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Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age
THE FIRST ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK
AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
1 Afterwards Lord Mansfield.
Make but his riches equal to his wit.
THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF
Lest you should think that verse shall die
Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;
Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay
Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæsar was or Newton nam'd; These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,
And those new heavens and systems fram'd.
Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF
ST. PAUL'S, VERSIFIED.
Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes
Yes, thank my stars ! as early as I knew
I grant that poetry's a crying sin;
how, But that the cure is starving, all allow. Yet like the papist's is the poet's state, Poor and disarm’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 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, As needy beggars sing at doors for meat: 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 pass'd 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—t—n, or who die like Chartres, Out-cant old Esdras, or out-drink his heir, Out-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear; Wicked as pages, who in early years Act sins which Prisca's confessor scarce hears. E'en those I pardon, for whose sinful sake 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 im.