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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 best,

That hate towards them, breeds pitytowards the reft. 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 scenes. As in fome Organs, Puppits dance above

And bellows pant below, which them do move.


ES; thank my ftars! as early as I knew


This Town, I had the fense 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.
I 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


But that the cure is starving, all allow.

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Yet like the Papift's, is the Poet's state,
Poor and difarm'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 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 '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 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

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


VER. 38. Irishmen outfwear] The Original says,

out-fwear the Letaine."

improved by the Imitator to a just stroke 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 spite, 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. 26 Those write because all write, and so have still 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 digestion makes it wit no more: Senfe, past thro' him, no longer is the fame; For food digefted takes another name.


I pass o'er all those 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 Canonifts 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 soft ear:

More, more than ten Sclavonians scolding, more Than when winds in our ruin'd Abbyes roar.


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

In which Commandment's large recsit they dwell.

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

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