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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 stiļi
One Giant-Vice, so excellently ill,
That all beside, one pities, not abhors;
As who knows Sappho, smiles 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 Papist’s, is the Poet's state,
Poor and disarm’d, and hardly worth your hate !


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

Perfectly all this town: yet there's one state In all ill things, fo excellently best, 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, Ridsingly it catch men, and doth remove Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state Is poor, disarmod, like Papifts, not worth 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, 15
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 fings the Fair: but songs no longer move;
No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love :
In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege 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 saves 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

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Rams and Nings now are filly battery,
Pistolets 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 still
That 'fcuse 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 :
Sente, 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-11, or who die like Chartres,
Outcant old Efdras, or outdrink his heir,
Outusure Jews, or Irishmen outswear ;
Wicked as Pages, who in early years
A&t lins which Prisca's Confeffor scarce hears.
Ev’n those I pardon, for whose sinful fake
Schoolmen new tenements io hell must make;




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 outusure Jews,
To outdrink the sea, t' outswear the Letanie,
Who with fins all kinds as familiar be.
As Confessors, and for whose sinful 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 Impudence :
Time, that at last matures à clap to pox,
Whose 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 with the fop to do,
But turn a wit, and scribble verses too?
Pierce the soft labyrinth of a Lady's ear

55 With rhymes of this per cent. and that per year? Or court a Wife, spread out his wily paits, Like nets or lime-twigs, for rich Widows hearts; Call himself Barrister to every wench, And wooe in language of the Pleas and Bench ? 60


Whose strange fins Canonists could hardly tell
In which Commandment's largë rêceit they dwell.

But these punish themselves. The insolencé
Of Cofcus, only, breeds my just offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches pox,
And plodding on, must make a calf an ox)
Hath made a Lawyer; which (alas) of laté ;
But scarce a Poet: jollier of this state,
Than are new-benefic'd Ministers, he throws
Like nets or lime-twigs wherefoe'er he goes


Language, which Boreas might to Auster hold
More rough than forty Germans when they scold.

Curs'd be the wretch, so venal and so vain :
Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane.
'Tis such 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 solemn face, if he denies!
Grave, as when prisoners shake the head and swear
'Twas only Suretifhip that brought them there.
His Office keeps your Parchment fates entire,
He starves with cold to save them from the fire;

you he walks the streets through rain or dust, For not in Chariots Peter puts his trust;



His title of Barrifter on every wench,
And wooes in language of the Pleas and Bench. * *

Words, words which would tear
The tender labyrinth of a Maid's soft ear :
More, more than ten Sclavonians scolding, more
Than when winds in our ruin'd Abbeys foar.
Then fick with Poetry, and posseft with Muse
Thou wast, and mad I hop'd; but men which chuse
Law practice for meer gain : bold soul repute
Worse than imbrotheld strumpets prostitute.
Now like an owl-like watchman he must walk,
His hand still at a bill; now he must talk
Idly, like prisoners, which whole inonths will swear,
That only furetifhip hath brought them there,

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