seal, for this service.
Caes. Is this he?
Lup. Ay, Caesar, this is he.
Caes.
Let him be whipped. Lictors, go take him hence.
And, Lupus, for your fierce credulity,
One fit him with a pair of larger ears:
’Tis Caesar’s doom, and must not be revoked.
We hate to have our court and peace disturb’d
With these quotidian clamours. See it done.
Lup. Caesar! [Exeunt some of the Lictors, with Lupus and AEsop
Caes. Gag him, [that] we may have his silence.
Virg.
Caesar hath done like Caesar. Fair and just
Is his award, against these brainless creatures.
’Tis not the wholesome sharp morality,
Or modest anger of a satiric spirit,
That hurts or wounds the body of the state;
But the sinister application
Of the malicious, ignorant, and base
Interpreter; who will distort, and strain
The general scope and purpose of an author
To his particular and private spleen.
Caes. We know it, our dear Virgil, and esteem it A most dishonest practice in that man, Will seem too witty in another’s work. What would Cornelius Gallus, and Tibullus? [They whisper Caesar. Tuc. [to Mecaenas.] Nay, but as thou art a man, dost hear! a man of worship and honourable: hold, here, take thy chain again. Resume, mad Mecoenas. What! dost thou think I meant to have kept it, old boy? no: I did it but to fright thee, I, to try how thou would’st take it. What! will I turn shark upon my friends, or my friends’ friends? I scorn it with my three souls. Come, I love bully Horace as well as thou dost, I: ’tis an honest hieroglyphic. Give me thy wrist, Helicon. Dost thou think I’ll second e’er a rhinoceros of them all, against thee, ha? or thy noble Hippocrene, here? I’ll turn stager first, and be whipt too: dost thou see, bully?
Caes.
You have your will of Caesar: use it, Romans.
Virgil shall be your praetor: and ourself
Will here sit by, spectator of your sports;
And think it no impeach of royalty.
Our ear is now too much profaned, grave Maro,
With these distastes, to take thy sacred lines;
Put up thy book, till both the time and we
Be fitted with more hallow’d circumstance
For the receiving of so divine a work.
Proceed with your design.
Mec. Gal. Tib. Thanks to great Caesar.
Gal. Tibullus, draw you the indictment then, whilst Horace arrests them on the statute of Calumny. Mecaenas and I will take our places here. Lictors, assist him.
Hor. I am the worst accuser under heaven.
Gal. Tut, you must do it; ’twill be noble mirth.
Hor. I take no knowledge that they do malign me.
Tib. Ay, but the world takes knowledge.
Hor.
Would the world knew
How heartily I wish a fool should hate me!
Tuc. Body of Jupiter! what! will they arraign my brisk Poetaster and his poor journeyman, ha? Would I were abroad skeldering for, a drachm, so I were out of this labyrinth again! I do feel myself turn stinkard already: but I must set the best face I have upon’t now. [Aside.]—Well said, my divine, deft Horace, bring the whoreson detracting slaves to the bar, do; make them hold up their spread golls: I’ll give in evidence for thee, if thou wilt. Take courage, Crlspinus; would thy man had a clean band!
Cris. What must we do, captain?
Tuc. Thou shalt see anon: do not make division with thy legs so.
Caes. What’s he. Horace?
Hor. I only know him for a motion, Caesar.
Tuc. I am one of thy commanders, Caesar; a man of service and action: my name is Pantilius Tucca; I have served in thy wars against Mark Antony, I.
Caes. Do you know him, Cornelius?
Gal. He’s one that hath had the mustering, or convoy of a company now and then: I never noted him by any other employment.
Caes. We will observe him better.
Tib. Lictor, proclaim silence in the court.
Lict. In the name of Caesar, silence!
Tib. Let the parties, the accuser and the accused, present themselves.
Lict. The accuser and the accused, present yourselves in court.
Cris. Dem. Here.
Virg. Read the indictment.
Tib. Rufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius, hold up your hands. You are, before this time, jointly and severally indicted, and here presently to be arraigned upon the statute of calumny, or Lex Remmia, the one by the name of Rufus Laberius Crispinus, alias Cri-spinus, poetaster and plagiary, the other by the name of Demetrius Fannius, play-dresser and plagiary. That you (not having the fear of Phoebus, or his shafts, before your eyes) contrary to the peace of our liege lord, Augustus Caesar, his crown and dignity, and against the form of a statute, in that case made and provided, have moat ignorantly, foolishly, and, more like yourselves, maliciously, gone about to deprave, and calumniate the person and writings of Quintus Horatius Flaccus, here present, poet, and priest to the Muses, and to that end have mutually conspired and plotted, at sundry times, as by several means, and in sundry places, for the better accomplishing your base and envious purpose, taxing him falsely, of self-love, arrogancy, impudence, railing, filching by translation, etc. Of all which calumnies, and every of them, in manner and form aforesaid, what answer you! Are you guilty, or not guilty?
Tuc. Not guilty, say.
Cris. Dem. Not guilty.
Tib. How will you be tried?
[Aside to Crispinus.
Tuc. By the Roman Gods, and the noblest Romans.
Cris. Dem. By the Roman gods, and the noblest Romans.
Virg. Here sits Mecaenas, and Cornelius Gallus, are you contented to be tried by these? [Aside. Tuc. Ay, so the noble captain may be joined with them in commission, say.
Cris. Dem. Ay, so the noble captain may be joined
with them in commission.
Virg. What says the plaintiff?
Hor. I am content.
Virg. Captain, then take your place.
Tuc. alas, my worshipful praetor! ’tis more of thy gentleness than of my deserving, I wusse. But since it hath pleased the court to make choice of my wisdom and gravity, come, my calumnious varlets; let’s hear you talk for yourselves, now, an hour or two. What can you say? Make a noise. Act, act!
Virg.
Stay, turn, and take an oath first. You shall swear,
By thunder-darting Jove, the king of gods,
And by the genius of Augustus Caesar;
By your own white and uncorrupted souls,
And the deep reverence of our Roman justice;
To judge this case, with truth and equity:
As bound by your religion, and your laws.
Now read the evidence: but first demand
Of either prisoner, if that writ be theirs.
[Gives him two papers.
Tib. Shew this unto Crispinus. Is it yours?
Tuc. Say, ay. [Aside.]—What! dost thou stand upon it, pimp! Do not deny thine own Minerva, thy Pallas, the issue of thy brain.
Oris. Yes it is mine.
Tib. Shew that unto Demetrius. Is it yours?
Dem. It is.
Tuc. There’s a father will not deny his own bastard now, I warrant thee.
Virg. Read them aloud.
Tib.
Ramp up my genius, be not retrograde;
But boldly nominate a spade a spade
What, shall thy lubrical and glibbery muse
Live, as she were defunct, like punk in stews!
Tuc. Excellent!
Alas! that were no modern consequence,
To have cothurnal buskins frighted hence.
No, teach thy Incubus to poetise;
And throw abroad thy spurious snotteries,
Upon that puft-up lump of balmy froth.
Tuc. Ah, Ah!
Or clumsy chilblain’d judgment; that with oath
Magnificates his merit; and beapawls
The conscious time, with humorous foam and brawls,
As if his organons of sense would crack
The sinews of my patience. Break his back,
O poets all and some! for now we list
Of strenuous vengeance to clutch the fist.
CRISPINUS.
Tuc. Ay, marry, this was written like a Hercules in poetry, now.
Caes. Excellently well threaten’d!
Virg. And as strangely worded, Caesar.
Caes. We observe it.
Virg. The other now.
Tuc. This is a fellow of a good prodigal tongue too, this will do well.
Tib.
Our Muse is in mind for th’ untrussing a poet,
I slip by his name, for most men do know it:
A critic, that all the world bescumbers
With satirical humours and lyrical numbers:
Tuc. Art thou there, boy?
And for the most part, himself doth advance
With much self-love, and more arrogance.
Tuc. Good again!
And, but that I would not be thought a prater,
I could tell you he were a translator.
I know the authors from whence he has stole,
And could trace him too, but that
I understand them not full and whole.
Tuc. That line is broke loose from all his fellows: chain him up shorter, do.
The best note I can give you to know him by,
Is, that he keeps gallants’ company;
Whom I could wish, in time should him fear,
Lest after they buy repentance too dear.
DEME. FANNIUS.
Tuc. Well said! This carries palm with it.
Hor.
And why, thou motley gull, why should they fear!
When hast thou known us wrong or tax a friend?
I dare thy malice to betray it. Speak.
Now thou curl’st up, thou poor and nasty snake,
And shrink’st thy poisonous head into thy bosom:
Out, viper! thou that eat’st thy parents, hence!
Rather, such speckled creatures, as thyself,
Should be eschew’d, and shunn’d; such as will bite
And gnaw their absent friends, not cure their fame;
Catch at the loosest laughters, and affect
To be thought jesters; such as can devise
Things never seen, or head, t’impair men’s names,
And gratify their credulous adversaries;
Will carry tales, do basest offices,
Cherish divided fires, and still encrease
New flames, out of old embers; will reveal
Each secret that’s committed to their trust:
These be black slaves; Romans, take heed of these.
Tuc. Thou twang’st right, little Horace: they be indeed a couple of chap-fall’n curs. Come, we of the bench, let’s rise to the urn, and condemn them quickly.
Virg.
Before you go together, worthy Romans,
We are to tender our opinion;
And give you those instructions, that may add
Unto your even judgment in the cause:
Which thus we do commence. First, you must know,
That where there is a true and perfect merit,
There can be no dejection; and the scorn
Of humble baseness, oftentimes so works
In a high soul, upon the grosser spirit,
That to his bleared and offended sense,
There seems a hideous fault blazed in the object;
When only the disease is in his eyes.
Here-hence it comes our Horace now stands tax’d
Of impudence, self-love, and arrogance,
By those who share no merit in themselves;
And therefore think his portion is as small.
For they, from their own guilt, assure their souls,
If they should confidently praise their works,
In them it would appear inflation:
Which, in a full and well digested man,
Cannot receive that foul abusive name,
But the fair title of erection.
And, for his true use of translating men,
It still hath been a work of as much palm,
In clearest judgments, as to invent or make,
His sharpness,—-that is most excusable;
As being forced out of a suffering virtue,
Oppressed with the license of the time:—-
And howsoever fools or jerking pedants,
Players, or suchlike buffoon barking wits,
May with their beggarly and barren trash
Tickle base vulgar ears, in their despite;
This, like Jove’s thunder, shall their pride control,
“The honest satire hath the happiest soul.”
Now, Romans, you have heard our thoughts;
withdraw when you please.
Tib. Remove the accused from the bar.
Tuc. Who holds the urn to us, ha? Fear nothing, I’ll quit you, mine honest pitiful stinkards; I’ll do’t.
Cris. Captain, you shall eternally girt me to you, as I am generous.
Tuc. Go to.
Caes. Tibullus, let there be a case of vizards privately provided; we have found a subject to bestow them on.
Tib. It shall be done, Caesar.
Caes. Here be words, Horace, able to bastinado a man’s ears.
Hor. Ay.
Please it, great Caesar, I have pills about me,
Mixt with the whitest kind of hellebore,
Would give him a light vomit, that should purge
His brain and stomach of those tumorous heats:
Might I have leave to minister unto him.
Caes.
O, be his AEsculapius, gentle Horace!
You shall have leave, and he shall be your patient. Virgil,
Use your authority, command him forth.
Virg.
Caesar is careful of your health, Crispinus;
And hath himself chose a physician
To minister unto you: take his pills.
Hor.
They are somewhat bitter, sir, but very wholesome.
Take yet another; so: stand by, they’ll work anon.
Tib. Romans, return to your several seats: lictors, bring forward the urn; and set the accused to the bar.
Tuc. Quickly, you whoreson egregious varlets; come forward. What! shall we sit all day upon you? You make no more haste now, than a beggar upon pattens; or a physician to a patient that has no money, you pilchers.
Tib. Rufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius, hold up your hands. You have, according to the Roman custom, put yourselves upon trial to the urn, for divers and sundry calumnies, whereof you have, before this time, been indicted, and are now presently arraigned: prepare yourselves to hearken to the verdict of your tryers. Caius Cilnius Mecaenas pronounceth you, by this hand-writing, guilty. Cornelius Gallus, guilty. Pantilius Tucca—
Tuc. Parcel-guilty, I.
Dem.
He means himself; for it was he indeed
Suborn’d us to the calumny.
Tuc. I, you whoreson cantharides! was it I?
Dem. I appeal to your conscience, captain.
Tib. Then you confess it now?
Dem. I do, and crave the mercy of the court.
Tib. What saith Crispinus?
Cris. O, the captain, the captain—-
Bor. My physic begins to work with my patient, I see.
Virg. Captain, stand forth and answer.
Tuc. Hold thy peace, poet praetor: I appeal from thee to Caesar, I. Do me right, royal Caesar.
Caes.
Marry, and I will, sir.—-Lictors, gag him; do.
And put a case of vizards o’er his head,
That he may look bifronted, as he speaks.
Tuc. Gods and fiends! Caesar! thou wilt not, Caesar, wilt thou? Away, you whoreson vultures; away. You think I am a dead corps now, because Caesar is disposed to jest with a man of mark, or so. Hold your hook’d talons out of my flesh, you inhuman harpies. Go to, do’t. What! will the royal Augustus cast away a gentleman of worship, a captain and a commander, for a couple of condemn’d caitiff calumnious cargos?
Caes. Dispatch, lictors.
Tuc. Caesar! [The vizards are put upon him.
Caes. Forward, Tibullus.
Virg. Demand what cause they had to malign Horace.
Dem. In troth, no great cause, not I, I must confess; but that he kept better company, for the most part, than I; and that better men loved him than loved me; and that his writings thrived better than mine, and were better liked and graced: nothing else.
Virg.
Thus envious souls repine at others’ good.
Hor.
If this be all, faith, I forgive thee freely.
Envy me still, so long as Virgil loves me,
Gallus, Tibullus, and the best-best Caesar,
My dear Mecaenas; while these, with many more,
Whose names I wisely slip, shall think me worthy
Their honour’d and adored society,
And read and love, prove and applaud my poems;
I would not wish but such as you should spite them.
Cris. O—!
Tib. How now, Crispinus? C
Cris. O, I am sick—!
Hor. A bason, a bason, quickly; our physic works. Faint not, man.
Cris. O———retrograde———reciprocal———incubus.
Caes. What’s that, Horace?
Hor. Retrograde, reciprocal, and incubus, are come up.
Gal. Thanks be to Jupiter!
Cris. O———glibbery———lubrical———defunct———O———!
Hor. Well said; here’s some store.
Virg. What are they?
Hor. Glibbery, lubrical, and defunct.
Gal. O, they came up easy.
Cris. O———O———!
Tib. What’s that?
Hor. Nothing yet.
Cris. Magnificate———
Mec. Magnificate! That came up somewhat hard.
Hor. Ay. What cheer, Crispinus?
Cris. O! I shall cast up my———spurious———snotteries———
Hor. Good. Again.
Oris. Chilblain’d———O———O———clumsie———
Hor. That clumsie stuck terribly.
Mec. What’s all that, Horace?
Hor. Spurious, snotteries, chilblain’d, clumsie.
Tib. O Jupiter!
Gal. Who would have thought there should have been such a deal of filth in a poet?
Cris. O———balmy froth———
Caes. What’s that?
Cris.———Puffie———inflate———turgidious———-ventosity.
Hor. Balmy, froth, puffie, inflate, turgidous, and ventosity are come up.
Tib. O terrible windy words.
Gal. A sign of a windy brain.
Cris. O———oblatrant———furibund———fatuate———strenuous—-
Hor. Here’s a deal; oblatrant, furibund, fatuate, strenuous.
Caes. Now all’s come up, I trow. What a tumult he had in his belly?
Hor. No, there’s the often conscious damp behind still.
Cris. O———conscious———damp.
Hor. It is come up, thanks to Apollo and AEsculapius: another; you were best take a pill more.
Cris. O, no; O———O———O———O———O!
Hor. Force yourself then a little with your finger.
Cris. O———O———prorumped.
Tib. Prorumped I What a noise it made! as if his spirit would have prorumpt with it.
Cris. O———O———O!
Virg. Help him, it sticks strangely, whatever it is.
Cris. O———clutcht
Hor. Now it is come; clutcht.
Caes. Clutcht! it is well that’s come up; it had but a narrow passage.
Cris. O———!
Virg. Again! hold him, hold his head there.
Cris. Snarling gusts———quaking custard.
Hor. How now, Crispinus?
Cris. O———obstupefact.
Tib. Nay, that are all we, I assure you.
Hor. How do you feel yourself?
Cris. Pretty and well, I thank you.
Virg.
These pills can but restore him for a time,
Not cure him quite of such a malady,
Caught by so many surfeits, which have fill’d
His blood and brain thus full of crudities:
’Tis necessary therefore he observe
A strict and wholesome diet. Look you take
Each morning of old Cato’s principles
A good draught next your heart; that walk upon,
Till it be well digested: then come home,
And taste a piece of Terence, suck his phrase
Instead of liquorice; and, at any hand,
Shun Plautus and old Ennius: they are meats
Too harsh for a weak stomach.
Use to read (But not without a tutor) the best Greeks,
As Orpheus, Musaeus, Pindarus,
Hesiod, Callimachus, and Theocrite,
High Homer; but beware of Lycophron,
He is too dark and dangerous a dish.
You must not hunt for wild outlandish terms,
To stuff out a peculiar dialect;
But let your matter run before your words.
And if at any time you chance to meet
Some Gallo-Belgic phrase; you shall not straight.
Rack your poor verse to give it entertainment,
But let it pass; and do not think yourself
Much damnified, if you do leave it out,
When nor your understanding, nor the sense
Could well receive it. This fair abstinence,
In time, will render you more sound and clear:
And this have I prescribed to you, in place
Of a strict sentence; which till he perform,
Attire him in that robe. And henceforth learn
To bear yourself more humbly; not to swell,
Or breathe your insolent and idle spite
On him whose laughter can your worst affright.
Tib. Take him away.
Cris. Jupiter guard Caesar!
Virg.
And for a week or two see him lock’d up
In some dark place, removed from company;
He will talk idly else after his physic.
Now to you, sir. [to Demetrius.] The extremity of law
Awards you to be branded in the front,
For this your calumny: but since it pleaseth
Horace, the party wrong’d, t’ intreat of Caesar
A mitigation of that juster doom,
With Caesar’s tongue thus we pronounce your sentence.
Demetrius Fannius, thou shalt here put on
That coat and cap, and henceforth think thyself
No other than they make thee; vow to wear them
In every fair and generous assembly,
Till the best sort of minds shall take to knowledge
As well thy satisfaction, as thy wrongs.
Hor.
Only, grave praetor, here, in open court,
I crave the oath for good behaviour
May be administer’d unto them both.
Virg.
Horace, it shall: Tibullus, give it them.
Tib. Rufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius, lay your hands on your hearts. You shall here solemnly attest and swear, that never, after this instant, either at booksellers’ stalls, in taverns, two-penny rooms, tyring-houses, noblemen’s butteries, puisents chambers, (the best and farthest places where you are admitted to come,) you shall once offer or dare (thereby to endear yourself the more to any player, enghle, or guilty gull in your company) to malign, traduce, or detract the person or writings of Quintus Horatius Flaccus, or any other eminent men, transcending you in merit, whom your envy shall find cause to work upon, either for that, or for keeping himself in better acquaintance, or enjoying better friends, or if, transported by any sudden and desperate resolution, you do, that then you shall not under the batoon, or in the next presence, being an honourable assembly of his favourers, be brought as voluntary gentlemen to undertake the for-swearing of it. Neither shall you, at any time, ambitiously affecting the title of the Untrussers or Whippers of the age, suffer the itch of writing to over-run your performance in libel, upon pain of being taken up for lepers in wit, and, losing both your time and your papers, be irrecoverably forfeited to the hospital of fools. So help you our Roman gods and the Genius of great Caesar.
Virg. So! now dissolve the court.
Bor. Tib. Gal. Mec. And thanks to Caesar, That thus hath exercised his patience.
Caes.
We have, indeed, you worthiest friends of Caesar.
It is the bane and torment of our ears,
To hear the discords of those jangling rhymers,
That with their bad and scandalous practices
Bring all true arts and learning in contempt.
But let not your high thoughts descend so low
As these despised objects; let them fall,
With their flat grovelling souls: be you yourselves;
And as with our best favours you stand crown’d,
So let your mutual loves be still renown’d.
Envy will dwell where there is want of merit,
Though the deserving man should crack his spirit.
Blush, folly, blush; here’s none that fears
The wagging of an ass’s ears,
Although a wolfish case he wears.
Detraction is but baseness’ varlet;
And apes are apes, though clothed in scarlet. [Exeunt.
Rumpatur, quisquis rumpitur invidi!
“Here, reader, in place of the epilogue, was meant to thee an apology from the author, with his reasons for the publishing of this book: but, since he is no less restrained than thou deprived of it by authority, he prays thee to think charitably of what thou hast read. till thou mayest hear him speak what he hath written.”
HORACE AND TREBATIUS.
A DIALOGUE.
Sat. 1. Lib. 2.
Hor.
There are to whom I seem excessive sour,
And past a satire’s law t’ extend my power:
Others, that think whatever I have writ
Wants pith and matter to eternise it;
And that they could, in one day’s light, disclose
A thousand verses, such as I compose.
What shall I do, Trebatius? say.
Treb. Surcease.
Hor. And shall my muse admit no more increase?
Treb. So I advise.
Hor.
An ill death let me die,
If ’twere not best; but sleep avoids mine eye,
And I use these, lest nights should tedious seem.
Treb.
Rather, contend to sleep, and live like them,
That, holding golden sleep in special price,
Rubb’d with sweet oils, swim silver Tyber thrice,
And every even with neat wine steeped be:
Or, if such love of writing ravish thee,
Then dare to sing unconquer’d Caesar’s deeds;
Who cheers such actions with abundant meeds.
Hor.
That, father, I desire; but, when I try,
I feel defects in every faculty:
Nor is’t a labour fit for every pen,
To paint the horrid troops of armed men,
The lances burst, in Gallia’s slaughter’d forces;
Or wounded Parthians, tumbled from their horses:
Great Caesar’s wars cannot be fought with words.
Treb.
Yet, what his virtue in his peace affords,
His fortitude and justice thou canst shew
As wise Lucilius honour’d Scipio.
Hor.
Of that, my powers shall suffer no neglect,
When such slight labours may aspire respect:
But, if I watch not a most chosen time,
The humble words of Flaccus cannot climb
Th’ attentive ear of Caesar; nor must I
With less observance shun gross flattery:
For he, reposed safe in his own merit,
Spurns back the gloses of a fawning spirit.
Treb.
But how much better would such accents sound
Than with a sad and serious verse to wound
Pantolabus, railing in his saucy jests,
Or Nomentanus spent in riotous feasts?
In satires, each man, though untouch’d, complains
As he were hurt; and hates such biting strains.
Hor.
What shall I do? Milonius shakes his heels
In ceaseless dances, when his brain once feels
The stirring fervour of the wine ascend;
And that his eyes false numbers apprehend.
Castor his horse, Pollux loves handy-fights;
A thousand heads, a thousand choice delights.
My pleasure is in feet my words to close,
As, both our better, old Lucilius does:
He, as his trusty friends, his books did trust
With all his secrets; nor, in things unjust,
Or actions lawful, ran to other men:
So that the old man’s life described, was seen
As in a votive table in his lines:
And to his steps my genius inclines;
Lucanian, or Apulian, I know not whether,
For the Venusian colony ploughs either;
Sent thither, when the Sabines were forced thence,
As old Fame sings, to give the place defence
’Gainst such as, seeing it empty, might make road
Upon the empire; or there fix abode:
Whether the Apulian borderer it were,
Or the Lucanian violence they fear.—-
But this my style no living man shall touch,
If first I be not forced by base reproach;
But like a sheathed sword it shall defend
My innocent life; for why should I contend
To draw it out, when no malicious thief
Robs my good name, the treasure of my life?
O Jupiter, let it with rust be eaten,
Before it touch, or insolently threaten
The life of any with the least disease;
So much I love, and woo a general peace.
But, he that wrongs me, better, I proclaim,
He never had assay’d to touch my fame.
For he shall weep, and walk with every tongue
Throughout the city, infamously sung.
Servius the praetor threats the laws, and urn,
If any at his deeds repine or spurn;
The witch Canidia, that Albutius got,
Denounceth witchcraft, where she loveth not;
Thurius the judge, doth thunder worlds of ill,
To such as strive with his judicial will.
All men affright their foes in what they may,
Nature commands it, and men must obey.
Observe with me: The wolf his tooth doth use,
The bull his horn; and who doth this infuse,
But nature? There’s luxurious Scaeva; trust
His long-lived mother with him; his so just
And scrupulous right-hand no mischief will;
No more than with his heel a wolf will kill,
Or ox with jaw: marry, let him alone
With temper’d poison to remove the croan.
But briefly, if to age I destined be,
Or that quick death’s black wings environ me;
If rich, or poor; at Rome; or fate command
I shall be banished to some other land;
What hue soever my whole state shall bear,
I will write satires still, in spite of fear.
Treb.
Horace, I fear thou draw’st no lasting breath;
And that some great man’s friend will be thy death.
Hor.
What! when the man that first did satirise
Durst pull the skin over the ears of vice,
And make who stood in outward fashion clear,
Give place, as foul within; shall I forbear?
Did Laelius, or the man so great with fame,
That from sack’d Carthage fetch’d his worthy name,
Storm that Lucilius did Metellus pierce,
Or bury Lupus quick in famous verse?
Rulers and subjects, by whole tribes he checkt,
But virtue and her friends did still protect:
And when from sight, or from the judgment-seat,
The virtuous Scipio and wise Laelius met,
Unbraced, with him in all light sports they shared,
Till their most frugal suppers were prepared.
Whate’er I am, though both for wealth and wit
Beneath Lucilius I am pleased to sit;
Yet Envy, spite of her empoison’d breast,
Shall say, I lived in grace here with the best;
And seeking in weak trash to make her wound,
Shall find me solid, and her teeth unsound:
‘Less learn’d Trebatius’ censure disagree.
Treb.
No, Horace, I of force must yield to thee;
Only take heed, as being advised by me,
Lest thou incur some danger: better pause,
Than rue thy ignorance of the sacred laws;
There’s justice, and great action may be sued
’Gainst such as wrong men’s fames with verses lewd.
Hor.
Ay, with lewd verses, such as libels be,
And aim’d at persons of good quality:
I reverence and adore that just decree.
But if they shall be sharp, yet modest rhymes,
That spare men’s persons, and but tax their crimes,
Such shall in open court find current pass,
Were Caesar judge, and with the maker’s grace.
Treb.
Nay, I’ll add more; if thou thyself, being clear,
Shall tax in person a man fit to bear
Shame and reproach, his suit shall quickly be
Dissolved in laughter, and thou thence set free.
TO THE READER
If, by looking on what is past, thou hast deserved that name, I am willing thou should’st yet know more, by that which follows, an APOLOGETICAL DIALOGUE; which was only once spoken upon the stage and all the answer I ever gave to sundry impotent libels then cast out (and some yet remaining) against me, and this play. Wherein I take no pleasure to revive the times; but that posterity may make a difference between their manners that provoked me then, and mine that neglected them ever, For, in these strifes, and on such persons, were as wretched to affect a victory, as it is unhappy to be committed with them.
Non annorum canities est laudanda, sed morum.
SCENE, The Author’s Lodgings.
Enter NASUTUS and POLYPOSUS.
Nas. I pray You let’ s go see him, how he looks
After these libels.
Pol. O vex’d, vex’d, I warrant you.
Nas. Do you think so? I should be sorry for him,
If I found that.
Pol. O, they are such bitter things,
He cannot choose.
Nas. But, is he guilty of them?
Pol. Fuh! that’s no matter.
Nas. No!
Pol. No. Here’s his lodging.
We’ll steal upon him: or let’s listen; stay.
He has a humour oft to talk t’ himself.
Nas. They are your manners lead me, not mine own.
[They come forward; the scene opens, and discovers the
Author in his study.
Aut.
The fates have not spun him the coarsest thread,
That (free from knots of perturbation)
Doth yet so live, although but to himself,
As he can safely scorn the tongues of slaves,
And neglect fortune, more than she can him.
It is the happiest thing this, not to be
Within the reach of malice; it provides
A man so well, to laugh off injuries;
And never sends him farther for his vengeance,
Than the vex’d bosom of his enemy.
I, now, but think how poor their spite sets off,
Who, after all their waste of sulphurous terms,
And burst-out thunder of their charged mouths,
Have nothing left but the unsavoury smoke
Of their black vomit, to upbraid themselves:
Whilst I, at whom they shot, sit here shot-free,
And as unhurt of envy, as unhit.
[Pol. and Nas. discover themselves.
Pol.
Ay, but the multitude they think not so, sir,
They think you hit, and hurt: and dare give out,
Your silence argues it in not rejoining
To this or that late libel.
Aut.
‘Las, good rout!
I can afford them leave to err so still;
And like the barking students of Bears-college,
To swallow up the garbage of the time
With greedy gullets, whilst myself sit by,
Pleased, and yet tortured, with their beastly feeding.
’Tis a sweet madness runs along with them,
To think, all that are aim’d at still are struck:
Then, where the shaft still lights, make that the mark:
And so each fear or fever-shaken fool
May challenge Teucer’s hand in archery.
Good troth, if I knew any man so vile,
To act the crimes these Whippers reprehend,
Or what their servile apes gesticulate,
I should not then much muse their shreds were liked;
Since ill men have a lust t’ hear others’ sins,
All good men have a zeal to hear sin shamed.
But when it is all excrement they vent,
Base filth and offal; or thefts, notable
As ocean-piracies, or highway-stands;
And not a crime there tax’d, but is their own,
Or what their own foul thoughts suggested to them;
And that, in all their heat of taxing others,
Not one of them but lives himself, if known,
Improbior satiram scribente cinaedo
What should I say more, than turn stone with wonder!
Nas.
I never saw this play bred all this tumult:
What was there in it could so deeply offend
And stir so many hornets?
Aut. Shall I tell you?
Nas. Yea, and ingeniously.
Aut.
Then, by the hope
Which I prefer unto all other objects,
I can profess, I never writ that piece
More innocent or empty of offence.
Some salt it had, but neither tooth nor gall,
Nor was there in it any circumstance
Which. in the setting down, I could suspect
Might be perverted by an enemy’s tongue;
Only it had the fault to be call’d mine;
That was the crime.
Pol.
No! why, they say you tax’d
The law and lawyers, captains and the players,
By their particular names.
Aut. It is not so.
I used no name. My books have still been taught
To spare the persons, and to speak the vices.
These are mere slanders, and enforced by such
As have no safer ways to men’s disgraces.
But their own lies and loss of honesty:
Fellows of practised and most laxative tongues,
Whose empty and eager bellies, in the year,
Compel their brains to many desperate shifts,
(I spare to name them, for their wretchedness
Fury itself would pardon). These, or such,
Whether of malice, or of ignorance,
Or itch t’ have me their adversary, I know not,
Or all these mixt; but sure I am, three years
They did provoke me with their petulant styles
On every stage: and I at last unwilling,
But weary, I confess, of so much trouble,
Thought I would try if shame could win upon ‘em,’
And therefore chose Augustus Caesar’s times,
When wit and area were at their height in Rome,
To shew that Virgil, Horace, and the rest
Of those great master-spirits, did not want
Detractors then, or practicers against them:
And by this line, although no parallel,
I hoped at last they would sit down and blush;
But nothing I could find more contrary.
And though the impudence of flies be great,
Yet this hath so provok’d the angry wasps,
Or, as you said, of the next nest, the hornets,
That they fly buzzing, mad, about my nostrils,
And, like so many screaming grasshoppers
Held by the wings, fill every ear with noise.
And what? those former calumnies you mention’d.
First, of the law: indeed I brought in Ovid
Chid by his angry father for neglecting
The study of their laws for poetry:
And I am warranted by his own words:
Saepe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas!
Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.
And in far harsher terms elsewhere, as these:
Non me verbosas leges ediscere, non me
Ingrato voces prostituisse foro.
But how this should relate unto our laws,
Or the just ministers, with least abuse,
I reverence both too much to understand!
Then, for the captain, I will only speak
An epigram I here have made: it is
UNTO TRUE SOLDIERS.
That’s the lemma: mark it.
Strength of my country, whilst I bring to view
Such: as are miss-call’d captains, and wrong you,
And your high names; I do desire, that thence,
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence:
I swear by your true friend, my muse, I love
Your great profession which I once did prove;
And did not shame it with my actions then,
No more than I dare now do with my pen.
He that not trusts me, having vowed thus much,
But’s angry for the captain, still: is such.
Now for the players, it is true, I tax’d them,
And yet but some; and those so sparingly,
As all the rest might have sat still unquestion’d,
Had they but had the wit or conscience
To think well of themselves. But impotent, they
Thought each man’s vice belong’d to their whole tribe;
And much good do’t them! What they have done ’gainst me,
I am not moved with: if it gave them meat,
Or got them clothes, ’tis well; that was their end.
Only amongst them, I am sorry for
Some better natures, by the rest so drawn,
To run in that vile line.
Pol. And is this all!
Will you not answer then the libels?
Aut. No.
Pol. Nor the Untrussers?
Aut. Neither.
Pol. Y’are undone then.
Aut. With whom?
Pol. The world.
Aut. The bawd!
Pol. It will be taken
To be stupidity or tameness in you.
Aut.
But they that have incensed me, can in soul
Acquit me of that guilt. They know I dare
To spurn or baffle them, or squirt their eyes
With ink or urine; or I could do worse,
Arm’d with Archilochus’ fury, write Iambics,
Should make the desperate lashers hang themselves;
Rhime them to death, as they do Irish rats
In drumming tunes. Or, living, I could stamp
Their foreheads with those deep and public brands,
That the whole company of barber-surgeon a
Should not take off with all their art and plasters.
And these my prints should last, still to be read
In their pale fronts; when, what they write ’gainst me
Shall, like a figure drawn in water, fleet,
And the poor wretched papers be employed
To clothe tobacco, or some cheaper drug:
This I could do, and make them infamous.
But, to what end? when their own deeds have mark’d ’em;
And that I know, within his guilty breast
Each slanderer bears a whip that shall torment him
Worse than a million of these temporal plagues:
Which to pursue, were but a feminine humour,
And far beneath the dignity of man.
Nas.
’Tis true; for to revenge their injuries,
Were to confess you felt them. Let them go,
And use the treasure of the fool, their tongues,
Who makes his gain, by speaking worst of beat.
Pol. O, but they lay particular imputations—
Aut. As what?
Pol. That all your writing is mere railing.
Aut. Ha?
If all the salt in the old comedy
Should be so censured, or the sharper wit
Of the bold satire termed scolding rage,
What age could then compare with those for buffoons?
What should be said of Aristophanes,
Persius, or Juvenal, whose names we now
So glorify in schools, at least pretend it?—-
Have they no other?
Pol.
Yes; they say you are slow,
And scarce bring forth a play a year.
Aut. ’Tis true.
I would they could not say that I did that!
There’ s all the joy that I take in their trade,
Unless such scribes as these might be proscribed
Th’ abused theatres. They would think it strange, now,
A man should take but colts-foot for one day,
And, between whiles, spit out a better poem
Than e’er the master of art, or giver of wit,
Their belly, made. Yet, this is possible,
If a free mind had but the patience,
To think so much together and so vile.
But that these base and beggarly conceits
Should carry it, by the multitude of voices,
Against the most abstracted work, opposed
To the stuff’d nostrils of the drunken rout!
O, this would make a learn’d and liberal soul
To rive his stained quill up to the back,
And damn his long-watch’d labours to the fire,
Things that were born when none but the still night
And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes,
Were not his own free merit a more crown
Unto his travails than their reeling claps.
This ’tis that strikes me silent, seals my lips,
And apts me rather to sleep out my time,
Than I would waste it in contemned strifes
With these vile Ibides, these unclean birds,
That make their mouths their clysters, and still purge
From their hot entrails. But I leave the monsters
To their own fate. And, since the Comic Muse
Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try
If TRAGEDY have a more kind aspect;
Her favours in my next I will pursue,
Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one,
So he judicious be, he shall be alone
A theatre unto me; Once I’ll say
To strike the ear of time in those fresh strains,
As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,
Give cause to some of wonder, some despite,
And more despair, to imitate their sound.
I, that spend half my nights, and all my days,
Here in a cell, to get a dark paleface,
To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,
And in this age can hope no other grace—-
Leave me! There’s something come into my thought,
That must and shall be sung high and aloof,
Safe from the wolfs black jaw, and the dun ass’s hoof
Nas. I reverence these raptures, and obey them.
[The scene closes—-