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The Satire to the mere Courtiers.

SIRS! I do know your minds: you look for fees,
For more respect than needs, for caps and knees;
But be content; I have not for you now,
Nor will I have at all to do with you.

For, though I seem opprest, and you suppose
I must be fain to crouch to Virtue's foes,
Yet know, your favours, I do slight them more
In this distress than e'er I did before.

Here to my Liege a message I must tell;
If you will let me pass, you shall do well;
If you deny admittance, why then know,
I mean to have it whe'er you will or no.
Your formal wisdom which hath never been
In ought but in some fond invention seen,
And you that think men born to no intent
But to be train'd in apish compliment,
Doth now (perhaps) suppose me indiscreet,
And such unused messages unmeet.

But what of that? Shall I go suit my matter
Unto your wits, that have but wit to flatter?
Shall I of your opinions so much prize

To lose my will, that you may think me wise,
Who never yet to any liking had,

Unless he were a knave, a fool, or mad?

You Mushrooms! know, so much I weigh your

powers,

I neither value you, nor what is your's.

Nay, though my crosses had me quite out-worn,
Spirit enough I'd find your spite to scorn;

Of which resolv'd, to further my adventure,
Unto my King, without your leaves I enter.

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To the Honest

Courtiers.

BUT you, whose only worth doth colour give
To them, that they do worthy seem to live,
Kind Gentlemen! your aid I crave, to bring
A Satire to the presence of his King.
A shew of rudeness doth my forehead arm;
Yet you may trust him: he intends no harm.
He that hath sent him, loyal is, and true,
And one, whose love (I know) is much to you;
But now, he lies bound to a narrow scope,
Almost beyond the Cape of all good Hope.
Long hath he sought to free himself, but fails;
And therefore seeing nothing else prevails,
Me, to acquaint his Sovereign, here he sends,
As one despairing of all other friends.

I do presume that you will favour shew him,

Now that a messenger from thence you know him,

For many thousands that his face ne'er knew,
Blame his accusers, and his fortune rue;
And by the help which your good word may do,
He hopes for pity from his Sovereign too.
Then in his presence with your favours grace him,
And there's no vice so great shall dare out-face him.

To the King's most Excellent

MAJEST Y.

A SATIRE.

Quid tu, si pereo?

WHAT once the Poet said, I may avow,
'Tis a hard thing not to write. Satires now;
Since what we speak (abuse reigns so in all),
Spite of our hearts, will be satirical.

Let it not therefore now be deemed strange,
My unsmooth'd lines their rudeness do not change;
Nor be distasteful to my gracious King,
That in the cage my old harsh notes I sing,
And rudely, make a Satire here unfold

What others would in neater terms have told.
And why? my friends and means in court are scant;
Knowledge of curious phrase and form I want;
I cannot bear to run myself in debt,

To hire the groom, to bid the page entreat
Some favour'd follower to vouchsafe his word
To get me a cold comfort from his Lord.

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