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And Mystries ask believing, which to View
Be Truth, so found, with sacred heed poffeft,
Would'st thou to Pow'r a proper duty shew? 'Tis thy first task the bounds of pow'r to know; The bounds once past, it holds the name no more, 135 Its nature alters, which it own'd before, Nor were submission Humbleness expreft, But all a low Idolatry at best.
Pow'r, from above fubordinately spread, Streams like a fountain from th' eternal head;
140 There, calm and pure the living waters flow, But roar a Torrent or a Flood below; Each flow'r, ordain'd the Margins to adorn, Each native Beauty from its roots is torn, And left on Deserts, Rocks, and Sands, or tost 145 All the long travel, and in Ocean lost:
So fares the soul, which more that Pow'r reveres
This noble Similitude, with which the Satire concludes, Dr. Parnell did not seem to understand, and so was not able to express, in its original force. Dr. Donne says,
“ As streams are, Pow'r is; those blest flow'rs that dwell “ At the rough Streams calm head, thrive, and do well; “ But having left their roots, and themselves given “ To the Streams tyrannous rage, alas, are driven “ Through mills, rocks, and woods, and at last, almost « Consum'd in going, in the Sea are loft.
“ So perish Souls, etc. Dr. Donne compares Power or Authority to Streams; and Souls to Flowers; but not being so explicite in the latter, Dr. Parnell overlooked that part, and so has hurt the whole thought, by making the Flowers pallive; whereas the Original says they leave their roots, and give themselves to the stream : that is, wilfully prefer human Authority to divine; and this makes them the object of his Satire ; which they would not have been, were they irresistibly carried away, as the Imitation supposes.
S A TIRE II. STR;
IR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state In all ill things, so excellently best, That hate towards them, breeds pitytowards the rest. Though Poetry, indeed, be such a sin, As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in: Though like the pestilence, and old-fashion'd love, Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state
disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.
One (like a wretch, which at barre judg’d as dead, Yet prompts him which stands next,and cannot read,
And saves his life) gives Idiot Actors means,
(Starving himself ) to live by's labour'd scenes.
As in some Organs, Puppits dance above
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
S A T I R E II.
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 still One Giant-Vice, so excellently ill, That all beside, one pities, not abhors;
5 As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores. I
grant that Poetry's a crying sin; 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 Papist's, is the Poet's state, Poor and disarm’d, and hardly worth your bate!
Here a lean Bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an Actor live: The Thief condemn'd, in law already dead, So prompts, and saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carv'd Organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above. Heav'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow: Th’ inspiring 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 sings now are silly battery, Pistolets are the best artillery. And they who write to Lords, rewards to get, Are they not like singers at doors for meat? And they who write, because all write, have still That 'fcuse for writing, and for writing ill.
But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw Rankly digested, 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 these do me no harm, nor they which use,
to out-usure Jews,
out-swear the Letaine. improved by the Imitator to a just stroke of Satire. Dr. Donne's is a low allufion to a licentious quibble used, at that time, by the Enemies of the English Liturgy, who disiking the frequent