Collection of Poems, Title page 1 – To kindly courtiers
A SATYRE, Written to the KINGS moſt Excellent Maieſtie, BY GEORGE WITHER, When hee was Priſoner in the Marſhallſey, for his firſt BOOKE.
LONDON: Printed by T.S. for Iohn Budge, dwelling in Pauls-Church-yard, at the ſigne of the Greene Dragon, 1622.
The Satyre to the meere Courtiers.
SIrs; I doe know your mindes; You looke for fees,
For more reſpect then needes, for caps and knees.
But be content, I hauehave not for you now;
Nor will I hauehave at all to doe with you.
For, though I ſeeme oppreſt, and you ſuppoſe
I muſt be faine to crouch to Vertues foes;
Yet know, your fauours I doe ſleight them more
In this diſtreſſe, then ere I did before.
Here to my Liege a meſſage I muſt tell;
If you will let me paſſe, you ſhall doe well;
If you denie admittance, why then know,
I meane to hauehave it where you will or no,
Your formall wiſedome which hath neuer beene
In ought but in ſome fond inuention ſeene,
And you that thinke men borne to no intent,
But to be train'd in Apiſh complement;
Doth now (perhaps) ſuppoſe mee indiſcreet,
And ſuch vnuſed meſſages vnmeet.
But what of that? Shall I goe ſute my matter
VntoUnto your wits, that hauehave but wit to flatter?
Shall I, of your opinions ſo much prize
To loſe my will that you may thinke me wiſe,
Who neuer yet to any liking had,
Vnleſſe he were a Knaue, a Foole, or mad?
You Muſhroms know, ſo much I weigh your powers,
I neither value you, nor what is yours.
Nay, though my croſſes had me quite out-worne,
Spirit enough I'de finde your ſpight to ſcorne:
Of which reſolu'd, to further my aduenture,
VntoUnto my King, without your leaues I enter.
To the Honeſt Courtiers.
BVt You, whoſe onelyonly worth doth colour giuegive.
To Them, that they doe worthy ſeeme to liue,
Kinde Gentlemen, your ayde I craue, to bring
A Satyre to the preſence of his King:
A ſhow of rudeneſſe doth my fore-head arme,
Yet you may truſt him; he intends no harme.
He that hath ſent him, loyall is, and true,
And one, whoſe louelove (I know) is much to you:
But now, he lyes bound to a narrow ſcope;
Almoſt beyond the Cape of all good Hope.
Long hath he ſought to free himſelfe, but failes:
And therefore ſeeing nothing elſe preuailes,
Me, to acquaint his Soueraigne, here he ſends,
As one deſpairing of all other friends.
I doe preſume that you will fauour ſhew him,
Now that a Meſſenger from thence you know him.
For many thouſands that his face ne're knew,
Blame his Accuſers, and his Fortune rue:
And by the helpe which your good word may doe,
He hopes for pitty from his Soueraigne to.
Then in his preſence with your fauours grace him,
And there's no Vice ſo great, ſhall dare out-face him.