(Lest Phoebus should with his all-piercing eyne 130 Descry some Vulcan), he doth crow full shrill, That all the air with echoes he doth fill; Whilst Mars, though all the gods do see his sin, And know in what lewd vice he liveth in, Yet is adored still, and magnified, And with all honours duly worshipped. _Euge!_ Small faults to mountains straight are raised; Slight scapes are whipt, but damnèd deeds are praised. Fie, fie! I am deceived all this while, A mist of errors doth my sense beguile; 140 I have been long of all my wits bereaven; Heaven for hell taking, taking hell for heaven; Virtue for vice, and vice for virtue still; Sour for sweet, and good for passing ill. If not, would vice and odious villany Be still rewarded with high dignity? Would damned Jovians be of all men praised, And with high honours unto heaven raised? 'Tis so, 'tis so; riot and luxury Are virtuous, meritorious chastity: 150 That which I thought to be damn'd hell-born pride, Is humble modesty, and nought beside; That which I deemèd Bacchus' surquedry, Is grave and staid, civil sobriety. O then, thrice holy age, thrice sacred men, 'Mong whom no vice a satire can discern, Since lust is turnèd into chastity, And riot unto sad sobriety, Nothing but goodness reigneth in our age, And virtues all are join'd in marriage! 160 Here is no dwelling for impiety, No habitation for base villany; Here are no subject for reproof's sharp vein; Then hence, rude satire, make away amain, And seek a seat where more impurity Doth lie and lurk in still security! Now doth my satire stagger in a doubt, Whether to cease or else to write it out. The subject is too sharp for my dull quill; Some son of Maia, show thy riper skill; 170 For I'll go turn my tub against the sun, And wistly mark how higher planets run, Contemplating their hidden motion. Then on some Latmos with Endymion, I'll slumber out my time in discontent, And never wake to be malevolent, A beadle to the world's impurity. But ever sleep in still security. If this displease the world's wrong-judging sight, It glads my soul, and in some better sprite 180 I'll write again. But if that this do please, Hence, hence, satiric Muse, take endless ease, Hush now, ye band-dogs, bark no more at me, But let me slide away in secrecy. EPICTETUS.[410] [401] In Topsel's _Hist. of Four-footed Beasts_ (ed. 1658, pp. 352-5) there is an interesting chapter "of the Lamia."