A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

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      THIS fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease,

      And utters it again when God doth please.

      He is wit’s pedler, and retails his wares

      At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;

      And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,

      Have not the grace to grace it with such show.

      This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;

      Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve.

      He can carve, too, and lisp; why, this is he

      That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy;

      This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

      That, when he plays at table, chides the dice

      In honourable terms; nay, he can sing

      A mean most meanly; and in ushering,

      Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;

      The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.

      This is the flower that smiles on every one,

      To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone;

      And consciences that will not die in debt

      Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

      See where it comes! – Behaviour, what wert thou

      Till this man show’d thee? and what art thou now?

      ALL the world’s a stage,

      And all the men and women merely players:

      They have their exits, and their entrances;

      And one man in his time plays many parts,

      His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

      Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms:

      Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,

      And shining morning face, creeping like snail

      Unwillingly to school: And then the lover,

      Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

      Made to his mistress’ eyebrow: Then a soldier,

      Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

      Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

      Seeking the bubble reputation

      Even in the cannon’s mouth: And then the justice,

      In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

      With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

      Full of wise saws and modern instances;

      And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts

      Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

      With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;

      His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide

      For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

      Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

      And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,

      That ends this strange eventful history,

      Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

      Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

      TO thee, whose forehead swells with roses,

      Whose most haunted bower

      Gives life and scent to every flower,

      Whose most adoréd name encloses

      Things abstruse, deep, and divine;

      Whose yellow tresses shine

      Bright as Eoan fire:

      Oh, me thy priest inspire!

      For I to thee and thine immortal name,

      In – in – in golden tunes,

      For I to thee and thine immortal name —

      In – sacred raptures flowing, flowing, swimming, swimming:

      In sacred raptures swimming,

      Immortal name, game, dame, tame, lame, lame, lame,

      (Foh) hath, shame, proclaim, oh —

      In sacred raptures flowing, will proclaim. (No!)

      Oh, me thy priest inspire!

      For I to thee and thine immortal name,

      In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame,

      (Good! good!)

      In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame.

      DON SURLY, to aspire the glorious name

      Of a great man, and to be thought the same,

      Makes serious use of all great trade he knows.

      He speaks to men with a rhinocerote’s nose,

      Which he thinks great; and so reads verses too;

      And that is done as he saw great men do.

      He has tympanies of business in his face,

      And can forget men’s names with a great grace.

      He will both argue and discourse in oaths,

      Both which are great, and laugh at ill-made clothes;

      That’s greater yet, to cry his own up neat.

      He doth, at meals, alone his pheasant eat,

      Which is main greatness; and at his still board

      He drinks to no man: that’s, too, like a lord.

      He keeps another’s wife, which is a spice

      Of solemn greatness; and he dares, at dice,

      Blaspheme God greatly; or some poor hind beat,

      That breathes in his dog’s way: and this is great.

      Nay, more, for greatness’ sake he will be one

      May hear my epigrams, but like of none.

      Surly, use other arts; these only can

      Style thee a most great fool, but no great man.