Vertue againe arise by vices fall; But that shall I not see, neither will I Maintaine this, as one doth a Prophesie, That our King _Iames_ to _Rome_ shall surely goe, And from his chaire the _Pope_ shall ouerthrow. But O this world is so giuen vp to hell, That as the old Giants, which did once rebell, 40 Against the Gods, so this now-liuing race Dare sin, yet stand, and Ieere heauen in the face. But soft my Muse, and make a little stay, Surely thou art not rightly in thy way, To my good _Ieffrayes_ was not I about To write, and see, I suddainely am out, This is pure _Satire_, that thou speak'st, and I Was first in hand to write an Elegie. To tell my countreys shame I not delight. But doe bemoane 't I am no _Democrite_: 50 O God, though Vertue mightily doe grieue For all this world, yet will I not beleeue But that shees faire and louely, and that she So to the period of the world shall be; Else had she beene forsaken (sure) of all, For that so many sundry mischiefes fall Vpon her dayly, and so many take Armes vp against her, as it well might make Her to forsake her nature, and behind, To leaue no step for future time to find, 60 As she had neuer beene, for he that now Can doe her most disgrace, him they alow The times chiefe Champion, and he is the man, The prize, and Palme that absolutely wanne, For where Kings Clossets her free seat hath bin She neere the Lodge, not suffered is to Inne, For ignorance against her stands in state, Like some great porter at a Pallace gate; So dull and barbarous lately are we growne, And there are some this slauery that haue sowne, 70 That for mans knowledge it enough doth make, If he can learne, to read an Almanacke; By whom that trash of _Amadis de Gaule_, Is held an author most authenticall, And things we haue like Noblemen that be In little time, which I haue hope to see Vpon their foot-clothes, as the streets they ride To haue their hornebookes at their girdles ti'd. But all their superfluity of spite On vertues hand-maid Poesy doth light, 80 And to extirpe her all their plots they lay, But to her ruine they shall misse the way, For his alone the Monuments of wit, Aboue the rage of Tyrants that doe sit, And from their strength, not one himselfe can saue, But they shall tryumph o'r his hated graue. In my conceipt, friend, thou didst neuer see A righter Madman then thou hast of me, For now as _Elegiack_ I bewaile These poor base times; then suddainely I raile 90 And am _Satirick_, not that I inforce My selfe to be so, but euen as remorse, Or hate, in the proud fulnesse of their hight Master my fancy, iust so doe I write.