SATIRE

II.

IR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate

SIR;

Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state

In all ill things, fo excellently beft,

That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the reft,

Though Poetry, indeed, be fuch a fin,

As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in:

Though like the peftilence, and old-fashion'd love,

Ridingly it catch men and doth remove

Never, till it be ftarv'd out; yet their state

Is poor, difarm'd, like Papifts, not worth hate.

One (like a wretch, which at barre juďgd as dead,

Yet prompts him which ftands next, and cannot read, And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means,

(Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes. As in foine Organs, Puppits dance above

And bellows pant below, which them do move.

SA A TIR A

II.

YES; thank my ftars! as early as I knew

This Town, I had the fenfe to hate it too: Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be ftill One Giant - Vice, fo excellently ill,

That all befide, one pities, not abhors;

As who knows Sappho, fmiles at other whores.

I grant that Poetry's a crying fin;

It brought (no doubt) th' Excife and Army in:

Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows

how,

But that the cure is ftarving, all allow.

Yet like the Papift's, is the Poet's ftate,

Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!

Here a lean Bard, whofe wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an Actor live;

The Thief condemn'd, in law already dead,

So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd Organ move, The gilded puppers dance and mount above. Heav'd by the 'breath th' infpiring bellows blow: Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.

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One would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's charms

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms; Rams, and flings now are filly battery,

Pistolets are the best artillery.

And they who write to Lords, rewards to get, Are they not like fingers at doors for meat? And they who write, because all write, have ftill That fcufe for writing, and for writing ill.

But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw Rankly digested, doth thofe things out-fpue, As his own things; and they're his own, 'tis true, For if one eat my meat, though it be known The meat was mine, the excrement's his own.

But thefe do me no harm, nor they which use, to out-ufure Jews,

Toutdrink the fea, t'out-fwear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be

As Confeffors, and for whose finful fake

Schoolmen, new tenements in hell muft make;

NOTES.

VER. 38. Irishmen outswear), The Original fays,
out-fwear the Letanie.

improved by the Imitator to a just stroke of Satire. Dr. Donne's is a low allufion to a licentious quibble used, at that time, by the Enemies of the English Liturgy, who dif liking the frequent

One Sings the Fair; but songs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love : In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege they hold, And fcorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold.

These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get, 25° As needy beggars fing at doors for meat. Thofe write becaufe all write, and fo have still Excufe for writing, and for writing ill.

Wretched indeed! but far more wretched yet

Is he who makes his meal on others wit:

'Tis chang'd, no doubt, from what it was before,
His rank digeftion makes it wit no more:
Senfe, pa thro' him, no longer is the fame;
For food digefted takes another name.

I pafs o'er all those Confeffors and Martyrs,

Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres,

Out-cant old Efdras, or out-drink his heir,
Out- ufure Jews, or Irifhmen out-fwear;
Wicked as Pages, who in early years

At fins which Prifca's Confeffor fcarce hears.
Ev'n thofe I pardon, for whofe finful fake

Schoolmen new tenements in hell muft make;

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35

40

invocations in the Letanie, called them the taking God's Name in wain, which is the Scripture periphrafis for fwearing..

Whose strange fins Canonifts could hardly tell

In which Commandment's large receit they dwell.
But these punish themselves. The infolence
Of Cofcus, only, breeds my jutt offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches pox,
And plodding on, muft make a calf an ox)

Hath made a Lawyer; which (alas) of late;
But fcarce a Poet: jollier of this ftare,

Than are new-benefic'd Minifters, he throws

And wooes in Language of the Pleas and Bench.

Words, words which would tear

The tender labyrinth of a Maid's foft ear:

More, more than ten Sclavonians fcolding, more

Than when winds in our ruin'd Abbyes roar.

NOTES.

VER. 44. In what Commandment's large contents they dwell.) The Original is more humourous,

In which Commandment's large receit they dwell. As if the Ten Commandments were fo wide, as to ftand ready to receive every thing within them, that either the Law of Na