A better field to range in nowadays. If vice be virtue, I can all men praise. What, though pale Maurus paid huge simonies For his half-dozen gelded vicaries,[490] Yet, with good honest cut-throat usury, I fear he'll mount to reverent[491] dignity. "O sleight, all-canning sleight, all-damning sleight, The only gally-ladder unto might." Tuscus is trade-fall'n; yet great hope he'll rise, 70 For now he makes no count of perjuries; Hath drawn false lights[492] from pitch-black loveries,[493] Glazed his braided[494] ware, cogs, swears, and lies; Now since he hath the grace, thus graceless be, His neighbours swear he'll swell with treasury. Tut, who maintains such goods, ill-got, decay? No, they'll stick by thy[495] soul, they'll ne'er away. Luscus, my lord's perfumer, had no sale Until he made his wife a brothel-stale. Absurd, the gods sell all for industry, 80 When what's not got by hell-bred villainy! Codrus, my well-faced lady's tail-bearer (He that sometimes play'th Flavia's usherer), I heard one day complain to Lynceus How vigilant, how right obsequious, Modest in carriage, how true in trust, And yet (alas!) ne'er guerdon'd with a crust. But now I see he finds by his accounts That sole Priapus, by plain-dealing, mounts. How now? What, droops the new Pegasian inn? 90 I fear mine host is honest. Tut, begin To set up whorehouse; ne'er too late to thrive; By any means, at Porta Rich arrive; Go use some sleight, or live poor Irus' life; Straight prostitute thy daughter or thy wife, And soon be wealthy; but be damn'd with it. Hath not rich Milo then deep-reaching wit? Fair age! When 'tis a high and hard thing t' have repute Of a complete villain, perfect, absolute; 100 And roguing virtue brings a man defame, A packstaff[496] epithet, and scornèd name. Fie, how my wit flags! How heavily Methinks I vent dull sprightless poesy! What cold black frost congeals my numbèd brain! What envious power stops a satire's vein! O now I know the juggling god of sleights, With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights, And mists my wit; offended that my rhymes Display his odious world-abusing crimes. 110 O be propitious, powerful god of arts! I sheathe my weapons, and do break my darts. Be then appeased; I'll offer to thy shrine An hecatomb of many spotted kine. Myriads of beasts shall satisfy thy rage, Which do profane thee in this apish age. Infectious blood, ye gouty humours quake, Whilst my sharp razor doth incision make. [484] Hercules. [485] Lie in idleness. [486] _i.e._, wise men. [487] _i.e._, all-powerful. [488] Ares.--See Apollodorus' _Bibl._, iii. 14. [489] A term (coined from Gr. enagonios) for a rhetorician.