I cannot hold, I cannot, I, endure To view a big-womb'd foggy cloud immure The radiant tresses of the quick'ning sun: Let custards quake,[442] my rage must freely run. Preach not the Stoic's patience to me; I hate no man, but men's impiety. My soul is vex'd; what power will resist, Or dares to stop a sharp-fang'd satirist? Who'll cool my rage? who'll stay my itching fist? But I will plague and torture whom I list. 10 If that the threefold walls of Babylon Should hedge my tongue, yet I should rail upon This fusty world, that now dare put in ure[443] To make JEHOVA but a coverture To shade rank filth. Loose conscience is free From all conscience, what else hath liberty? As't please the Thracian Boreas to blow, So turns our airy conscience to and fro. What icy Saturnist, what northern pate, But such gross lewdness would exasperate? 20 I think the blind doth see the flame-god rise From sister's couch, each morning to the skies, Glowing with lust. Walk but in dusky night With Lynceus' eyes, and to thy piercing sight Disguisèd gods will show, in peasants' shape, Prest[444] to commit some execrable rape. Here Jove's lust-pander, Maia's juggling son, In clown's disguise, doth after milkmaids run; And, 'fore he'll lose his brutish lechery, The trulls shall taste sweet nectar's surquedry. 30 There Juno's brat forsakes Neries' (?) bed And like a swaggerer, lust-firèd, Attended only with his smock-sworn page, Pert Gallus, slyly slips along, to wage Tilting encounters with some spurious seed Of marrow pies and yawning oysters' breed. O damn'd! Who would not shake a satire's knotty rod, When to defile the sacred seat of God Is but accounted gentlemen's disport? 40 To snort in filth, each hour to resort To brothel-pits; alas! a venial crime, Nay, royal, to be last in thirtieth slime! Ay me! hard world for satirists begin To set up shop, when no small petty sin Is left unpurged! Once to be pursy fat, Had wont because that life did macerate. Marry, the jealous queen of air doth frown, That Ganymede is up, and Hebe down. Once Albion lived in such a cruel age 50 That[445] men did hold by servile villenage: Poor brats were slaves of bondmen that were born, And marted, sold: but that rude law is torn And disannull'd, as too too[446] inhumane, That lords o'er peasants should such service strain. But now (sad change!) the kennel sink of slaves, Peasant great lords, and servile service craves. Bond-slave sons had wont be bought and sold; But now heroës' heirs (if they have not told A discreet number[447] 'fore their dad did die) 60 Are made much of: how much from merchandie? Tail'd, and retail'd, till to the pedlar's pack The fourth-hand ward-ware comes; alack, alack![448]