Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit
Verficulos natura magis factos, & euntes
YES, thank my ftars! 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, fo excellently ill,
That all befide, one pities, not abhors;
As who knows Sappho, fmiles at other whores.
I grant that Poetry's a crying fin;
It brought (no doubt) th'Excife and Army in: Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows how,
But that the cure is starving, all allow.
Yet like the Papift's is the Poet's ftate,
Poor and difarm'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 state
In all ill things, fo excellently beft,
That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest.
Though Poetry indeed be fuch a fin,
As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in;
Though like the peftilence, and old-fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state
Is poor, difarm'd, like Papists not worth hate.
One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead.
Yet prompts him which ftands next, and cannot read,
And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means,
(Starving himself) to live by's labour'd fcenes.
The Thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read.
Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd Organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above.
Heav'd by the breath th' infpiring bellows blow,
Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.
One fings the Fair; but fongs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love: In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold. These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get, As needy beggars fing at doors for meat,
Those write because all write, and so have still
Excufe 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 digeftion makes it wit no more:
As in fome Organs, Puppits dance above,
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's
Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Rams and flings now are filly battery,
Piftolets are the beft 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 ftill
That 'fcufe for writing, and for writing ill.
But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw
Other wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Senfe, paft thro' him, no longer is the fame;
For food digefted takes another name.
I pafs o'er all those Confeffors and Martyrs,
Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres,
Out-cant old Efdras, or out-drink his heir,
Out-ufure Jews, or Irishmen out-fwear;
Wicked as Pages, who in early years
Act fins which Prifca's Confeffor scarce hears.
Ev'n those I pardon, for whofe finful fake
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;
Time that at laft matures a clap to pox,
Whofe gentle progrefs makes a calf an ox,
Rankly digefted, doth thofe things out-fpue,
As his own things; and they're his own, 'tis true,
For if one eat my meat, tho' it be known
The meat was mine, the excrement's his own.
But thefe do me no harm, nor they which use,
to out-ufure Jews,
T'out-drink the fea, t' out-fwear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As Confeffors, and for whose finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell muft make;
Whofe ftrange fins Canonifts could hardly tell
In which Commandment's large receit they dwell.
But thefe punish themfelves. The infolence
Of Cofcus, only, breeds my juft offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches pox,
And plodding on, must make a calf an ox)
And brings all natural events to pass
Hath made him an Attorney of an Afs.
No young divine, new-benefic'd, can be
More pert, more proud, more pofitive than he.
What further could I wish the fop to do,
But turn a wit, and fcribble verses too;
Pierce the foft 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 wooe in language of the Pleas and Bench?
Language, which Boreas might to Aufter hold
More rough than forty Germans when they fcold.
Curs'd be the wretch, fo venal and fo vain:
Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane.
'Tis fuch a bounty as was never known,
If PETER deigns to help you to your own;
Hath made a Lawyer; which (alas) of late;
But fcarce a Poet; jollier of this ftate,
Than are new benefic'd Minifters, he throws
Like nets or lime-twigs wherefoe'er he goes
His title of Barrister 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 fcolding, more
Than when winds in our ruin'd Abbeys roar.
Then fick with Poetry, and poffeft with Muse
Thou waft, and mad I hop'd; but men which chufe
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