I cannot sooth, though it my life might save,
Each favourite, nor crouch to ev'ry knave.
I cannot brook delays as some men do,
With scoffs, and scorns, and tak't in kindness too.
For ere I'd bind myself for some slight grace,
To one that hath no more worth than his place,
Or by a base mean free myself from trouble,
I rather would endure my penance double;
'Cause to be forc'd to what my mind disdains,
Is worse to me than tortures, racks, and chains.
And therefore unto thee I only fly,
To whom there needs no mean but Honesty;
To thee, that lov'st nor parasite or minion
Should, ere I speak, possess thee with opinion;
To thee, that do'st what thou wilt undertake
For love of Justice, not the person's sake;
To thee, that know'st how vain all fair shows be,
That flow not from the heart's sincerity,
And canst, though shadowed in the simplest veil,
Discern both Love and Truth, and where they fail,
To thee do I appeal; in whom, Heaven knows,
I next to God my confidence repose.
For, can it be thy grace should ever shine,
And not enlighten such a cause as mine?
Can my hopes (fixt in thee, great King!) be dead;
Or thou those Satyrs hate thy forests bred?
Where shall my second hopes be founded then, If ever I have heart to hope again?
Can I suppose a favour may be got
In any place, when thy Court yields it not?
Or that I may obtain it in the land,
When I shall be denied it at thy hand?
And if I might, could I delighted be
To tak't of others, when I must of thee?
Or if I were, could I have comfort by it,
When I should think my Sovereign did deny it?
No: were I sure, I to thy hate were born,
To seek for others' favours I would scorn;
For, if the best-worth-loves I could not gain,
To labour for the rest I would disdain.
But why should I thy favour here distrust,
That have a cause so known, and known so just?
Which not alone my inward comfort doubles,
But all suppose me wrong'd that hear my troubles.
Nay, though my fault were real, I believe
Thou art so royal that thou wouldst forgive.
For, well I know, thy sacred Majesty
Hath ever been admir'd for clemency,
And at thy gentleness the world hath wonder'd,
For making sun-shine where thou mightst have
Yea, thou in mercy life to them didst give,
That could not be content to see thee live.
And can I think that thou wilt make me then,
The most unhappy of all other men?
Or let thy loyal subject against reason
Be punish'd more for love than some for treason?
No, thou didst never yet thy glory stain
With an injustice to the meanest swain.
'Tis not thy will I'm wrong'd, nor dost thou know, If I have suffered injuries or no;
For, if I have not heard false rumours fly,
Th'ast grac'd me with the stile of Honesty ;
And if it were so (as some think it was),
I cannot see how it should come to pass
That thou, from whose free tongue proceedeth nought,
Which is not correspondent with thy thought,
Those thoughts, too, being fram'd in reason's mould,
Should speak that once which should not ever hold.
But passing it as an uncertainty,
I humbly beg thee, by that majesty
Whose sacred glory strikes a loving fear
Into the hearts of all to whom 'tis dear,
To deign me so much favour, without merit,
As read this plaint of a distemper'd spirit;
And think, unless I saw some hideous storm,
Too great to be endur'd by such a worm,
I had not thus presum'd unto a King,
With Esop's fly to seek an eagle's wing.
Know, I am he that enter'd once the list, 'Gainst all the world to play the Satyrist; 'Twas I that made my measures, rough and rude, Dance, arm'd with whips,* amidst the multitude; And unappalled with my charmed scrowls, Teaz'd angry Monsters in their lurking-holes. I've play'd with wasps and hornets without fears, Till mad they grew, and swarm'd about my ears; I've done it, and methinks 'tis such brave sport, I may be stung, but ne'er be sorry for❜t; For all my grief is that I was so sparing,
And had no more in't worth the name of daring.
He that will tax these times must be more bitter:
Tart lines of vinegar and gall are fitter.
My fingers and my spirits were benumn'd;
My ink ran forth too smooth, 'twas too much gum'd:
I'd have my pen so paint it, where it traces,
Each accent should draw blood into their faces,
And make them, when their villainies are blaz'd,
Shudder and startle, as men half amaz'd,
For fear my verse should make so loud a din,
Heaven hearing might rain vengeance on their sin.
Oh now for such a strain! would art could teach it,
Though half my spirits I consum'd to reach it,
I'd learn my Muse so brave a course to fly,
Men should admire the power of poesie,
* See the curious wood-cut of The Satyr in Vol. I.
And those that dar'd her greatness to resist,
Quake even at naming of a Satyrist;
But when his scourging numbers flow'd, with wonder
Should cry, God bless us! as they did at thunder.
Alas! my lines came from me too-too dully:
They did not fill a Satyr's mouth up fully ;
Hot blood, and youth, enrag'd with passions store,
Taught me to reach a strain ne'er touch'd before.
But it was coldly done, I thoroughly chid not,
And somewhat there is yet to do, I did not.
More soundly could my scourge have yerked* many,
Which I omitted not for fear of any.
For want of action, discontentments rage,
Base dis-respect of virtue (in this age),
With other things which were to goodness wrong,
Made me so fearless in my careless song,
That had not reason within compass won me,
I had told truth enough to have undone me;
(Nay, have already, if that her divine
And unseen power can do no more than mine ;)
For though, foreseeing wariness was good,
I fram'd my stile unto a milder mood,
And clogging her high-towering wings with mire,
Made her half earth that was before all fire;
Though (as you saw) in a disguised show
I brought my Satires to the open view,
* Yerked. To draw, delineate, ́or pourtray. Cotgrave.
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