These are the talents that adorn them all,
From wicked Waters e'en to godly **
Not more of simony beneath black gowns,
Not more of bastardy in heirs to crowns.
In shillings and in pence at first they deal;
And steal so little, few perceive they steal:
Till, like the sea, they compass all the land,
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand.
And when rank widows purchase luscious nights,
Or when a duke to Jansen punts at White's,
Or city heir in mortgage melts away,
Satan himself feels far less joy than they.
Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that,
Glean on, and gather up
the whole estate;
Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
Indentures, covenants, articles they draw,
Large as the fields themselves, and larger far
Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are;
So vast, our new divines, we must confess,
Are fathers of the church for writing less.
Like a wedge in a block, wring to the barre,
Bearing like asses, and more shameless farre
Than carted whores, lye to the grave judge: for
Bastardy abounds not in king's titles, nor
Simony and Sodomy in churchmen's lives,
As these things do in him; by these he thrives.
Shortly (as th' sea) he'll compass all the land,
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand.
And spying heirs melting with luxury,
Satan will not joy at their sins as he;
For (as a thrifty wench scrapes kitchen-stuffe,
And barrelling the droppings and the snuffe
Of wasting candles, which in thirty year,
Reliquely kept, perchance buys wedding cheer)
Piecemeal he gets lands, and spends as much time
Wringing each acre, as maids pulling prime.
In parchment then, large as the fields, he draws
Assurances, big as gloss'd civil laws,
So huge that men (in our times forwardness)
Are fathers of the church for writing less.
So Luther thought the Pater-noster long, When doom'd to say his beads and even-song; But having cast his cowl, and left those laws, Adds to Christ's prayer, the power and glory clause. But let them write for you, each rogue impairs The deeds, and dexterously omits ses heires: No commentator can more slily pass
Over a learn'd unintelligible place:
Or, in quotation, shrewd divines leave out
Those words that would against them clear the doubt.
The lands are bought; but where are to be found Those ancient woods, that shaded all the ground? We see no new-built palaces aspire,
No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.
Where are those troops of poor, that throng'd of
The good old landlord's hospitable door?
Well, I could wish, that still in lordly domes
Some beasts were kill'd, though not whole hecatombs
That both extremes were banish'd from their walls,
Carthusian fasts, and fulsome bacchanals;
These he writes not; nor for these written payes,
Therefore spares no length (as in those first dayes
When Luther was profess'd, he did desire
Short Pater-nosters, saying as a fryer
Each day his beads: but having left those laws,
Adds to Christ's prayer, the power and glory clause)
But when he sells or changes land, he impaires
The writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out ses heires,
As slily as any commentator goes by
Hard words, or sense; or, in divinity,
As controverters in vouch'd texts, leave out Shrewd words, which might against them clear the
Where are these spread woods which cloathed heretofore
Thost bought lands? not built, nor burnt within door. Why a the old landlords troops and almes? In halls Cart..sian fasts, and fulsome bacchanals
And all mankind might that just mean observe,
In which none e'er could surfeit, none could starve.
These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow,
But, oh these works are not in fashion now
Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare,
Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.
Thus much I've said, I trust, without offence;
Let no court sycophant pervert my sense,
Nor sly informer watch these words to draw
Within the reach of treason, or the law.
WELL, if it be my time to quit the stage, Adieu to all the follies of the age!
I die in charity with fool and knave,
Secure of peace at least beyond the grave.
I've had my purgatory here betimes,
And paid for all my satires, all my rhymes.
The poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames,
To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.
With foolish pride my heart was never fired,
Nor the vain itch to admire, or be admired:
I hoped for no commission from his grace;
I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place :
Equally hate. Means bless'd. In rich men's homes I bid kill some beasts, but no hecatombs;
None starve, none surfeit so.
But (oh) we allow Good works as good, but out of fashion now,
Like old rich wardrobes. But my words none draws Within the vast reach of the huge statute's jawos.
WELL; I may now receive, and die. My sin
Indeed is great; but yet I have been in
A purgatory, such as fear'd Hell is
A recreation, and scant map of this.
My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor hath been
Poyson'd with love to see or to be seen;
Had no new verses, nor new suit to show,
Yet went to court!-the devil would have it so.
But, as the fool that in reforming days
Would go to mass in jest (as story says)
Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd,
Since 'twas no form'd design of serving God;
So was I punish'd, as if full as proud,
As prone to ill, as negligent of good,
As deep in debt, without a thought to pay,
As vain, as idle, and as false, as they
Who live at court, for going once that way
Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came
A thing which Adam had been posed to name;
Noah had refused it lodging in his ark,
Where all the race of reptiles might embark :
A verier monster, than on Afric's shore,
The sun e'er got, or slimy Nilus bore,
Or Sloan or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain,
Nay, all that lying travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon,
At night would swear him dropp'd out of the moon;
I had no suit there, nor new suit to show,
Yet went to court; but as Glare which did go
To mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse
Two hundred markes which is the statutes curse,
Before he scaped; so it pleased my destiny
(Guilty of my sin of going) to think me
As prone to all ill, and good as forget-
ful, as proud, lustful, and as much in debt,
As vain, as witless, and as false, as they
Which dwell in court, for once going that way.
Therefore I suffer'd this: towards me did run
A thing more strange, than on Nile's slime the sun
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came;
A thing which would have posed Adam to name :
Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies,
Than Africk monsters, Guianaes rarities,
Stranger than strangers: one who, for a Dane,
In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain,
If he had lived then; and without help dies,
One, whom the mob, when next we find or make
A popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take,
And the wise justice starting from his chair
Cry, 'By your priesthood tell me what
Such was the wight: the apparel on his back, Tho' coarse, was reverend, and though bare, was black: The suit, if by the fashion one might guess, Was velvet in the youth of good queen Bess, But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd; So time, that changes all things, had ordain'd! Our sons shall see it leisurely decay,
First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.
This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too, And knows what's fit for every state to do; Of whose best phrase and courtly accent join'd, He forms one tongue, exotic and refined. Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Morteux I knew, Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too. The doctor's wormwood style, the hash of tongues A pedant makes, the storm of Gonson's lungs, The whole artillery of the terms of war, And (all those plagues in one) the bawling bar;
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise; One, whom the watch at noon scarce lets go by: One, to whom the examining justice sure would cry, 'Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?' His clothes were strange, though coarse, and black, though bare,
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and had it been
Velvet, but 'twas now, (so much ground was seen) Become tuff-taffety; and our children shall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.
The thing hath travail'd, and faith, speaks all tongues And only knoweth what to all states belongs, Made of the accents, and best phrase of all these He speaks one language. If strange meats dis please, Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste; But pedants motly tongue, soldiers bumbast, Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong enough preparatives to draw
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