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Dean of ST. PAUL's,


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




THE manly Wit of Donne, which was the character of his genius, fuited best with Satire; and in this he excelled, thongh 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 especially from that fine fragment, called the Progrefs of the Soul, his Verfe did not want harmony. But, I fuppofe, he took the fermoni propiora of Horace too seriously; or rather, was content with the character his master gives of Lucilius,

"Emunctae naris durus componere verfus."

Having spoken of his Progress of the Soul, let me add, that Poetry scarce ever loft more than by his not pursuing and finishing that noble defign; of which he has only given us the introduction. With regard to his Satires, it is almost as much to be lamented that Mr. Pope did not give us a Paraphrafe, in his manner, of the Third, which treats the nobleft subject not only of this, but perhaps of any fatiric poet. To fupply this lofs, though in a very fmall degree, I have here inferted it in the verification of Dr. Parnell. It will at least serve to fhew the force of Dr. Donne's genius, and of Mr. Pope's; by removing all that was ruftic and shocking in the one, and by not being able to reach a single grace of the other.

Compaffion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies

The tears a paffage thro' my fwelling Eyes;
To laugh or weep at fins might idly show
Unheedful paffion, or unfruitful woe.
Satire! arife, and try thy fharper ways,
If ever Satire cur'd an old disease.

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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 strong to vanquish earthly love,
As earthly glory, fame, respect, and show,
As all rewards their Virtue found below?
Alas! Religion proper means prepares,
These means are ours, and muft its End be theirs?

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And fhall thy Father's spirit meet the fight,

Of Heathen Sages cloath'd in heav'nly light,
Whose 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 banifh'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 afpire,
Thy Maker's Vengeance, and thy Monarch's Ire?
Or live entomb'd in fhips, thy leader's prey,
Spoil of the war, the famine, or the fea?
In fearch of pearl, in depth of ocean breathe,
Or live, exil'd the fun, in mines beneath?
Or, where in tempefts icy mountains roll,

Attempt a paffage by the Northern pole?
Or dar'st thou parch within the fires of Spain,
Or burn beneath the line, for Indian gain?




Or for fome Idol of thy Fancy draw


Some loose-gown'd dame; O courage made of ftraw!
Thus, defp'rate Coward! would't thou bold appear,
Yet when thy God has plac'd thee Centry here,
To thy own foes, to bis, ignobly yield,
And leave, for wars forbid, th' appointed field?
Know thy own foes; th' Apoftate Angel, he
You strive to please, the foremost of the Three;
He makes the pleasures of his realm the bait,
But can be give for Love, that acts in Hate?

The World's thy fecond Love, thy fecond Foe,
The World, whose beauties perish as they blow,
They fly, fhe fades herself, and at the best
You grafp a wither'd ftrumpet to your breast.
The Flesh is next, which in fruition wastes,

High flush'd with all the fenfual joys it tastes,
While men the fair, the goodly Soul destroy,
From whence the flesh has pow'r to taste a joy.
Seek thou Religion, primitively found-
Well, gentle friend, but where may she be found?
By Faith Implicite blind Ignaro led,
Thinks the bright Seraph from his Country fled,
And feeks her feat at Rome, because we know
She there was seen a thousand years ago;





And loves her Relick rags, as men obey

The foot-cloth where the Prince fat yesterday.

These pageant Forms are whining Obed's fcorn,

Who feeks Religion at Geneva born,


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