THE Whipper of the satire his pennance in a white sheet: OR, The Beadles Confutation.  
 printer's or publisher's device  
AT LONDON Printed for Thomas Pauier. 1601.   

TO ALL IVDICIALL CENSVRERS.  
brave sp'rited Gentles, on whose comely from  
The Rose of favour sits Maiestica●l,  
I bend the stubborn Atlas of stern wrath.  
But for the fau'rus of a b●st●rd quill,  
The instrument of a poor Beadles rage:  
I greet them with a careless mindes resolve,  
truth fears no touch, ne dreads presumptions scourge;  
Pr●ud tyranny by usurpation  
cannot depose invested verity:  
Vaile Bonnet then insulting Tamberlayne;  
At least a Monarch: if the Satyrs Whip  
He must be carted t●en, for Pride must mount.  
mary an● shall; but weele no Bazons tang:  
Yes yes at any hand; Ile tell y●u why,  
If all be whist, we shall w●nt company.  
Then Pride will faint: Oh haue a care to that,  
For if he ride not in his glorious pomp,  
It is no gl●ry: Therefore a Doung-cart Ho'e,  
To glut the world with greater admiration,  
For things of worth feed all mens expectation.  
But worthy Readers of my worthles Writ,  
As Writers onely aim to please the Wise,  
So my endeavour is to lodge content  
Within the closet of judicial hartes.  
judge then aright, and with supposes help  
Strengthen my imperfection, where Art wantes  
Reason shall lewd supply: imagine then  
You s●e the Satyrs Whipper in his pride,  
drawn by an Infant of a satirist:  
Who though he hath received many a jerk,  
red with what patience he susteynes that yoke:  
●ut if y●u find him out of order tripping,  
dispense with him that's subject unto whipping.   

The Satyrs whipper his pennance in a white sheet.  
OR, The Beadles Confutation.  

NOw for a Scourge of Wire to cicatrise  
On the proud carcase of poor penury.  
Whose daring Muse doth over dare peet eyes  
To gaze vpon her imbecility:  
Too weak a foe to shun a destiny dainger,  
under the habbit of a foreign stranger.   

Were I a satire, as no Satirist,  
A Poet, as I cannot poetize:  
Or as thou tearm'●t an Epigramatist:  
Were I Arts master, or could morralize,  
I would dare more to him, that dare so much,  
Whose thoughts divine he doth so sharply touch.   

O'rwening Beadell, termed the Satyr's Whip,  
No marvell though the worlds Inhabitants  
suck the'nfectious blood of sins sweet lip,  
And in such antic shapes so proudly vaunts:  
No marvell if it be at such a stay,  
When impecuninus Asses bear such sway.   

I mean such Striplinges as perhaps he is,  
Who overtook in undertaking Arme●,  
arms framed of words, who with a Iudas kiss  
Doth hug the world, and with sweet sour alarm's  
Doth animate it to persist in sin,  
And why? because he knows it joys therein.   

But thou( vainglorious) who so e're thou art,  
That wouldst disgrace such as anotomize  
The times abusers, and by Wit and Art  
prove faslhood truth: How can that sympathise?  
'gainst thee I writ, to thee my Writ commend,  
unknown thy foe, though known perhaps no friend.   

Nor subtle Wit, nor sweet tong'd poetry,  
Nor Art, the glory of vainglorious men,  
Shall aid my feeble imbecility:  
The question is, how to confute thee then?  
Reason, that in the robes of sense did suit me,  
says, maugre Art or Wit I shall confute thee.   

And thus I argue, holding argument  
Against the proud aspiring insolent  
Apparreld in an imbry vestament,  
As if within oblivious continent:  
But such a hissing Serpent can not lye  
under the shadow of obscurity.   

Thou that liest lurking in a Buzards shape,  
( A Fowles shape, fitting such a busy fool)  
Thou which dost after some promotion gape,  
Clawing the world; come take an humble stool:  
seat thee by me, do but as I will do,  
And thou shalt haue a friend; yea, perhaps two.   

I hate the world, and yet hate not to bee,  
Because I am perforce, even what I am:  
I scorn the world, and therefore I scorn thee,  
That dallies with it as a courtesan:  
But had I fast lost opportunity,  
You should be whipped, and nor a Whipper be.   

Reuil'st thou him that telleth man of sin,  
Seeming to foster such as sinful be:  
Better it we●e thy Pen at rest had been,  
Then to uphold such public villainy:  
Should not the world be  told of sin; and why?  
Yes maugre Art or Wit: I say you lie.   

Doth one amiss, or doth the Child offend?  
Shall not the Fathers care correct that Child,  
First by persuasions kindly to amend,  
And gentle speeches, words with favour mild?  
Will not this do, and shall he spare the body  
Of that faire Stripling? Go to, you are a noddy.   

Had I a Child( though bearing name of Will)  
He should not tie that Will unto himself:  
self-will is nought, tis bad, tis passing ill,  
Should Will in that will ioy, I'd jerk the elf:  
And so shouldst thy wayward Child, or rather  
I wish thee live a fool, then prove a father.   

Whether ist Art or poetry or Wit,  
Or all, or none; or but thine own conceit,  
That bid● me seeing sin, not chide with it,  
The last I hold it rather, sound retreat:  
Be still, be still, twere good you call them in,  
Your scouts I mean, that so incourrage sin.   

Not tell the world of sin? yes that I will,  
Though thou with triple prohibition frown:  
I say tis nought, tis wild, tis worse then ill,  
And some will turn it topsy turuie down,  
And thou thyself a worm, as others bee,  
Thou flatter'st with the world: shall I with thee?   

No no, thou art unwise for all thy wit,  
For Reason and true-Iudgment tells me so.  
Do I amiss? how should I know of it,  
By hums, or hems, or signs? Good Wizard no.  
If I haue sin, and know not what it is,  
I may be damned, not knowing my amiss.   

But tis replied, if we would learn aright  
We must give ear unto the heavenly voice  
Of sacred Teachers, comforting the wright,  
Where holy people sing with dulcet noize:  
All this I grant, and there man may hear much,  
But yet his ear of sin can brook no touch.   

If one amongst a multitude, tis well:  
But preethee, canst thou tell me which is he?  
The divine Preacher tells men there is Hell,  
And heaven likewise; ther's bliss, and misery:  
Who seeks the one? or who doth shun the other?  
So much is man to shune a sinful brother.   

Those sacred Pastors take exceeding pain,  
To win the wicked to a blessed life,  
Commanding man from wickedness refrain,  
But still dissension sets us all at strife:  
They may command as God commandeth them  
But we will do our wills: Why? we are men.   

But let the Heauens frown, the Welkin thunder,  
Perhaps weele fear a little, and mind our God:  
Threats may prevail,& signs may make us wonder  
Yet fear we not, until we feel the rod.  
Is this our life? then whip each other well,  
Better be whipped on Earth, then scourged in Hell.   

I meet a follow as the str●etes I place,  
That holde● the word of God under his arm:  
I ask from whence he comes? with humble grace  
And salvations that pretend no harm  
He answers me; From Paules: Who reeds to day?  
A toward scholar, but I could not stay.   

And why( quoth I?) Faith thers no room, says he.  
Your reason sir? Are all the places taken?  
No, tis his doctrine which disliketh me.  
As how? even thus: he says I am forsaken.  
How, of the divell? a happy man are you.  
No, but of God: yea, and he says tis true.   

Within this earth( and then he strikes his breast)  
I know but onely one poor imperfection:  
Which if but named, the namer I detest,  
The thought whereof, breeds such rejection:  
For since the satirist so played on me,  
I can not brook to hear of letcherie. &c.   

Now sir, to you sir, that can cast so well,  
And haue a trick in wrestling for a foil;  
Verbosious sir, you that with words will quell  
undaunted spirites, you that keep such coil,  
By turning heels up: were you not I pray  
At my Lord Maiors wrestling tother day?   

Was it not you that fell the lubber down,  
And gave the Miller such a cleanly fall?  
Or was it you lay flatly on the ground,  
When caps flew up, and men cried, God save all?  
Or were you then at Cambridge when you thought  
You could do this and that, and all was nought?   

But what, where, when, or who, I care not;  
Haue at you sir, and that I tro's faire play:  
I give you warning, and in faith sir spare not,  
To shield yourself against this first assay.  
You strove 'gainst many, I onely strive with one,  
One single fall( kind sir) and I haue done.   

I lay my life I throw you: bravely said:  
Nay I will do it, if not done before.  
What dares your Worship my resolve upbraid?  
I stand on firm ground, and haue helps good store  
Part fire and tow, all mercy else is fled,  
Stand up for shane, the coller slips your head.   

A Gentleman that had a wayward fool,  
To pass the time, would needs at pusti-pin play:  
And playing false, doth stir the wau'ring stool,  
The Innocent had ●pi'd him, and cried stay,  
Play that again s●yd he, you did not win,  
And then the fool began to cry for's pin.   

Thou absurd ass( his master then replies)  
Must you needs whine,& strooke him on the ear:  
With that the fool was whist, and dried his eyes,  
And afterwards he durst not cry for fear:  
When he perceiu'd the blows he got thereby,  
The fool grew wise, and did forbear to cry.   

Now censure( gentle spirits) ist not faire?  
Haue I not cast him cle y● Iudgement ho●?  
Now by my Muse, and shees scarce worth a hair,  
Was never Wiseman had so kind● thro●,  
And by the fool in that lift overthrown,  
A fool or no fool, is the Whipper one?   

One says an echo, from a hollow cave  
Sounded by thousands which concord as one,  
Who cal●es a seeming honest man a knave,  
Without he prove his imperfection:  
And when by proof that sinful fault he know,  
Will he not call him friend that  told him so.   

Then friendly satirist, to thy Pen again,  
Let not one private novice terrify  
With halting lines, thy iron lasting brain,  
Whom sacred truth doth daily nutrifie:  
But with a brow according to thy hart,  
I town on the world, and give it his desert.   

How many souls within this little round,  
blessed with the knowledge of divinity,  
And for their zeal unto the highest renowned  
under the sceptre of virginity,  
Who haue a thousand thousand sundry times  
Grafted sweet Grapes vpon unpleasant Vines.   

And where is one that takes? where may we find  
A hart converted from impiety?  
Do we not swim in sin? Are we not blind,  
And hourly bath us in iniquity?  
And yet for all these imperfections,  
We should be free from all corrections?   

No no, since kind persuasions will not do,  
Sung from the tongue of dulcet piety,  
Let ireful Fury whip and scourge them to,  
Sounding their souls perpetual misery:  
Hell ganes for such, and such as sinful bee  
Must taste the horror of obscurity,   

Insatiate Pride, whose silver spaugled tyre,  
Makes her admired in a vulgar eye,  
Her dangling Aglers which so high aspire,  
As if she were not base mortallitie:  
rings every hour her souls killing knell,  
And summons her unto the court of Hell.   

But when a sin is spoken general,  
Who will assume it, and say I am shee:  
Yet if a man meet Pride majestical,  
And to her face say, poor proud misery,  
vail Bonnet housewife, what? I know your name,  
Shee'll blushy& hid her wanton face for shane.   

If this will then force reformation,  
Why shall I fear to say a knave', a knave?  
What shall I stand in dread of conjuration,  
Because Untrusse hath from his dusky cave  
Sent a lean writhen Beadle all in hast,  
To lay the mansion of the satires waste.   

No no, avaunt bace fear, it cannot bee,  
Tell him, the satire may not be deposd,  
So long as truth sings his apology:  
Nor is he of so bace a mould composed,  
As to be subject to a slight impression,  
For a true Satyre's guyltles of transgression.   

If I should say, thou wert a busy Sir,  
With a good conscience canst thou say I lye?  
Was never Whipper kept so great a stir,  
having such careless souls for Tyrranie?  
For were it not a Gentleman's disgrace,  
I'd term the Whipper fool unto his face.   

Perhaps your wisdom will a lash impose  
Of fell correction, on my tender back:  
Well if you do, you shall no labour lose,  
Ile take it well in worth: but if you lack,  
What so you chance to lend without request,  
I will repay't with double interest.   

mean time, good satire to thy wonted train,  
As yet there are no lets to hinder thee▪  
Thy touching quill with a sweet moving strain,  
Sings to the soul a blessed lullabie:  
Thy lines beget a tymerous fear in all,  
And that same fear deep thoughts angellicall.   

So that the whylome le●wd lascivious man,  
Is now remote from his abhorred life,  
And clothes the dalliance of a courtesan,  
And every breathing wicked soul at strife:  
Co●tending which shall first begin to mend,  
That they may glory in a blessed end.   

Droupe then( wise fool) and with a blushy of shane  
Of fiery coullor shadow thy pale face:  
I know thy thoughts ●ow'● high as golden famed:  
But Pride aspiring take● with foul disgrace,  
Y●el● then confuted, and with patience bear  
This gentle pennance, as a single sh●●e.    
FINIS.