Who, though the house was up, delighted sate
Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of sober life,

Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;

Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell;
And much too wise to walk into a well.

Him, the damn'd doctors and his friends immur'd, They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short, they cur'd:

Whereat the gentleman began to stare--

'My friends!' he cried,' p-x take you for your care!' That from a patriot of distinguish'd note, Have bled and purg'd me to a simple vote.'

Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate:
Wisdom (curse on it) will come soon or late.
There is a time when poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school:
To rules of poetry no more confin'd,

I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind,
Teach every thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the soul.

Soon as I enter at my country door,

My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before;
Thoughts which at Hyde-park corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me, in the pensive grot,
There all alone, and compliments apart,
I ask these sober questions of my heart:

If, when the more you drink, the more you crave,
You tell the doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal ease
Confess as well your folly as disease?
The heart resolves this matter in a trice,
Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.'
When golden angels cease to cure the evil,
You give all royal witchcraft to the devil:
When servile chaplains cry, that birth and place
Endue a peer with honour, truth, and grace;
Look in that breast, most dirty dean! be fair,
Say, can you find out one such lodger there?

Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach,
You go to church to hear these flatterers preach.

Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit,
A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit,
The wisest man might blush, I must agree,
If D*** lov'd sixpence more than he.

If there be truth in law, and use can give
A property, that's yours on which you live.
Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford

Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord:
All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town,
His venison too a guinea makes your own:
He bought at thousands, what with better wit
You purchase as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or long since, what difference will be found?
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men,
Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln-fen,

Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat;
Buy every pullet they afford to eat.

Yet these are wights, who fondly call their own
Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln-town.
The laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a perpetuity should stand:

Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's power,
Loose on the point of every wavering hour,
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,

By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.
Man? and for ever? wretch! what wouldst thou
Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. [have?
All vast possessions (just the same the case
Whether you call them villa, park, or chase),
Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail?
Join Cotswood's hills to Saperton's fair dale,
Let rising granaries and temples here,
There mingled farms and pyramids appear,
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,
Enclose whole downs in walls, 'tis all a joke!
Inexorable death shall level all,

And trees, and stones, and farm, and farmer fall.

Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptur'd high,

Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye, There are who have not--and thank Heaven! there

are,

Who if they have not, think not worth their care.
Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find
Two of a face, as soon as of a mind.

Why of two brothers, rich and restless one
Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun;
The other slights, for women, sports, and wines,
All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's mines:
Why one like Bu** with pay and scorn content,
Bows and votes on in court and parliament;
One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole:
Is known alone to that Directing Power,
Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
That God of nature, who within us still,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will;
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual: His great end the same.
Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
A man so poor would live without a place :
But sure no statute in his favour says,
How free or frugal I shall pass my days:
I who at some times spend, at others spare,
Divided between carelessness and care.
'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store;
Another, not to heed to treasure more:
Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
And pleas'd, if sordid want be far away.

What is't to me (a passenger God wot)
Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure;
But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger:
I neither strut with every favouring breath,
Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth.

In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.
'But why all this of avarice? I have none.'
I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone!
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad? the avarice of power?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal?
Not the black fear of death that saddens all?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birthday with a grateful mind?
Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your business done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and ate, and drank your fill:

Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age

Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage: Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please.

THE

SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE,

DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S,

VERSIFIED.

Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit
Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes

Mollius?

HOR.

SATIRE II.

YES; thank my stars! as early as I knew

This town, I had the sense to hate it too:
Yet here, as ev'n 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.

SATIRE II.

SIR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town: yet there's one state

In all ill things, so excellently best,

[rest.

That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the