h Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill: Walk fober off; before a sprightlier age Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage: Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and ease, h Vivere fi recte nefcis, decede peritis. VOL. II. THE "Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes. HOR. Y SATIRE II. ES; thank my stars! as early as I knew That all befide, one pities, not abhors; It brought ( no doubt) th' Excise and Army in : Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving, all allow. Yet like the Papift's, is the Poet's state, Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate! Here SATIRE II, SIR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate 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, As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in : Is poor, difarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate. Here a lean Bard, whose wit could never give 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 scorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold. These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get, 25 As needy beggars fing at doors for meat. Thofe One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read, And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means (Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes. As in fome Organs Puppits dance above, And bellows pant below, which them do move. One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's charms Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms; 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 |