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« Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes.
« Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarît
“ Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes
« Mollius?"




Y ES: thank my stars.! 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, so excellently ill,
That all befide, one pities, not abhors;
Aş who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.

I grant that Poetry's a crying sin;
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 Papists, is the Poet's state,
Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate !






IR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate

Perfectly all this town : yet there's one statę In all ill things, so excellently beft, That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest, Though Poetry, indeed, be such a sin, As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in : Though like the pestilence and old-fashion'd love, Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state Is poor, disarmod, like Papists, not worth hate,


Here a leán Bard, whose wit could never give
Himself a dinner, makes an Actor live :
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 siege they hold,
And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold.

These write to Lords, some mean reward to get, 25 As needy beggars sing at doors for meat.




One (like a wretch, which at barre judg’d as dead, Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read, And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means (Starving himself) to live by's labour'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

charms Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms ;, Rams and Nings now are silly battery, , Pistolets are the best artillery. And they who write to Lords, rewards to gety Are they not like fingers at doors for meat ? And they who write, because all write, have ftill That 'scuse for writing, and for writing ill.


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 :
Sense, past through 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,
Outcant old Efdras, or outdrink his heir,
Outusure Jews, or Irishmen outswear ;
Wicked as Pages, who in early years
Act fins which Prisca's Confessor scarce hears.
Ev’n those I pardon, for whose sinful sake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;

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But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digested, doth those things outspue,
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 these do me no harm, nor they which use.

to outufure Jews,
To outdrink the sea, t' outswear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be
As Confeffors, and for whose sinful fake.
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;,

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