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 '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 fea, t'out-swear the Letante,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As Confessors, and for whose sinful lake
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 what Commandment's large receit they dwell. As if the Ter Commandments were so wide, as to fand ready

.

을

In love's, in nature's spite, the fiege they hold,
And scorn the flesh, 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 rfame.

I pass o’er all those Confessors and Martyrs, 35 Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres, Out-cant old Efdras, or out-drink his heir, Out-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear; Wicked as Pages, who in early years Act fins which Prisca's Confeffor fcarce hears. Ev'n those I pardon, for whose sinful fake Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make; Of whose strange crimes no Canonist can tell In what Commandment's large contents they dwell.

But these punish themselves. The infolence Of Coscus, 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 goes
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 soft ear:
More, more than ten Sclavonians scolding, more
Than when winds in our ruiti'd Abbyes roar.
Then fick with Poetry, and pofleft 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 strumpets prostitute.
Now like an owl-like watchman he must walk,
His hand still at a bill; now he must talk

50

One, one man only breeds my just offence; 45 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 positive than he. What further could I with the fop to do, But turn a wit, and fcribble verses too; Pierce the soft lab'rinth of a Lady's ear

55 With rhymes of this per cent, and that per year? Or court a Wife, spread out his wily parts, Like nets or lime-twigs, for rich Widows hearts; Call himself Barrister to ev'ry wench, And wooe in language of the Pleas and Bench? 60 Language, which Boreas might to Auster hold More rough than forty Germans when they scold.

Curs'd be the wretch, so venal and so vain: Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane. 'Tis such a bounty as was never known,

65 If Peter deigns to help you to your own : What thanks, what praise, if Peter but supplies, And what a folemn face if he denies ! Grave, as when pris'ners Chake the head and swear 'Twas only Suretiship that brought 'em there.

70 His Office keeps your Parchment fates entirc, He starves with cold to save them from the fire;

Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will swear,
That only suretyship hath brought them there,
And to every suitor 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 asses, and more shameless farre
Than carted whores, lye to the grave Judge; for
Bastardy 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 compass 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 scrapes kitchen-stuffe,
And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe
Of wasting 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
Assurances, big as glofs'd civil laws,
So huge that men (in our times forwardness)
Are Fathers of the Church for writing less.
These he writes not; nor for these written payes,
Therefore spares no length, (as in those first dayes

Nores. b His comparing Advocates inforcing the Law to the Bench, to a wedge in a block, our Author juftly thought too licentious to be imitated.