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IR; 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. Though Poetry, indeed, be fuch a fin,

As, I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in :
Though like the peftilence, and old-fafhion'd love,
Ridlingly 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 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 bellow, which them do move.

One would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's


Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;

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ES; thank my ftars! as early as I knew
This Town, I had the sense 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 Sapho, fmiles at other whores.
I grant that Poetry's a crying fin;

It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in:
Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows

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, 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 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:

* O

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Rams, and flings now are filly battery,

Piftolets 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 still
That 'fcufe for writing, and for writing ill.
'. But he is worft, who beggarly doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digefted, doth those 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,
T'out-drink the fea, t'out-swear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As Confeffors, and for whofe finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Whose strange fins Canonifts could hardly tell
In which Commandment's large receit they dwell.


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

In what Commandment's large receit they dwell. As if the Ten Commandments were fo wide, as to ftand ready

In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege they hold,
And scorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold.
These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get,
'As needy beggars fing at doors for meat.
Those write because all write, and so 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: Sense, past thro' him, no longer is the fame; For food digefted takes another fame.

I pass o'er all those Confeffors and Martyrs, 35 Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres, Out-cant old Efdras, or out-drink his heir, Out-ufure Jews, or Irishmen out-fwear; Wicked as Pages, who in early years Act fins which Prifca's Confeffor fcarce hears. Ev'n those I pardon, for whofe finful fake Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make; Of whose strange crimes no Canonift can tell In what Commandment's large contents they dwell.


to receive every thing within them, that either the Lar of Nature or the Gospel commands. A just ridicule on thefe practical Commentators, as they are called, who include all moral and religious Duties within them.

But these punish themselves. The infolence
Of Cofcus, only, breeds my juft offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches pox,
And plodding on, múft make a calf an ox)
Hath made a Lawyer; which (alas) of late;
But fcarce a Poet: jollier of this ftate,
Than are new-benefic'd Minifters, he throws
Like nets or lime-twigs wherefoe'er he goes

His title of Barrifter on ev'ry wench,

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.

Then fick with Poetry, and poffeft with Muse
Thou waft, and mad I hop'd; but men which chufe
Law practice for meer gain; bold foul repute
Worfe than imbrothel'd ftrumpets proftitute.
Now like an owl-like watchman he must walk,
His hand ftill at a bill; now he must talk

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