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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 worst, who beggarly doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digefted, doth those things out-spue,
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-fwear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As Confeffors, and for whose 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 flefh, the dev'l, and all but gold.
These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get, 'As needy beggars fing at doors for meat. 26 Those write because all write, and fo have still Excuse 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 same; For food digefted takes another fame.
I pass o'er all those Confeffors and Martyrs,
Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres,
Out-cant old Efdras, or out-drink his heir,
Out-ufure Jews, or Irifhmen out-swear;
Wicked as Pages, who in early years
Act fins which Prifca's Confeffor fcarce hears.
Ev'n those I pardon, for whose 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 Law 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, must 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 soft 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 soul repute
Worse than imbrothel'd ftrumpets prostitute.
Now like an owl-like watchman he must walk,
His hand ftill at a bill; now he must talk
One, one man only breeds my juft offence;
Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave Impudence:
Time, that at last matures a clap to pox,
Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox,
And brings all natural events to pass,
Hath made him an Attorney of an Afs.
No young divine, new-benefic'd, can be
More pert, more proud, more pofitive than he.
What further could I wifh 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 Barrifter to ev'ry wench,
And wooe in language of the Pleas and Bench?
Language, which Boreas might to Auster hold
More rough than forty Germans when they scold.
Curs'd be the wretch, fo venal and so 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 thake the head and fwear
'Twas only Suretiship that brought 'em there.
His Office keeps your Parchment fates entire,
He ftarves with cold to fave them from the fire;
Idly, like prifoners, which whole months will fwear,
That only furetyfhip hath brought them there,
And to every fuitor lye in every thing,
Like a King's Favourite-or like a King.
Like a wedge in a block, wring to the barre,
Bearing like affes, and more fhameless farre
Than carted whores, lye to the grave Judge; for
Baftardy abounds not in King's titles, nor
Simony and Sodomy in Church-men's lives,
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 ftrand,
And spying heirs melting with Luxury,
Satan will not joy at their fins as he:
For (as a thrifty wench fcrapes kitchen-stuffe,
And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe
Of wafting candles, which in thirty year,
Reliquely kept, perchance buys wedding chear)
Piecemeal 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 times forwardness)
Are Fathers of the Church for writing lefs.
These he writes not; nor for these written payes,
Therefore fpares no length, (as in those first dayes
His comparing Advocates inforcing the Law to the Bench, to a wedge in a block, our Author juftly thought too licentious to be imitated.