Would truth did know I lied: but truth and I Do know that sense is born to misery. Oh would to God this were their worst mischance, Were not their souls sold to dark ignorance! Fair godness is foul ill, if mischief's wit Be not repress'd from lewd corrupting it. O what dry brain melts not sharp mustard rhyme, 70 To purge the snottery of our slimy time! Hence, idle "_Cave_," vengeance pricks me on, When mart is made of fair religion. Reform'd bald Trebus swore, in Romish quire, He sold God's essence for a poor denier.[449] The Egyptians adorèd onions, To garlic yielding all devotions. O happy garlic, but thrice happy you, Whose scenting gods in your large gardens grew! Democritus, rise from thy putrid slime, 80 Sport at the madness of that hotter clime, Deride their frenzy, that for policy Adore wheat dough as real deity. Almighty men, that can their Maker make, And force his sacred body to forsake The cherubins, to be gnawn actually, Dividing _individuum_ really; Making a score of gods with one poor word. Ay, so I thought, in that you could afford So cheap a pennyworth. O ample field, 90 In which a satire may just weapon wield But I am vex'd, when swarms of Julians Are still manured by lewd precisians, Who, scorning Church-rites, take the symbol up As slovenly as careless courtiers slup Their mutton gruel! Fie! who can withhold, But must of force make his mild muse a scold, When that he grievèd sees, with red vex'd eyes, That Athens' ancient large immunities Are eyesores to the Fates! Poor cells forlorn! 100 Is't not enough you are made an abject scorn To jeering apes, but must the shadow too Of ancient substance be thus wrung from you! O split my heart, lest it do break with rage, To see th' immodest looseness of our age! Immodest looseness? fie, too gentle word, When every sign can brothelry afford: When lust doth sparkle from our females' eyes, And modesty is roosted in the skies! Tell me, Galliottæ, what means this sign, 110 When impropriate gentles will turn Capuchine? Sooner be damn'd! O, stuff satirical! When rapine feeds our pomp, pomp ripes our fall; When the guest trembles at his host's swart look; The son doth fear his stepdame, that hath took His mother's place for lust; the twin-born brother Maligns his mate, that first came from his mother; When to be huge, is to be deadly sick; When virtuous peasants will not spare to lick The devil's tail for poor promotion; 120 When for neglect, slubber'd Devotion Is wan with grief; when Rufus yawns for death Of him that gave him undeservèd breath; When Hermus makes a worthy question, Whether of right,[450] as paraphernalion, A silver piss-pot[451] fits his lady dame, Or it's too good--a pewter best became;