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YES; thank my fars! as early as I knew
This town, I had the sense to'hate it too :
Yet here, as evin in Hell, there must be still
One giant-vice, so excellently ill,
That all beside, one pities, not abhors ;
S As who knows Sappho, siniles at other whores.
I grant that poetry's a crying fin; It brought (no doubt) thi’ Excise and Army in : Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cute is starving, all allow, 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 :
SIR; though I (thank God for.it). I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one ftate In all ill things, so excellently best, That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest, Though poetry, indeed, be such a fin, As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in : Though like the peftilence, and old-fashion'd love, Ridlingly it cateh men, and doth remove Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state Is poor, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.
One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Yet prompts him which ftands next, and connot read,
The thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
So prompts, and saves a rogue who cannot read.
Thus as the pipes of some carv'd organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above.
Heav’d by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow :
Th’inspiring bellows lie and pant below.
One sings the fair ; but songs 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, some mean reward to get,
As needy beggars fing 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 chang’d, no doubt, from what it was before,
His rank digestion makes it wit no more :
And saves his life) gives ideot actors means
(Starving himself) to live by's tabour'd scenes.
As in some organs, puppits dance above,
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move love. by rhymes; but witchcraft's
Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Rams and slings 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 these things outspue,
As his own things : and they're his own, 'tis true,
Sense, paft thro' 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,
Qutcant old Efdras, or out-drink his heir,
Outusure Jews, or Irishmen outswear;
Wicked as pages, who in early years
Aet fins which Prisca's confeffor scarce hears.
Ev’n those I pardon, for whose finful sake
Şchoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Of whose strange crimes no canonift can tell
In what commandment's large contents they dwell.
One, one man only breeds my juft offence; 45 Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence: Time, that at last matures a clap to pox, Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox, And brings all natural events to pass, Hath made him an attorney of an ass.
For if one eat my meat, though it be known
The meat was mine, the excrement's his.own.
But these do me no harm, nor they which use,
to outusure Jews,
T'outdrink the sea, t'outswear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As confessors, and for whose sinful sake
Scoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Whose strange fins canonists 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,
No young divine, new-benefic'd, can be
More pert, more proud, more positive than he.
What further could I wish the fop to do,
But turn á wit, and scribble verses too?
Pierce the soft lab'rinth of a lady's ear,
With rhymes of this per cent, and that per year?
Or court a wife, spread out his wily parts,
Like nets or lime-twigs, for rich widows hearts;
Call himself barrister to ev'ry wench,
And woo in language of the pleas and bench? 60
Language, which Boreas might to Aufter hold
More rough than forty Germans when they scold.
Curs'd be the wretch, fo venal and fo vain : Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane. 'Tis such a bounty as was never known,
65 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 pris'ners shake the head and swear 'Twas only suretiship that brought 'em there.
Than are new-benefic'd minifters, he throws
Like nets or lime-twigs wherefoe'er he goes
His title of barrifter 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 foft ear :
More, more than ten Sclavonians scolding, more
Than when winds in our ruin'd abbeys roar.
Then fick with poetry, and poffest with muse
Thou wast, and mad I hop'd; but men which chufe
Law practice for mere gain: bold soul repute
Worse than imbrothel'd strumpets proftitute.
Now like an owl-like watchman he inust walk,
His hand still at a bill ; now he must talk