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In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd

Behind the foremost, and before the last.

"But why all this of av'rice? I have none."

I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;

305

But does no other lord it at this hour,

As wild and mad? the avarice of pow'r?

Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall?

Not the black fear of death, that saddens all?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne, 310
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,

In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?

Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind? 315
Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?

Can'st thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has but melted the rough parts away,
age

As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay?

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one? 321
Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your
Walk sober off; before a sprightlier age
Comes titt'ring on, and shoves from the stage:

you

Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please.

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326

THE

SATIRES

OF

DR. JOHN DONNE,

DEAN OF ST. Paul's,

VERSIFIED.

Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit
Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes

Mollius?

HOR.

SATIRE II.

SIR, though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state
In all ill things, so 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,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove

Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state
Is poor, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate.

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

charms

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms:

Rams

SATIRE II.

YES; 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 beside, one pities, not abhors;

As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.
I grant that poetry's a crying sin;

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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!
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 :

IC

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