My spirit is not puft[412] up with fat fume Of slimy ale, nor Bacchus' heating grape. My mind disdains the dungy muddy scum Of abject thoughts and Envy's raging hate. True judgment slight regards Opinion, A spritely wit disdains Detraction. A partial praise shall never elevate My settled censure of my own esteem; 20 A canker'd verdict of malignant hate Shall ne'er provoke me worse myself to deem. Spite of despite and rancour's villainy, I am myself, so is my poesy. [412] Ed. 1598 "huft." _In Lectores prorsus indignos._ Fie, Satire, fie! shall each mechanic slave, Each dunghill peasant, free perusal have Of thy well-labour'd lines?--each[413] satin suit, Each quaint fashion-monger, whose sole repute Rests in his trim gay clothes, lie slavering, Tainting thy lines with his lewd censuring? Shall each odd puisne[414] of the lawyer's inn, Each barmy-froth, that last day did begin To read his little, or his ne'er a whit, Or shall some greater ancient, of less wit 10 (That never turn'd but brown tobacco leaves, Whose senses some damn'd occupant[415] bereaves), Lie gnawing on thy vacant time's expense, Tearing thy rhymes, quite altering the sense? Or shall perfum'd Castilio censure thee, Shall he o'erview thy sharp-fang'd poesy (Who ne'er read further than his mistress' lips), Ne'er practised ought but some spruce cap'ring skips, Ne'er in his life did other language use, But "Sweet lady, fair mistress, kind heart, dear cuz"-- Shall this phantasma, this Coloss peruse, 21 And blast, with stinking breath, my budding muse? Fie! wilt thou make thy wit a courtezan For every broken handcraft's artisan? Shall brainless cittern-heads,[416] each jobbernoul,[417] Pocket the very genius of thy soul? Ay, Phylo, ay, I'll keep an open hall, A common and a sumptuous festival; Welcome all eyes, all ears, all tongues to me, Gnaw peasants on my scraps of poesy; 30 Castilios, Cyprians, court-boys, Spanish blocks,[418] Ribanded[419] ears, Granado netherstocks,[420] Fiddlers, scriveners, pedlars, tinkering knaves, Base blue-coats,[421] tapsters, broad-cloth-minded slaves-- Welcome, i'faith; but may you ne'er depart Till I have made your gallèd hides to smart. Your gallèd hides? avaunt, base muddy scum, Think you a satire's dreadful sounding drum Will brace itself, and deign to terrify Such abject peasants' basest roguery? 40 No, no, pass on, ye vain fantastic troop Of puffy youths; know I do scorn to stoop To rip your lives. Then hence, lewd nags, away, Go read each post,[422] view what is play'd to-day, Then to Priapus' gardens.[423] You, Castilio, I pray thee let my lines in freedom go, Let me alone, the madams call for thee, Longing to laugh at thy wit's poverty.