they can never learn; Or let them clamour, turn a callous ear,As though in dread of some harsh donkey's bray. If chid by censor, friendly though severe,
To such explain and turn thee not away. Thy vein, says he perchance, is all too free; Thy smutty language suits not learned pen: Reply, Good Sir, throughout, the context see;
Thought chastens thought; so prithee judge again. Besides, although my master's pen may wander Through devious paths, by which it ought not stray, His life is pure, beyond the breath of slander:
So pardon grant; 'tis merely but his way.
Some rugged ruffian makes a hideous rout-- Brandish thy cudgel, threaten him to baste; The filthy fungus far from thee cast out;
Such noxious banquets never suit my taste. Yet, calm and cautious moderate thy ire,
Be ever courteous should the case allow-- Sweet malt is ever made by gentle fire: Warm to thy friends, give all a civil bow.
Even censure sometimes teaches to improve, Slight frosts have often cured too rank a crop, So, candid blame my spleen shall never move, For skilful gard'ners wayward branches lop.
Go then, my book, and bear my words in mind; Guides safe at once, and pleasant them you'll find. THE ARGUMENT OF THE FRONTISPIECE.
Ten distinct Squares here seen apart, Are joined in one by Cutter's art.
I.
Old Democritus under a tree,
Sits on a stone with book on knee; About him hang there many features, Of Cats, Dogs and such like creatures, Of which he makes anatomy,
The seat of black choler to see. Over his head appears the sky, And Saturn Lord of melancholy. II.
To the left a landscape of Jealousy, Presents itself unto thine eye.
A Kingfisher, a Swan, an Hern,
Two fighting-cocks you may discern,
Two roaring Bulls each other hie, To assault concerning venery. Symbols are these; I say no more, Conceive the rest by that's afore. III.
The next of solitariness,
A portraiture doth well express,
By sleeping dog, cat: Buck and Doe, Hares, Conies in the desert go:
Bats, Owls the shady bowers over, In melancholy darkness hover.
Mark well: If 't be not as't should be,
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Blame the bad Cutter, and not me. IV.
I'th' under column there doth stand
Inamorato with folded hand;
Down hangs his head, terse and polite, Some ditty sure he doth indite.
His lute and books about him lie, As symptoms of his vanity.
If this do not enough disclose,
To paint him, take thyself by th' nose. V.
Hypocondriacus leans on his arm, Wind in his side doth him much harm, And troubles him full sore, God knows, Much pain he hath and many woes. About him pots and glasses lie,
Newly brought from's Apothecary. This Saturn's aspects signify,
You see them portray'd in the sky. VI.
Beneath them kneeling on his knee, A superstitious man you see:
He fasts, prays, on his Idol fixt,
Tormented hope and fear betwixt: For Hell perhaps he takes more pain, Than thou dost Heaven itself to gain. Alas poor soul, I pity thee,
What stars incline thee so to be? VII.
But see the madman rage downright With furious looks, a ghastly sight. Naked in chains bound doth he lie, And roars amain he knows not why! Observe him; for as in a glass,
Thine angry portraiture it was.
His picture keeps still in thy presence;
'Twixt him and thee, there's no difference. VIII, IX.
Borage and Hellebor fill two scenes,
Sovereign plants to purge the veins
Of melancholy, and cheer the heart,
Of those black fumes which make it smart; To clear the brain of misty fogs,
Which dull our senses, and Soul clogs. The best medicine that e'er God made For this malady, if well assay'd.
X.
Now last of all to fill a place, Presented is the Author's face; And in that habit which he wears, His image to the world appears. His mind no art can well express,
That by his writings you may guess. It was not pride, nor yet vainglory, (Though others do it commonly) Made him do this: if you must know, The Printer would needs have it so. Then do not frown or scoff at it,
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Deride not, or detract a whit. For surely as thou dost by him, He will do the same again.
Then look upon't, behold and see, As thou lik'st it, so it likes thee. And I for it will stand in view, Thine to command, Reader, adieu.
THE AUTHOR'S ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY, Diiiiiii
When I go musing all alone
Thinking of divers things fore-known. When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet.
All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I lie waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so mad as melancholy. When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as melancholy. When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, In a dark grove, or irksome den, With discontents and Furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce, All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so sour as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see, Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities fine;
Here now, then there; the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely or divine.
