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So vaft, our new Divines, we must confefs,
The lands are bought; but where are to be found Thofe ancient woods, that fhaded all the ground? We fee no new-built palaces afpire,
#No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.
reprefentation of the first part of his conduct was to ridicule his want of devotion; as the other, where he tells us, that the addition was the power and glory claufe, was to fatirize his ambition; and both together to infinuate that, from a Monk, he was become totally fecularized.-About this time of his life Dr. Donne had a ftrong propenfity to Popery, which appears ! from several strokes in thefe fatires. We find amongst his works, a fhort fatirical thing called a Catalogue of rare books, one article of which is intitled, M. Lutberus de abbreviatione Orationis Dominica, alluding to Luther's omiffion of the concluding Doxology, in his two Catechifms, which fhews he was fond of the joke; and, in the first inftance, (for the fake of his moral) at the expence of truth. As his putting Erafmus and Reuchlin in the rank of Lully and Agrippa shews what were
Where the old landlords troops, and almes? In halls Carthufian Fafts, and fulfome. Bacchanals
Equally I hate. Mean's bleft. In rich men's homes
VER. 127. Treafon, or the Lawv.] By the Law is here meant the Lawyers.
Where are thofe troops of Poor, that throng'd of yore
Thus much I've faid, I truft, without offence;
ELL; I may now receive, and die. My fin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in A Purgatory, fuch as fear'd hell is
A recreation, and scant map of this.
My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor hath been Poyfon'd with love to fee or to be feen,
I had no fuit there, nor new fuit to show,
VER. 10. Nor the vain itch t'admire, or be admir'd ;] Courtiers have the same pride in admiring, that Poets have in being admir`d, For Vanity as often gratified in paying our court to our fupe. riors, as in receiving it from our inferiors.
ELL, if it be my time to quit the stage, Adieu to all the follies of the age! I die in charity with fool and knave, Secure of peace at leaft beyond the grave. I've had my Purgatory here betimes, And paid for all my fatires, all my rhymes. The Poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames, To this were trifles, toys and empty names.
With foolish pride my heart was never fir'd,