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Dr. JOHN DONNE, 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





THE manly Wit of Donne, which was the character of his genius, fuited beft 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 suppose, 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 finish. ing 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 fubject not only of this, but perhaps of any fatiric poet. To fupply this lofs, though in a very small degree, I have here inferted it in the verfification 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 fingle grace of the other.


Ompassion checks my fpleen, 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.




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

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, refpect, and show,
As all rewards their Virtue found below?

Alas! Religion proper means prepares,
These means are ours, and muft its End be theirs?
And fhall thy Father's fpirit 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 banish'd from the blest abode.

Oh! if thy temper fuch a fear can find, This fear were valour of the nobleft kind.

Dar'st thou provoke, when rebel fouls aspire,
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?

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Or for fome Idol of thy Fancy draw


Some loose-gown'd dame; O courage made of ftraw!
Thus, defp'rate Coward! would'st 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, whofe 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 sensual 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 feen a thoufand 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 seeks Religion at Geneva born,






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