SATIRE I I.

YES, thank my ftars! as early as I knew

This town, I had the fenfe to hate it too :
Yet here, as ev'n in hell, there must be ftill
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' excise 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 state,

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:
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' inspiring 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 :

Rams, and flings now are filly battery,

Piftolets 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 ftill
That 'fcufe for writing, and for writing ill.

But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digefted, doth thofe things out-fpue,
As his own things; and they're his own, 'tis true,
For if one eat my meat, though 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 whofe finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Whofe ftrange fins canonifts could hardly tell
In which commandment's large receit they dwell.
But thefe punish themselves. The infolence
Of Cofcus, only, breeds my just offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches por,
And plodding on, must make a calf an ox)
Hath made a lawyer; which (alas!) of late;
But fcarce a poet : jollier of this state,

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, 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:
Sense, paft thro' him, no longer is the fame;
For food digefted takes another name.

I pass 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

A& fins which Prifca's confeffor scarce hears.
Ev'n those I pardon, for whose 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;
Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impu
Time, that at last matures a clap to pox, (dence:
Whofe 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-benefic'd, can be
More pert, more proud, more positive than he.
What further could I wish the fop to do,
But turn a wit, and scribble verses too;

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 fcolding, more
Than when winds in our ruin'd abbyes roar.
Then fick with poetry, and poffeft with Muse
Thou waft, and mad I hop'd ; but men which chufe
Law practice for meer gain; bold foul repute
Worfe than imbrothel'd ftrumpets prostitute.
Now like an owl-like watchman he must walk,
His hand ftill at a bill; now he must talk

Idly, like prifoners, which whole months will swear,
That only furetyship hath brought them there,
And to every fuitor lye in every thing,
Like a king's favourite-or like a king.
Like a wedge in a block, wring to the barre,
Bearing like affes, and more shameless farre
Than carted whores, lye to the grave judge'; for
Baftardy abounds not in king's titles, nor
Simony and fodomy in church-men's lives,
As these things do in him; by these he thrives.
Shortly (as th' fea ) he'll compass all the land,
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand.

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 scold.
Curs'd be the wretch, fo venal and so 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:
What thanks, what praise, if Peter but supplies,
And what a folemn face if he denies!

Grave, as when pris'ners shake the head, and swear
'Twas only furetyship that brought 'em there.
His office keeps your parchment fates entire,
He starves with cold to fave them from the fire;
For
you he walks the streets thro' rain or duft,
For not in chariots Peter puts his trust;
For you he sweats and labours at the laws,
Takes God to witness he affects your cause,
And lies to ev'ry lord in ev'ry thing, -
Like a king's favourite or like a king.
These are the talents that adorn them all,
From wicked Waters ev'n to godly **
Not more of fimony beneath black gowns,
Nor more of baftardy in heirs to crowns.
In shillings and in pence at first they deal ;
And steal fo little, few perceive they steal;
Till like the fea, they compass all the land,
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover ftrand,