The Gossips worse then e’r they were before
At their wits end, know not which way to take,
At length the World beginning to awake
Out of the Trance, in which she lay as dead,
And somewhat raising her unweeldy head,
To bright Lucina call’d for helpe, that shee,
Now in her travell would propitious be.
The Goddesse not from feeling of her woe,
Onely to see with what the World might goe,
As she is draded Hecate, having power
Of all that keepe Hels ugly balefull Bower,
Commands the Furies to step in and ayde her,
And be the Midwives, till they safe had layd her.
To do whose pleasure as they were about,
A sturdy Huswife pertly stepping out,
Cryes hold a while, and let the queane alone;
It is no matter, let her lye and groane:
Hold her still to’t, wee’ll doe the best we can
To get out of her, certainly the man
Which ownes the Bastard: for there’s not a Nation
But hath with her committed fornication:
And by her base and common prostitution,
She came by this unnaturall polution;
There is a meane for women thus abus’d,
Which at this time may very well be us’d:
That in this case when people doe desire,
To know the truth, yet doubtfull of the Sire,
When as the woman most of life doth doubt her
In greevous throwes; to those that are about her;
He that is then at the last cast disclos’d,
The naturall Father is to be suppos’d:
And the just Law doth faithfully decide,
That for the nursing he is to provide:
Therefore let’s see, what in her pangues she’ll say,
Lest that this Bastard on the Land we lay:
They lik’d her counsell, and their helpe denide,
But bad her lye and languish till she dide;
Unlesse to them she truly would confesse,
Who fill’d her belly with this foule excesse.
Alas (quoth she) the Divell drest me thus,
Amidst my Ryot, whilst that Incubus
Wrought on my weakenesse, and by him beguilde,
He onely is the Father of the childe.
His Instrument my Apish imitation,
Of ev’ry monstrous and prodigious fashion,
Abus’d my weaknesse: women it was she,
Who was the Bawd betwixt the Fiend and me:
That this is true, it on my death I take,
Then helpe me women even for pitties sake.
When ominous signes to showe themselves began,
That now at hand this monstrous birth fore-ran:
About at noone flewe the affrighted Owle,
And dogs in corners set them downe to howle:
Bitches and Wolves these fatall signes among,
Brought forth most monstrous and prodigious young.
And from his hight the earth refreshing Sunne,
Before his houre his golden head doth runne,
Farre under us, in doubt his glorious eye,
Should be polluted with this Prodigye.
A Panique feare upon the people grew,
But yet the cause, there was not one that knewe,
When they had heard this; a short tale to tell,
The Furies straight upon their bus’nesse fell,
And long it was not ere there came to light,
The most abhorrid, the most fearefull sight
That ever eye beheld, a birth so strange,
That at the view, it made their lookes to change;
Women (quoth one) stand of, and come not neere it,
The Devill if he saw it, sure would feare it;
For by the shape, for ought that I can gather,
The Childe is able to affright the Father;
Out cries another, now for Gods sake hide it,
It is so ugly we may not abide it:
The birth is double, and growes side to side
That humane hand it never can divide;
And in this wondrous sort as they be Twins
Like Male and Female they be Androgines,
The Man is partly Woman, likewise shee
Is partly Man, and yet in face they be
Full as prodigious, as in parts; the Twinne
That is most man, yet in the face and skinne,
Is all meere Woman, that which most doth take
From weaker woman: Nature seemes to make
A man in show, thereby as to define,
A Fem’nine man, a woman Masculine;
Before bred, nor begott: a more strange thing,
Then ever Nile, yet into light could bring,
Made as Creation meerely to dispight,
Nor man, nor woman, scarse Hermophradite.
Affricke thats said, Mother of Monsters is,
Let her but shew me such a one as this
And then I will subscribe (to doe her due,)
And sweare, that what is said of her is true.
Quoth one, tis monstrous, and for nothing fitt,
And for a Monster, quicke lets bury it;
Nay quoth another, rather make provision,
If possibly, to part it by incision,
For were it parted, for ought I can see,
Both man, and woman it may seeme to be:
Nay, quoth a third that must be done with cost,
And were it done, our labour is but lost,
For when w’ have wrought the utmost that we can,
Hee’s too much woman, and shee’s too much man;
Therefore, as ’tis a most prodigious birth,
Let it not live here to polute the earth:
Gossip (quoth th’ last) your reason I denie,
Tis more by law, then we can justifie;
For Syer, and Dam, have certainly decreed,
That they will have more comfort of their seed:
For he begot it, and t’was borne of her,
And out of doubt they will their owne prefer:
Therefore good women better be advis’d,
“For precious things should not be lightly priz’d.”
This Moone-Calfe borne under a lucky Fate,
May powerfull prove in many a wealthy State,
And taught the tongues about some fewe yeares hence,
As now w’ are all tongue, and but little sence:
It may fall out for any thing you knowe,
This Moone-Calfe may on great imployments goe:
When learned men for noble action fit,
Idly at home (unthought of once) may sit;
A Bawd, or a Projector he may prove,
And by his purse so purchasing him love,
May be exalted to some thriving roome,
Where sildome good men suffred are to come:
What will you say, hereafter when you see;
The times so gracelesse and so mad to be;
That men their perfect humane shape shall flie,
To imitate this Beasts deformitie:
Nay, when you see this Monster, which you now
Will hardly breath upon the earth alowe;
In his Caroch with foure white Frizelands drawne,
And he as pyde and garish as the Pawne,
With a set face; in which as in a booke,
He thinks the World for grounds of State should looke,
When to some greater one, whose might doth awe him,
Hee’s knowne a verier Jade, then those that drawe him.
Nay at the last, the very killing sight,
To see this Calfe (as vertue to dispight)
Above just honest men his head to reare,
Nor to his greatnesse may they once come neere.
Each ignorant Sott to Honour seekes to rise;
But as for vertue who did first devise
That title, a reward for hers to be,
As most contemned and dispised shee,
Goes unregarded, that they who should owne her,
Dare not take notice ever to have knowne her;
And but that vertue, when she seemeth throwne
Lower then Hell, hath power to raise her owne,
Above the World, and this her monstrous birth,
She long e’re this had perish’d from the earth;
Her Fautors banish’d by her foes so hie,
Which looke so bigge as they would scale the skie:
But seeing no helpe, why should I thus complaine,
Then to my Moone-Calfe I returne againe,
By his deare Dam the World, so choysely bred,
To whom there is such greatnesse promised;
For it might well a perfect man amaze,
To see what meanes the Syer and Dam will raise,
T’ exalt their Moone-Calfe, and him so to cherish,
That he shall thrive, when vertuous men shall perish.
The Drunkard, Glutton, or who doth apply,
Himselfe to beastly sensuality,
Shall get him many friends, for that there be,
Many in ev’ry place just such as he;
The evill, love them that delight in ill,
Like have cleav’d to their like, and ever will:
But the true vertuous man (God knowes) hath fewe,
They that his straite and harder steps pursue,
Are a small number, scarsely knowne of any;
“God hath fewe friends, the devill hath so many.”
But to returne, that yee may plainly see,
That such a one he likely is to be,
And that my words for truth that yee may trie,
Of the Worlds Babe thus doe I prophecie:
Marke but the more man of these monstrous Twins,
From his first youth, how tow’rdly he begins,
When he should learne, being learn’d to leave the Schoole,
This arrant Moone-Calfe, this most beastly foole,
Just to our English Proverbe shall be seene,
“Scarcely so wise at fifty, as fifteene:”
And when himselfe he of his home can free,
He to the Citie comes, where then if he,
And the familiar Butterflye his Page,
Can passe the Street, the Ord’nary, and Stage,
It is enough, and he himselfe thinkes then,
To be the onely absolut’st of men.
Then in his Cups you shall not see him shrinke,
To the grand Divell a Carouse to drinke.
Next to his Whore he doth himselfe apply,
And to maintaine his gotish luxurie,
Eates Capons Cookt at fifteene crownes a peece,
With their fat bellies, stuff’d with Amber greece;
And being to travell, he sticks not to lay,
His Post Caroches still upon his way:
And in some sixe dayes journey doth consume
Ten pounds in Suckets and the Indian Fume:
For his Attire, then Forraigne parts are sought,
He holds all vile in England that is wrought,
And into Flanders sendeth for the nonce,
Twelve dozen of Shirts providing him at once,
Layd in the seames with costly Lace that be,
Of the Smock fashion, whole belowe the knee,
Then bathes in milke, in which when he hath bin,
He lookes like one for the preposterous sin,
Put by the wicked and rebellious Jewes,
To be a Pathique in their Malekind Stewes.
With the ball of’s foot the ground he may not feele,
But he must tread upon his toe and heele:
Dublet, and Cloke, with Plush and Velvet linde,
Onely his head peece, that is fill’d with winde;
Rags, running Horses, Dogs, Drabs, Drinke, and Dice,
The onely things that he doth hold in price:
Yet more then these, naught doth him so delight,
As doth his smooth-chind, plump-thigh’d, Catamite.
Sodome for her great sinne that burning sanke,
Which at one draught the pit infernall dranke,
Which that just God on earth could not abide,
Hath she so much the Divels terifide:
As from their seate, them well-neere to exile,
Hath Hell new spew’d her up after this while:
Is she new risen, and her sinne agen
Imbrac’d by beastly and outragious men.
Nay more he jests at Incest, as therein
There were no fault, counts sacriledge no sin:
His blasphemies he useth for his grace;
Wherewith, he truth doth often times out-face:
He termeth vertue madnesse, or meere folly,
He hates all high things, and prophanes all holy.
Where is thy thunder god, art thou a sleepe?
Or to what suff’ring hand giv’st thou to keepe
Thy wrath and vengeance; where is now the strength
Of thy Almighty arme, failes it at length?
Turne all the Starres to Comets, to out-stare
The Sunne at noone-tide, that he shall not dare
To looke but like a Gloworme, for that he
Can without melting these damnations see.
But this Ile leave, lest I my pen defile;
Yet to my Moone-Calfe keepe I close the while,
Who by some Knave, perswaded he hath wit,
When like a brave Foole, he to utter it,
Dare with a desperate boldnesse roughly passe
His censure on those Bookes, which the poore Asse
Can never reach to, things from darknesse sought,
That to the light with blood and sweat were brought:
And takes upon him those things to controle,
Which should the brainelesse Ideot sell his soule,
All his dull race, and he, can never buy
With their base pelfe, his glorious industry;
Knowledge with him is idle, if it straine
Above the compasse of his yestie braine:
Nor knowes mens worthes but by a second hand,
For he himselfe doth nothing understand;
He would have some thing, but what tis he showes not,
What he would speake, nay what to thinke he knowes not:
He nothing more then truth and knowledge loathes,
And nothing he admires of mans, but cloathes.
Now for that I thy dotage dare mislike,
And seeme so deepe, into thy soule to strike;
Because I am so plaine thou lik’st not me,
Why know, poore Slave, I no more thinke of thee,
Then of the Ordure that is cast abroad,
I hate thy vice more then I doe a Toade.
Poore is the spirit that fawnes on thy applause;
Or seekes for suffrage from thy barbarous jawes.
Misfortune light on him, that ought doth way,
Yee sonnes of Beliall, what yee thinke or say.
Who would have thought, whilst wit sought to advance,
It selfe so high, damn’d beastly ignorance;
Under the cloake of knowledge should creepe in,
And from desert should so much credite win;
But all this poysonous froth Hell hath let flie,
In these last dayes, at noble Poesie,
That which hath had both in all times and places,
For her much worth, so sundry soveraigne graces;
The language, which the Spheares and Angels speake,
In which their minde they to poore Mortalls breake
By Gods great power, into rich soules infus’d,
By every Moone-Calfe lately thus abus’d:
Should all hells blacke inhabitants conspire,
And more unheard of mischiefe, to them hyer;
Such as high Heav’n were able to affright,
> And on the noone-sted bring a double night:
Then they have done, they could not more disgrace her,
As from the earth (even) utterly to race her:
What Princes lov’d, by Pesants now made hatefull,
In this our age so damnably ingratefull:
And to give open passage to her fall,
It is devis’d to blemish her withall;
That th’ hideous braying of each barbarous Asse,
In Printed Letters freely now must passe.
In Accents so untuneable and vile,
With other Nations as might damne our Ile,
If so our tongue they truly understood,
And make them thinke our braines were meerely mud.
To make her vile, and ugly, to appeare,
Whose naturall beauty is Divinely cleare;
That on the Stationers Stall, who passing lookes,
To see the multiplicity of Bookes,
That pester it, may well beleeve the Presse,
Sicke of a surfet, spu’d with the excesse:
Which breedeth such a dulnesse through the Land,
Mongst those one tongue which onely understand,
Which did they reade those sinewie Poems writ,
That are materiall relishing of wit:
Wise pollicie, Morallity, or Story,
Well purtraying the Ancients and their glory,
These blinded Fooles, on their base Carion feeding,
Which are (in truth) made ignorant by reading,
In little time would growe to be asham’d,
And blush to heare those lowzie Pamphlets nam’d,
Which now they studie, naught but folly learning,
Which is the cause that they have no discerning,
The good from bad, this ill, that well to know,
Because in ignorance they are nourish’d so;
Who for this hatefull trash should I condemne
They that doe utter, or Authorize them:
O that the Ancients should so carefull be,
Of what they did impresse, and onely we
Loosely at randome, should let all things flie,
Though gainst the Muses it be blasphemie:
But yet to happy spirits, and to the wise,
All is but foolish that they can devise,
For when contempt of Poesie is proudest,
Then have the Muses ever sung the loudest.
But to my Calfe, who to be counted prime,
According to the fashion of the time,
Him to associate some Buffoon doth get,
Whose braines he still, with much expence must whet,
And ever beare about him as his guest,
Who comming out with some ridiculous jest,
Of one (perhaps) a god that well might be,
If but compar’d with such an Asse as he,
His Patron rores with laughter, and doth crye,
Take him away, or presently I dye.
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 152