THE

THIRD SATIRE

OF

Dr. JOHN DONNE.

K

IN D pity checks my spleex; brave fcorn forbidis

Those tears to ifue, which swell my eye-lids. I must not laugh, nor weep fins, but be wise, Can railing then cure these worn maladies? I not our Mifres, fair Religion, As worthy all our Souls devotion, As Virtue was to the first blinded Age? Are ngt hearens joyes more valiant to affwage

Luftis

THE

THIRD SATIRE

OF

Dr. JOHN DONNE:

By Dr. PARNELL E.

C

1

Yompassion checks. my spleen, yet Scorn denies

The tears a paffage thro' my swelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at fins, might idly show,
Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe.
Satyr ! arise, and try thy sharper ways,
If ever Satyr cur'd an old disease.

Is not Religion (Heav'n-descended dame)
As worthy all our soul's devoutest flame,
As Moral Virtue in her early sway,
When the best Heathens saw by doubtful day?
Are not the joys, the promis'd joys above,
As great and strong to vanquilh earthly love,

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As

Lufts; as earths honour was to them? Alas,
As we do them in meants, jball shey surpass
Us in the end? and mall thy father's Spirit
Meet blind Philosophers in heaven, whose merit

Driadife may be impused thish, and bear T
Thue, whom he taught so easie wages and near
To follow, damn’d? Ob, if thou dar'Ä, fear this:
This fear great courage, and high valour is.
Darilt thou ayd mutinous Dutch? and dars thou lay
Thee in fips wooden Sapulchis, a prey
To leaders rage, to florms, to foot, to dearth?
Darst thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth ?
Haft thou corrägeöus fite to ibaw.tbelice
Of frozen North discoveries, and thrice
Colder than Salamanders ? like divine
Children in th'Oven, fires of Spain, and ib' line **
Whole Countries limbecks to our bodies be,
Canft thou for gain bear ? and muf every be
Which cries not Goddess to oby Mistress, draw,
Or eat tby poy/onous words? courage of Araw !
O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and
To thy foes and bis, (who made thee toftand
Sentinel in this worlds Garrison) thus yield,
And for forbid warres leave the appointed field?
Know thy foes : The foul devil (he, whom thox
Strivy to please) for bate, not love, would allow

Thee

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As earthly glory, fame, respect and show,
As all rewards their virtue found below!
Alas! Religion proper means prepares,

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These means are ours, and must its End be theirs ?
And shall thy Father's spirit meet the fight
Of Heathen Sages cloath'd in heavenly light,
Whose Merit of strict life, severely suited
To Reason's dictates, may be faith imputed ?
Whilst thou, to whom he taught the nearer road,
Art ever banil'd from the bless'd abode.

Oh ! if thy temper such a fear can find, This fear were valour of the noblest kind,

Dar'st thou provoke, when rebel souls aspire, 25 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 sea ? In search of pearl, in depth of ocean breathe, Or live, exild the sun, in mines beneath ? Or, where in tempests icy mountains roll, Attempt a passage by the Northern Pole? Or dar'st thou parch within the fires of Spain, Or burn beneath the line, for Indian gain ? Or for some Idol of thy fancy draw,

35 Some loose-gown’d dame; O courage made of straw! Thus, desp'rate Coward! would'ft 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, the appointed field ?

Know thy own foes ; th’Apoftate Angel, he You strive to please, the foremost of the Three ;

He

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