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Donne

(Von einem englischen Geistlichett, John Donne, ges boren 1574, gestorben 1631, hat man, außer mehrern Gedichten, sechs Satiren, die mehr Werth von Seiten des oft starken und nachdruckvollen Inhalts, als der Wendung und Einkleidung, haben, die äußerst rauh und ungeschmeidig ist. Vielleicht wären sie längst vergessen, wenn sich Pope nicht ihrer angenommen, und drei davon, die zweite, dritte und vierte, umgearbeitet und modernisirt hätte. Dadurch erhiel ten fie freilich weit mehr Anziehendes, ohne jedoch den eignen Versuchen Pope's in dieser Gattung gleich zu kommen.)

Yes; thank my stars! 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 state,

Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!
Here a lean bard, whose 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 puppets dance and mount above,
Heav'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow:
Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.

One fings the fair; but fongs 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 icorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold.

Thele

Thefe write to lords, fome mean reward to get,
As needy beggars fing at doors for meat.
Thofe write becaufe all write and fo have ftill
Excufe for writing, and for writing ill.

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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 digestion makes it wit no more:
Senfe past thro' him, no longer is the fame;
For food digefted takes another name.

I pafs o'er all thofe confeffors and martyrs,
Who live like Stt-n, or who die like Char-
tres,

Outcant old Esdras, or outdrink his heir,
Outufure Jews, or Irifhmen outfwear:
Wicked as pages, who in early years

Act fins which Prifca's confeffor fcarce hears.
Ev'n thofe I pardon, for whofe finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Of whole ftrange crimes no canonift can tell
In what commandment's large contents they dwell.

One, one man only breeds my just offence; Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence.

Time, that at last matures a clap to pox,
Whofe gentle progress makes a calf an ox,
And brings all natural events to pass,
Hath made him an attorney of an ass.
No young divine, new-beneficd, can be
More pert, more proud, more pofitive than he
What further could I wish the fop to do
But turn a wit, and fcribble verses too?
Pierce the foft lab'rinth of a lady's ear

With rhymes of this per Cent, and that per year?
Or court a wife, fpread out his wily parts,
Like nets or lime-twigs, for rich widows hearts;
Call himself barrister to ev'ry wench,

And woo in language of the pleas and bench?

Lan

Donně.

Donne.

Language, which Boreas might to Aufter hold
More rough than forty Germans when they fcold.

Curs'd be the wretch, fo; venal and fo vain
Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane
'Tis fuch a bounty as was never known
If Peter deigns to help you to your own:
What thanks, what praise, if Peter but fupplies
And what a folemn face, if he denies!

Grave, as when pris'ners fhake the head, and fwear
'Twas only furetifhip that brought'em there.
His office keeps your parchment fates entire
He ftarves with cold to fave them from the fire:
For you he walks the streets thro' rain or duft;
For not in chariots Peter puts his trust!
For you he fweats and labours at the laws,
Takes God to witness, he affects your caufe
And lies to ev'ry lord in ev'ry thing,
Like a king's favourite or like a king.
Thele are the talents that adorn them all,
From wicked waters ev'n to godly **
Not more of fimony beneath black gowns
Not more of baftardy in heirs to crowns
In fhillings and in pence at firft they deal;
And steal fo little, few perceive they steal;
Till, like the fea, they compass all the land.
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover, ftrand
And when rank widows purchase luscious nights,
Or when a duke to Fanfen punts at White's
Or city-heir in mortgage melts away;
Satan himself feels far lefs joy than they.
Piecemeal they win this acre firft, then that,
Glean on, and gather up the whole estate.
Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
Indentures cov'nants articles they draw.
Large as the fields themselves, and larger far
Than civil codes, with all their gloffes, are:
So vaft, our new divines, we must confels,
Are fathers of the church for writing lefs
But let them write for you, each rogue impairs
The deeds, and dextroufly omits, Jes heires:

No

No commentator can more ftily pafs

O'er a learn'd unintelligible place;

Or, in quotation; fhrewd divines leave out

Thofe words that would against them clear the doubt.

So Luther thought the pater-nofter long
When doom'd to fay his beads and even-fong,
But having caft his cowl, and left thofe laws
Adds to Chrift's pray'r, the power and glory claufe.

The lands are bought; but where are to be

found

Those ancient woods, that fhaded all the ground?
We fee no new-built palaces afpire,

No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.

Where are those troops of poor that throng'd of yore,
The good old landlord's hofpitable door?
Well I could wifh, that ftill in lordly domes
Some beaft were kill'd, tho' not whole hetacombs;
That both extremes were banifh'd from their walls,
Carthufian fafts, and fulfome Bacchanals:
And all mankind might that just mean obferve,
In which none e'er could furfeit, none could starvě.
Thefe as good works, 'tis true, we all allow.
But oh! thefe works are not in fashion now:
Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare,
Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.

Thus much I've faid, I trust, without offence:
Let no court-fycophant pervert my sense,
Nor fly informer watch these words to draw
Within the reach of treafon, or the law.

Beisp. S. 2. B.

Ro

Donne:

Rochester.

Rochester.

Johann Wilmor Graf von Rochester, geboren 1648, gestorben 1680, ein junger Mann von sehr ausgezeiche neten Talenten, der aber aller Grundsäße der Religion und der Sittenlehrè spottete, und durch die wildeste Unordnung fein Leben verkürzte. In allen feinen Gedichten herrscht eis ne gewiffe frohe, muthvolle Laune, in der er aber nur állzu oft sich und alle Rücksicht des Wohlstandes vergaß. Unter ihnen ist seine Satire auf den Menschen, die an Stärke und Feuer Boileau's berühmte achte Satire noch übertrifft; aber äußerst unbillig und menschenfeindlich ist doch auch ihr Ton in den meisten Stellen. Hier nur ihre zweite Hälfte :)

Be judge yourself, I'll bring it to the test,
Which is the bafeft creature, Man or Beaft.
Birds feed on birds, beafts on each other prey;
But favage Man alone does Man betray.
Prefs'd by Neceffity, they kill for Food;
Man undoes Man, to do himself no Good.

With teeth and claws by nature arm'd, they hunt
Nature's allowance, to fupply their want:
But Man with smiles, embraces, friendship, praise
Inhumanly his fellow's life betrays;

With voluntary pains works his diftrefs,
Not through Neceflity, but Wantonnels.
For hunger, or for love, they bite or tear,
Whilft wretched Man is ftill in arms for Fear.
For Fear he arms, and is of arms afraid;
From fear to fear fucceffively betray'd.

Base Fear, the fource whence his beft paffiorts came,
His boasted Honour, and his dear-bought Fame;
That Luft of Pow'r, to which he's fuch a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are defign'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable and kind;
For which he takes fuch pains, to be thought wife,
And screws his actions in a forc'd difguife,

Lea

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