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Dean of ST. PAUL's,


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





THE manly Wit of Donne, which was the Character of his genius, fuited beft with Satire; and in this he excelled, tho' he wrote but little; fix fhort poems being all we find amongst his writings of this fort. Mr. Pope has embellished two of them with his wit and harmony. He called it verfifying them, because indeed the lines have nothing more of numbers than their being compofed of a certain quantity of fyllables. This is the more to be admired, because, as appears by his other poems, and efpecially from that fine one called the Progrefs of the Soul, his verfe did not want harmony. But, I fuppofe, he took the fermoni propiora of Horace too feriously or rather, was content with the character his mafter gives of Lucilius,

Emunctae naris durus componere versus.


Having spoken of his Progress of the Soul, let me add, that Poetry never loft more than by his not purfuing and finishing that noble Defign; of which he has only given us the Introduction. With regard to his Satires, it is almoft as much to be lamented that Mr. Pope did not give us a Paraphrase, in his manner, of the Third, which treats the nobleft fubject not only of This, but perhaps of any fatiric Poet. To fupply this lofs, tho' in a very fmall degree, I have here inferted it, in the verfification of Dr. Parnell. It will at leaft ferve to fhew the force of Dr. Donne's genius, and of Mr. Pope's; by removing all that was ruftic and fhocking in the one, and not being able to reach a fingle grace of the other.

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Ompassion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies
The tears a paffage thro' my fwelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at fins, might idly fhow
Unheedful paffion, or unfruitful woe.
Satire! arife, and try thy fharper ways,

If ever Satire cur'd an old difeafe.


Is not Religion (Heav'n-descended dame)
As worthy all our foul's devoutest flame,
As Moral Virtue in her early fway,

When the best Heathens faw by doubtful day?
Are not the joys, the promis'd joys above,
As great and ftrong to vanquish earthly love,
As earthly glory, fame, refpect, and show,
As all rewards their virtue found below?
Alas? Religion proper means prepares,



These means are ours, and must its End be theirs?

And fhall thy Father's spirit meet the fight

Of Heathen Sages cloath'd in heav'nly light,
Whofe Merit of ftrict life, feverely fuited
To Reason's dictates, may be faith imputed?
Whilft thou, to whom he taught the nearer road,
Art ever banish'd from the bleft abode.


Oh! if thy temper fuch a fear can find,
This fear were valour of the nobleft kind.
Dar'ft thou provoke, when rebel fouls aspire,
Thy Maker's Vengeance, and thy Monarch's Ire?
Or live entomb'd in fhips, thy leader's
Spoil of the war, the famine, or the sea?
In fearch of pearl, in depth of ocean breathe,
Or live, exil'd the fun, in mines beneath?
Or, where in tempests icy mountains roll,
Attempt a paffage by the Northern pole?
Or dar'ft thou parch within the fires of Spain,
Or burn beneath the line, for Indian gain ?





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