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Not more of Simony beneath black gowns,
Not more of battardy in heirs to crowns.
In fillings and in pence at firft they deal,
And fteal fo little, few perceive they steal;
Till like the fea, they compa's all the land,
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover Strand:
And when rank widows purchase luscious nights,
Or when a Duke to Jaffen punts at White's,

Or city heir in mortgage melts away,
Satan himself feels far lefs joy than they.
Piece-meal they win this acre first, then that,
Glean on, and gather up the whole eftate;
Then ftrongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
Indentures, cov`nants, articles, they draw,
Large as the fields themfelves, and larger far
Than Civil codes, with all their gloffes, are;
So vaft, our new divines, we must confefs,
Are fathers of the church for writing lefs.
But let them write, for you each rogue impairs
The deeds, and dext'rously omits fes heires:
No commentator can more flily pafs
O'er a learn'd unintelligible place;

Simony and Sodomy in churchmen's lives,

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As these things do in him; by these he thrives.
Shortly (as th' fea) he'll compafs all the land,
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover Strand;
And spying heirs melting with luxury,

Satan will not joy at their fins as he:

For (as a thrifty wench fcrapes kitchen stuff,
And barrelling the droppings and the fnuff
Of wafting candles, which in thirty year,
(Reliquely kept) perchance buys wedding chear)
Piece-meal he gets lands, and spends as much time
Wringing each acre as maids pulling prime.
In parchment then, large as the fields, he draws
Affurances big as glofs'd civil laws;

So huge, that men (in our time's forwardness)
Are fathers of the church for writing less.

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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 Pow'r and glory Claufe.
The lands are bought: but where are to be found
Those ancient woods that fhaded all the ground? 110
We fee no new built palaces aspire,

No kitchens emulate the Veftal fire.

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Where are those troops of poor that throng'd of yore
The good old landlord's hofpitable door?
Well, I could wish that still, in lordly domes,
Some beafts were kill'd, tho' not whole hecatombs;
That both extremes were banish'd from their walls,
Carthufian fafts and fulfome Bacchanals;
And all mankind might that just mean observe,
In which none e'er could furfeit, none could starve.

Thefe he writes not, nor for these written pays,
Therefore spares no length; (as in thofe first days
When Luther was profeft, he did defire
Short Pater-nofters, faying as a fryer

Each day his beads: but having left thofe laws,
Adds to Chrift's prayer the Pow'r and Glory claufe ;)
But when he fells or changes land, h'impairs

His writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out fes heires,
And flily, as any commentator, goes by

Hard words or fenfe; or in divinity

As controverters in vouch'd texts leave out Shrewd words, which might against them clear the doubt.

Where are thofe fpread woods which cloth'd heretofore Thofe bought lands? not built, nor burnt within door. Where the old landlord's troops and alms? In halls Carthufian fafts and fulfome Bacchanals

Equally I hate. Means bleft. In rich men's homes I bid kill fome beasts, but no hecatombs ;

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.

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Thus much I've faid, I truft without offence; 125 Let no court fycophant pervert my fenfe,

Nor fly informer watch, these words to draw
Within the reach of treafon or the law.

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None starve, none furfeit fo. But (oh!) w' allow
Good works as good, but out of fashion now,
Like old rich wardrobes. But my words none draws
Within the vast reach of th' huge statute-laws.

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WELL;

SATIRE IV.

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 least 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,
Nor the vain itch t' admire or be admir'd:
I hop'd for no commiffion from his Grace;
I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place;
Had no new verfes nor new fuit to show,

Yet went to Court!-the devil would have it fo.
But as the fool that in reforming days
Would go to mafs in jeft, (as story says,)
Could not but think to pay his fine was odd,
Since 'twas no form'd defign of ferving God,
So was I punish'd, as if full as proud,
As prone to ill, and negligent of good,

SATIRE IV.

WELL; 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 fcant map of this.

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My mind neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been
Poifon'd with love to fee or to be seen.

I had no fuit there, nor new fuit to fhow,
Yet went to court: but as Glare, which did go
To maís in jeft, catch'd, was fain to disburse
The hundred marks, which is the ftatute's curfe,
Before he 'cap'd; fo 't pleas d my destiny
(Guilty of my fin of going) to think me
As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-
Full, as proud, lustful, and as much in debt,

As deep in debt, without a thought to pay,
As vain, as idle, and as falfe, as they
Who live at court, for going once that way!
Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came
A thing which Adam had been pos'd to name;
Noah had refus'd it lodging in his ark,
Where all the race of reptiles might embark:
A verier monfter than on Afric's thore
The fun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,

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Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous fhelves contain, Nay, all that lying travellers can feign.

The watch would hardly let him país at noon,

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At night would fwear him dropp'd out of the moon:
One whom the mob, when next we find or make
A Popish plot, fhall for a Jefuit take,

And the wife juftice, ftarting from his chair,
Cry, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?
Such was the wight: the apparel on his back,
Tho' coarfe was rev'rend, and tho' bare was black:
The fuit, if by the fashion one might guefs,
Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess,

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As vain, as witlefs, and as falfe as they
Which dwell in court, for once going that way,
Therefore I fuffer'd this. Towards me did run
A thing more ftrange than on Nile's flime the fun
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came;
A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name :
Stranger than feven antiquaries' studies,
Than Afric's monfters, Guiana's rarities;
Stranger than ftrangers; one who for a Dane
In the Danes' maffacre had fure been flain,
If he had liv'd then, and without help dies
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise:
One whom the watch at noon lets fcarce go by;
One t' whom th' examining juftice fure would
Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what
you are?
His cloaths were ftrange tho' coarfe, and black tho1
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now (fo much ground was feen)

cry,

[bare;

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