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And swiftly shoot along the mall,
BOOK IV. ODE IX.
should think that verse shall die Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song:
Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native Muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay
Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæsar was, or Newton named; These raised new empires o'er the earth,
And those new heavens and systems framed.
Vain was the chief's the sage's pride!
SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE,
DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S,
Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
SATIRE II. YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew This town, I had the sense to hate it too ; Yet here, as e'en in Hell, there must be still One giant-vice, so excellently ill, That all beside one pities, not abhors: As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.
I grant that poetry's a crying sin; It brought (no doubt) the excise and army Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows But that the cure is starving, all allow; [how, Yet like the papist's is the poet's state, Poor and disarm’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
saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carved organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above :
Heaved by the breath the inspiring bellows blow; The' inspiring bellows lie and pant below.
One sings the fair; but songs no longer move; No rat is rhymed to death, nor maid to love: In Love's, in Nature's spite, the siege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the Devil, and all but gold.
These write to lords, some mean reward to get, As needy beggars sing at doors for meat: 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: 'Tis changed, no doubt, from what it was before; His rank digestion makes it wit no more: Sense pass’d through him no longer is the same; For food digested takes another name. I pass
o'er all those confessors and martyrs, Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres, Out-cant old Esdras, or out-drink his heir, Out-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear; Wicked as pages, who in early years Act sins which Prisca's confessor scarce hears. E’en those I pardon, for whose sinful sake Schoolmen new tenements in Hell must make; Of whose strange crimes no canonist can tell In what commandment's large contents they dwell.
One, one man only breeds my just offence, Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impuTime, that at last matures a clap to pox; [dence: Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox, And brings all natural events to pass, Hath made him an attorney of an ass. No young divine, new-beneficed, can be More pert, more proud, more positive, than he.
What further could I wish the fop to do,
Cursed be the wretch, so venal and so vain, Paltry and proud as drabs in Drury-lane. 'Tis such a bounty as was never known, If Peter deigns to help you to your own ; What thanks, what praise, if Peter but supplies ! And what a solemn face, if he denies ! Grave, as when prisoners shake the head, and
'Twas only suretyship that brought them there.
you he walks the streets through rain or dust, For not in chariots Peter puts his trust: For you
he sweats and labours at the laws,
Till, like the sea, they compass all the land,
The lands are bought; but where are to be found
poor, that throng'd of The good old landlord's hospitable door? [yore Well I could wish that still, in lordly domes, Some beasts were kill'd, though not whole heca