« EdellinenJatka »
Rams and slings now are silly battery,
Pistolets are the best artillery.
And they who write to lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like singers at doors for meat ?
And they who write, because all write, have still
That 'scuse for writing, and for writing ill.
But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digested, doth these things out-spue,
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 out-usure Jews,
T' out-drink the sea, tout-sweare the Letanie,
Who with sins all kinds as familiar be
As confessors, and for whose sinful sake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;.
Whose strange sins canonists could hardly tell
In which commandment's large receit they dwell.
But these punish themselves. The insolence
Of Coscus, 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 late;
But scarce a poet: jollier of this state,
In love's, in nature's spite, the siege they hold,
And scorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold.
These write to lords, some mean reward to get,
As needy beggars sing at doors for meat.
26 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 :
30 '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 35 Who live like S-tt-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.
40 Ev'n 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 ; 45 Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impuTime, that at last matures a clap to pox,
[dence: Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox, And brings all natural events to pass, Hath made him an attorney of an ass,
Than are new-benefic'd ministers, he throws,
Like nets or lime-twigs, wheresoe'er he goes
His title of barrister on ev'ry 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 abbyes roar.
Then sick with poetry,
Thou wast, and mad I hop'd; but men which chuse
Law practice for mere gain; bold soul repute
Worse than imbrothel'd 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 months will swear,
That only suretyship hath brought them there,
And to ev'ry suitor lye in every thing,
Like a king's favourite ---or like a king.
No young divine, new benefic'd, can be
More pert, more proud, more positive than he.
What further could I wish the fop to do,
But turn a wit, and scribble verses too;
Pierce the soft lab'rinth of a lady's ear
With rhymes of this per cent, and that per year ?
Or court a wife, spread out his wily parts,
Like nets, or lime-twigs, for rich widows' hearts;
Call himself barrister to ev'ry wench,
And wooe in language of the Pleas and Bench ?
бо 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 pris’ners shake the head and swear
'Twas only suretyship that brought them there.
70 His office keeps your parchment fates entire, He starves with cold to save them from the fire ;
he walks the streets through rain or dust, For not in chariots Peter puts his trust; For you he sweats and labours at the laws,
75 Takes God to witness he affects your cause, And lies to ev'ry lord, in ev'ry thing, Like a king's favourite -- or like a king.
Like a wedge in a block, wring to the barre,
Bearing like asses, and more shameless farre
Than carted whores, lie to the grave judge ; for
Bastardy abounds not in the King's titles, nor
Simony and Sodomy in church-men'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 chear)
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.
These he writes not; nor for these written payes,
Therefore spares no length (as in those first dayes
When Luther' was profest, he did desire
Short pater-nosters, saying as a fryar