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Dean of St. PAUL's,


Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Verficulos natura magis factos, et euntes


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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 such 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 ftary'd out; yet their ftate Is poor, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate.

One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Vet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reads And saves 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

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



ES; thank my stars! as early as I knew

This Town, I had the fenfe to hate it too:
Yet here, as ev’n in Hell, there must be still
One Giant-Vice, so excellently ill,
That all befide, one pities, not abhors ;
As who knows Sapho, smiles at other whores.

I grant that Poetry's a crying fin;
It brought (no doubt) thExcise 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 hate !

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.

20 One sings the Fair; but songs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love :

Rams, and Nings 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’scuse 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-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 these do me no harm, nor they which use,

. to out-usure Jews,
T'out-drink the sea, t'out-swear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As Confeflors, and for whole finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make ;
Whose strange fins Canonists could hardly tell
In which Commandment's large receit they dwell.

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

In tuhat Conmandment's large receit they dwell. as if the Ten Commandments were so wide, as to fand ready

In love's, in nature's spite, the fiege they hold,
And scorn the Aesh, che dev'l, and all but gold.

These write to Lords, some mean reward to get, As needy beggars fing at doors for meat.

26 Those write because all write, and so 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:

30 'Tis chang'd, no doubt, from what it was before, His rank digestion makes it wit no more: Sense, past thro' him, no longer is the same; For food digested takes another name.

I pafs o'er all those Confessors and Martyrs, 35 Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres, Out-cant old Esdras, or out-drink his heir, Out-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear; Wicked as Pages, who in early years A&t fins which Prisca's Confeffor scarce hears. 40 Ev’n those I pardon, for whose sinful sake Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make; Of whose strange crimes no Canonist can tell In what Commandment's large contents they dwell.

Notes. to receive every thing within them, that either the Lara of Nature or the Gospel commands. A jutt ridicule on incse practical Commentators, as they are called, who isclude all moral and religious Duties within thein,

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