Or, Horace, what sayst thou, that art the
And likeliest to envy or to detract?

poorest,

Hor. Cæsar speaks after common men in this,
To make a difference of me for my poorness:
As if the filth of poverty sunk as deep
Into a knowing spirit, as the bane
Of riches doth into an ignorant soul.

No, Cæsar; they be pathless moorish minds,
That being once made rotten with the dung
Of damned riches, ever after sink
Beneath the steps of any villany.

But knowledge is the nectar, that keeps sweet
A perfect soul, even in this grave of sin;
And for my soul, it is as free as Cæsar's:
For what I know is due I'll give to all.
He that detracts, or envies virtuous merit,
Is still the covetous and the ignorant spirit.

Cas. Thanks, Horace, for thy free and wholesome sharp

ness:

Which pleaseth Cæsar more than servile fawns.
A flattered prince soon turns the prince of fools.
And for thy sake we'll put no difference more
Between the great and good for being poor.
Say, then, loved Horace, thy true thought of Virgil.
Hor. I judge him of a rectified spirit,

By many revolutions of discourse

(In his bright reason's influence) refined

From all the tartarous moods of common men;
Bearing the nature and similitude

Of a right heavenly body; most severe

In fashion and collection of himself:
And then as clear and confident as Jove.

Gal. And yet so chaste and tender is his ear,
In suffering any syllable to pass,

That he thinks may become the honoured name
Of issue to his so examined self,

That all the lasting fruits of his full merit

In his own poems, he doth still distaste;

As if his mind's piece, which he strove to paint,
Could not with fleshly pencils have her right.

Tib. But to approve his works of sovereign worth, This observation (methinks) more than serves;

And is not vulgar.

That which he hath writ,

Is with such judgment laboured, and distilled
Through all the needful uses of our lives,
That could a man remember but his lines,
He should not touch at any serious point,

But he might breathe his spirit out of him.

Cæs. You mean, he might repeat part of his works, As fit for any conference he can use?

Tib. True, royal Cæsar.

Cas. Worthily observed:

And a most worthy virtue in his works.

What thinks material Horace of his learning?

Hor. His learning savours not the school-like gloss,
That most consists in echoing words and terms,
And soonest wins a man an empty name:
Nor any long, or far-fetched circumstance,
Wrapped in the curious general'ties of arts;
But a direct and analytic sum

Of all the worth and first effects of arts.
And for his poesy, 'tis so rammed with life,
That it shall gather strength of life, with being,
And live hereafter more admired than now.

Cas. This one consent, in all your dooms of him, And mutual loves of all your several merits, Argues a truth of merit in you all.

VIRGIL enters.

See, here comes Virgil; we will rise and greet him:
Welcome to Cæsar, Virgil! Cæsar and Virgil
Shall differ but in sound; to Cæsar, Virgil
(Of his expressed greatness) shall be made
A second surname; and to Virgil, Cæsar.
Where are thy famous Æneids?
Do us grace
To let us see, and surfeit on their sight.

Vir. Worthless they are of Cæsar's gracious eyes, If they were perfect; much more with their wants: Which yet are more than my time could supply. And could great Cæsar's expectation

Be satisfied with any other service,

I would not show them.

Cas. Virgil is too modest;

Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more.

Show them, sweet Virgil.

Vir. Then, in such due fear

As fits presenters of great works to Cæsar,
I humbly show them.

Cas. Let us now behold

A human soul made visible in life:
And more refulgent in a senseless paper,
Than in the sensual compliment of kings.
Read, read thyself, dear Virgil; let not me
Profane one accent with an untuned tongue :
Best matter, badly shown, shows worse than bad.
See then this chair, of purpose set for thee,

To read thy poem in; refuse it not;
Virtue, without presumption, place may take
Above best kings, whom only she should make.
Vir. It will be thought a thing ridiculous
To present eyes, and to all future times
A gross untruth, that any poet (void
Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity)

Should, with decorum, transcend Cæsar's chair.

Poor virtue raised, high birth and wealth set under,
Crosseth Heaven's courses, and makes worldlings wonder.
Cas. The course of Heaven, and Fate itself, in this
Will Cæsar cross; much more all worldly custom.
Hor. Custom in course of honour ever errs:

And they are best, whom Fortune least prefers.

Cæs. Horace hath (but more strictly) spoke our thoughts. The vast rude swinge of general confluence

Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense:

And therefore reason (which in right should be
The special rector of all harmony)

Shall show we are a man, distinct by it

From those whom Custom rapteth in her press.
Ascend, then, Virgil; and where first by chance
We here have turned thy book, do thou first read.
Vir. Great Cæsar hath his will: I will ascend.
"Twere simple injury to his free hand,
That sweeps the cobwebs from unused Virtue,
And makes her shine proportioned to her worth,
To be more nice to entertain his grace,
Than he is choice and liberal to afford it.

Cæs. Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors,
And let none enter.-Peace!-Begin, good Virgil.

[VIRGIL reads part of his fourth Æneid.

Thomas Decker.

SATIRO-MASTIX, OR THE UNTRUSSING OF THE HUMOROUS POET.

The King exacts an Oath from SIR WALTER TERILL to send his Bride CELESTINA to Court on the Marriage Night. Her Father, to save her Honour, gives her a poisonous Mixture, which she swallows.

TERILL, CELESTINA, FATHER.

Cal. Why didst thou swear?

Ter. The King

Sat heavy on my resolution,

Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath.

Cal. An oath! why, what's an oath? 'tis but the smoke

Of flame and blood; the blister of the spirit

Which riseth from the steam of rage; the bubble

That shoots up to the tongue, and scalds the voice (For oaths are burning words).

Thou swor'st but one,

'Tis frozen long ago: if one be numbered,

What countrymen are they, where do they dwell,
That speak naught else but oaths?

Ter. They're men of hell.

An oath! why, 'tis the traffic of the soul,

'Tis law within a man; the seal of faith,
The bond of every conscience; unto whom
We set our thoughts like hands; yea, such a one
I swore, and to the King; a king contains
A thousand thousand; when I swore to him,
I swore to them; the very hairs that guard
His head will rise up like sharp witnesses
Against my faith and loyalty: his eye