MAVORTIUS

We do obey: And I choose Music first. But if (by Art) as all our Artist say, There is no real truth to be attained, Why should we labour in their loves bestow? The wisest said: I know I nothing know, But all this proves not we may know a truth. What dullards thus, would dote in rusty Art? Plod ding upon a book to dull the sense, And see the world become a treasure-house, Where Angels swarm Like Bees in Plenties streets, And every Peasant surfeits on their sweets? Gallants let us invent some pleasing sports, To fit the Plenteous humour of the Time, I cannot feed my appetite with Air, I must pursue my pleasures royally, That sponged in sweat, I may return from sport, Mount me on horseback, keep the Hounds and Hawks, And leave this Idle contemplation, To rugged Stoical Morosophists. How you translating-scholler? you can make A stabbing Satir, or and Epigram, And think you carry joust Ramnusia's whip To lash the patient; go, get you clothes, Our freeborn blood such apprehension loathes. My Lords, your entertainment I but base, Courser your cates, but welcome with the best. Fellows some Cushions; place fa re Ladies here, Signiour Landulpho; pray be merry sir. Usher are the Players ready? bid them begin. I see (my Lord this homespun country stuff, Brings little liking to your curious ear, Be patient for perhaps the play will mend. No more, no more, unless it better, And for the rest ye shall be our debtor. Content (my Lord) pray give a theme. What a coil keeps those fellows there? Walk sirs, nay walk; awake ye drowsy drones, That long have sucked the honney from my hives; Be gone ye greedy beefe-eaters you are best: The Calais Cormorants from Dover road, Are not so chargeable as you to feed. Broke we not house up, you would break our backs. Fair Ladies, could these times afford you cates, You should be feasted in Apollo's hall; But (Lords) the chaps of wide-pancht gluttony, Have wasted all the dainties of the land. Servant Philarchus, what, no mask too night? What? insolent with glib prosperity? Faith Gentlemen no Players will appear: Gallants, to your Mask. Well, though the penny raised them to the pound, Just Envy, causeless Pride does still confound. I will confirm thy pledge, and meet thee too. Oh pallid Envy how thou suckest my blood, And wastes my vital spirits: I could rave, Run mad with anguish, for my slight respect, Oh where's the honour to my high born blood! When every peasant, each Plebeian, Sits in the throne of undeserved repute, When every Pedlers-French is termed Monsignuer, When broad-cloathd tradesman, and what lack you sir. Is wrapped in rich habiliments of silk, While urgent needs makes Princes bend their knee, As servile as the ignobility, To crouch for coin, while flaues tie fast our Lands, In Statute Staple, or these Merchants bans. Peace prating Scholar: bid the Sea be still, When powerful winds donc toss the raging waves, Or stay the winged lightning in his course; When thou dost this, thy words shall charm me too. Till then preserve thy breath. How? dare Philarchus? yes, I dare do more; In blood or fire; or where thou darest not come; In the numb fingers of cold death I dare. What are you playing with my feather too? A pox upon this linguist, take him hence; Philarchus, I defy thee, and in scorn, Spit on thy bosom: vowing here by heaven, If either sword, or fire, or strength of men, Or any other steeled violence, Can bring to swift confusion what is thine, Upon this grateful soil; it shall be done. My lands? My soul is big in travail with revenge, And I could rip her womb up with a stab, To free the imprisoned issue of my thought. The broils of war wherein I gloried more Then Priam's Hector, who by burning walls, Was trailed along (dread victories deep fallen) So from these gates my self in mean disgrace Am banished forth, pinched through with poverty. Who tells us all it's true that she hath said, Poor flies will tickle Lyons being dead. Is that Philarchus that complains? it's so, Time was, I could have dined amongst my friends, Now stands at every door a lack and Apes And tells me it's too late, his Lord hath dined. See poor Philarchus powering out his plaints, To unrelenting walls, relentless men. Here come our wives, how wretchedly they look. Could I but learn (with Craesus ) to endure The falling sickness of sad Poverty, Who lost a rich commanding Empery Patience would prove a tutor to my grieves. Give them forty pence let them go, How likes Landulpho this extempore song? Good sir, you give our English Ladies cause, Respectively to applaud the Italian guise, Which proudly henceforth we will prosecute. My Lord Philarchus, follow all my course, I keep a Taylor, Coachman, and a Cook, The rest for their board-wages may go look, A thousand pound a year, will so be saved For revelling, and banqueting and plays. Philarchus, I mislike your fashion? Your hat is of a better block then mine. Who sits there, finds the more uneasy seat; What, is't so late, that fashion's not so good. Exeunt. Gallants unmask, and fallen to banqueting, A health about, carouse shall feed carouse. Content thee sweet, the lightning of my arms, Shall purge the air of these gross foggy clouds, That do obscure our births bright radiance, When Iron Mars mounts up his plumy Crest, The Law and Merchandise in rust may rest, Then Euy cease; for ever the Son shall set, I'll buckle on Mavortius burganet. How might we tread the path's to happy ends, Since foes to Learning are not Virtues friends. My Lords, let's betake us to our studies. Poor Scholar spend thy spirits so and die. Cease Music there, prepare to banquet sirs. Why let it fret: not pledge a Nobleman. A petty-foggers whoodded wise so perched? I challenge thee on that disgraceful word, Without all question 'tis, he that denies, Either he hath no judgement or no eyes. We followed beasts before but now a man. This royal health of welcome greets you all.