That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent
Within some province, or whole shire's extent.
As Nature made the earth, so did it lie,
Save for the furrowes of their husbandry;
Whenas the neighbour-lands so couched layne
That all bore show of one fair champian:
Some headlesse crosse they digged on their lea,
Or roll'd some marked meare-stone in the way.
Poor simple men! for what mought that availe,
That my field might not fill my neighbour's payle,
More than a pilled stick can stand in stead,
To bar Cynedo from his neighbour's bed;
More than the thread-bare client's poverty
Debars th' attorney of his wonted fee?
If they were thriftlesse, mought not we amend,
And with more care our dangered fields defend?
Each man can guard what thing he deemeth deare,
As fearful merchants do their female heir,
Which, were it not for promise of their wealth,
Need not be stalled up for fear of stealth;
Would rather stick upon the bell-man's cries,
Though profer'd for a branded Indian's price.
Then raise we muddy bulwarks on our banks,
Beset around with treble quick-set ranks;
Or if those walls be over weak a ward,
The squared bricke may be a better guard.
Go to, my thrifty yeoman, and upreare
A brazen wall to shend thy land from feare.
Do so; and I shall praise thee all the while,
So be thou stake not up the common style;
So be thou hedge in nought but what's thine owne;
So be thou pay what tythes thy neighbour's done;
So be thou let not lie in fallow'd plaine
That which was wont yield usury of graine.
But when I see thy pitched stakes do stand
On thy incroached piece of common land,
Whiles thou discommonest thy neighbour's kyne,
And warn'st that none feed on thy field save thine;
Brag no more, Scrobius, of thy mudded bankes,
Nor thy deep ditches, nor three quickset rankes.
O happy dayes of old Ducalion,
When one was landlord of the world alone!
But now whose choler would not rise to yield
A peasant halfe-stakes of his new-mown field,
Whiles yet he may not for the treble price
Buy out the remnant of his royalties ?
Go on, and thrive, my petty tyrant's pride,
Scorne thou to live, if others live beside;
And trace proud Castile, that aspires to be
In his old age a young fifth monarchy:
Or the red hat that cries the lucklesse mayne,
For wealthy Thames to change his lowly Rhine.
POSSUNT, QUIA POSSE VIDENTUR.
VILLIUS, the wealthy farmer, left his heire
Twice twenty sterling pounds to spend by yeare:
The neighbours praisen Villio's hide-bound sonne,
And say it was a goodly portion.
Not knowing how some merchants dow'r can rise,
By Sunday's tale to fifty centuries;
Or to weigh downe a leaden bride with gold,
Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice sold.
But whiles ten pound goes to his wife's new gowne,
Nor little lesse can serve to suit his owne ;
Whiles one piece pays her idle waiting-man,
Or buys an hoode, or silver-handled fanne,
Or hires a Friezeland trotter, halfe yard deepe,
To drag his tumbrell through the staring Cheape;
Or whiles he rideth with two liveries,
And 's treble rated at the subsidies;
One end a kennel keeps of thriftlesse hounds;
What think ye rests of all my younker's pounds
To diet him, or deal out at his doore,
To coffer up, or stocke his wasting story?
If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare
That forty pounds serve not the farmer's heire.
LABEO reserves a long naile for the nonce,
To wound my margent through ten leaves at
once,
Much worse than Aristarchus his blacke pile
That pierc'd old Homer's side ;-
And makes such faces, that me seems I see
Some foul Megara in the tragedy,
Threat'ning her twined snakes at Tantale's ghost;
Or the grim visage of some frowning post
The crabtree porter of the Guild-hall gates;
While he his frightful beetle elevates,
His angry eyne look all so glaring bright,
Like th' hunted badger in a moonlesse night:
Or like a painted staring Saracen!
His cheeks change hue like th' air-fed vermin skin,
Now red, now pale, and swol'n above his eyes
Like to the old Colossian imageries.
But when he doth of my recanting heare,
Away, ye angry fires, and frosts of feare,
Give place unto his hopeful temper'd thought,
That yields to peace, ere ever peace be sought:
Then let me now repent me of my rage
For writing satires in so righteous age.
Whereas I should have strok'd her tow'rdly head,
And cry'd evee in my satires' stead;
Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,
Was never age I weene so pure as this.
As pure as old Labulla from the banes,
As pure as through faire channels when it raines;
As pure as is a black-moor's face by night,
As dung-clad skin of dying Heraclite.
Seeke over all the world, and tell me where
Thou find'st a proud man, or a flatterer;
A thief, a drunkard, or a paricide,
A lecher, liar, or what vice beside?
Merchants are no whit covetous of late,
Nor make no mart of time, gain of deceit,
Patrons are honest now, o'er they of old,
Can now no benefice be bought or sold?
Give him a gelding, or some two yeares tithe,
For he all bribes and simony defy'th.
Is not one pick-thank stirring in the court,
That seld was free till now, by all report?
But some one, like a claw-back parasite,
Pick'd mothes from his master's cloke in sight,
Whiles he could pick out both his eyes for need,
Mought they but stand him in some better stead.
Nor now no more smell-feast Vitellio
Smiles on his master for a meal or two,
And loves him in his maw, loaths in his heart,
Yet soothes, and yeas and nays on either part.
Tattelius, the new-come traveller,
With his disguised coate and ringed eare,
Trampling the bourse's marble twice a day,
Tells nothing but stark truths I dare well say;
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