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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 rest.
Though Poetry, indeed, be fuch a fin,

As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in:
Though like the peftilence, and old-fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state


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 fcenes. As in fome Organs, Puppits dance above And bellows pant below, which them do move.



YES; 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 Sappho, smiles at other whores.
grant that Poetry's a crying fin;

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

But that the cure is ftarving, all allow.
Yet like the Papist'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 would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's charms

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Rams, and flings now are filly battery,
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 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'outdrink the fea, t'out-fwear the Letanie, Who with fins all kinds as familiar be

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As Confeffors, and for whofe finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;


VER. 38. Irishmen outfwear] The Original fays, out-fwear the Letaine.

improved by the Imitator to a juft ftroke of Satire. Dr. Donne's is a low allufion to a licentious quibble ufed, at that time, by the Enemies of the English Liturgy, who difliking the frequent

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 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 fo have ftill 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 digested takes another name.

I país o'er all thofe 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-swear; Wicked as Pages, who in early years Act fins which Prifca's Confeffor scarce hears. 40 Ev'n those I pardon, for whofe finful fake Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;


invocations in the Letanie, called them the taking God's Name in vain, which is the Scripture periphrafis for fwearing.



Whose strange fins Canonists could hardly tell
In which Commandment's large receit they dwell-
But these punish themselves. The infolence
Of Cofcus, only, breeds my just 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 scarce a Poet: jollier of this state,
Than are new-benefic'd Ministers, he throws
Like nets or lime-twigs wherefoe'er he
His title of Barrister 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.

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

In which Commandment's large receit they dwell.

As if the Ten Commandments were fo wide, as to ftand ready to receive every thing within them, that either the Law of Na

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