Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] With Elegies on the Authors Death |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
I. |
II. |
Satyre II.
|
III. |
IIII. |
V. |
Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] | ||
329
Satyre II.
[Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate]
Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hatePerfectly all this towne, yet there's one state
In all ill things so excellently best,
That hate, toward them, breeds pitty towards the rest;
Though Poëtry indeed be such a sinne
As I thinke 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 sterv'd out; yet their state
Is poore, 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 reade,
And saves his life) gives ideot actors meanes
(Starving himselfe) to live by his labor'd sceanes.
As in some Organ, Puppits dance above
And bellows pant below, which thē do move.
One would move Love by rithmes; but witchchrafts charms
Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes.
Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,
Pistolets are the best Artillerie.
And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like singers at doores for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have still
That excuse for writing, and for writing ill;
But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
330
As his owne things; and they are his owne, 'tis true,
For if one eate my meate, though it be knowne
The meate was mine, th'excrement is his owne:
But these do mee no harme, nor they which use
To out-doe [Dildoes], and out-usure Jewes;
To out-drinke the sea, to out-sweare the [Litany];
Who with sinnes of all kindes as familiar bee
As Confessors; and for whose sinfull sake
Schoolemen, new tenements in hell must make:
Whose strange sinnes, Canonists could hardly tell
In which Commandements large receit they dwell.
But these punish themselves; the insolence
Of Coscus onely breeds my just offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe,
And plodding on, must make a calfe an oxe)
Hath made a Lawyer; which was alas of late
But scarce a Poët, jollier of this state,
Then are new benefic'd ministers, he throwes
Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoever he goes,
His title of Barrister, on every wench,
And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench:
A motion, Lady, Speake Coscus; I have beene
In love, ever since tricesimo of the Queene,
Continuall claimes I have made, injunctions got
To stay my rivals suit, that hee should not
Proceed, spare mee; In Hillary terme I went,
You said, If I Returne next size in Lent,
I should be in remitter of your grace;
In th'interim my letters should take place
331
The tender labyrinth of a soft maids eare.
More, more, then ten Sclavonians scolding, more
Then when winds in our ruin'd Abbeyes rore;
When sicke with Poëtrie, and possest with muse
Thou wast, and mad, I hop'd; but men which chuse
Law practise for meere gaine; bold soule repute
Worse then imbrothel'd strumpets prostitute.
Now like an owlelike watchman, hee must walke
His hand still at a bill, now he must talke
Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will sweare
That onely suretiship hath brought them there,
[And to every suitor lye in every thing,]
[Like a Kings favorite, or like a King.]
Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,
Bearing like Asses, and more shamelesse farre
Then carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; for
[Bastardy abounds not in Kings titles, nor]
[Symonie and Sodomy in Churchmens lives,]
As these things do in him; by these he thrives.
Shortly (as the sea) hee will compasse all the land;
From Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand.
And spying heires melting with luxurie,
Satan will not joy at their sinnes, as hee.
For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitching-stuffe,
And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe,
Of wasting candles, which in thirty yeare
(Reliquely kept) perchance buyes wedding geare;
Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much time
Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime.
332
Assurances, bigge, as gloss'd civill lawes,
So huge, that men (in our times forwardnesse)
Are Fathers of the Church for writing lesse.
These hee 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 Fryer
Each day his beads, but having left those lawes,
Addes to Christs prayer, the Power and glory clause.
But when he sells or changes land, he'impaires
His writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out, ses heires
As slily as any Commenter goes by,
Hard words, or sense; or in Divinity
As controverters, in vouch'd Texts, leave out
Shrewd words, which might against them cleare the doubt:
Where are those spred woods which cloth'd hertofore
Those bought lands? not built, nor burnt within dore.
Where's th'old landlords troops, & almes, great hals?
Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bachanalls
Equally I hate, meanes blesse; in rich mens homes
I bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs,
None starve, none surfet so; But (Oh) we allow,
Good workes as good, but out of fashion now,
Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawes
Within the vast reach of th'huge statute lawes.
Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] | ||