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And like light dew exhal'd he flings from me,
Violently ravish'd to his lechery.

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Many there were he could command no more; 109
He quarrell'd, fought, bled; and, turn'd out of door,
Directly came to me, hanging the head,
And constantly a while must keep his bed.

SATIRE II.

SIR, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state
In all ill things so excellently best,

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That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest. Tho' poetry indeed be such a sin

10

As I think that brings dearth and Spaniards in;
Tho', 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 bar 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 puppets 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.

But to a grave man he doth move no more
Than the wise politic horse would heretofore;
Or thou, O Elephant or Ape! wilt do,

When any names the King of Spain to you.

Now leaps he upright, jogs me, and cries, Do you see
Yonder well-favour'd youth? Which? Oh! 'tis he
That dances so divinely. Oh! said I,

Stand still; must you dance here for company?
He droop'd, we went, till one (which did excel
Th' Indians in drinking his tobacco well)
Met us they talk'd; I whisper'd, Let us go;
It may be you smell him not; truly I do.
He hears not me; but on the other side
A many-colour'd peacock having spy'd,
Leaves him and me: I for my lost sheep stay;
He follows, overtakes, goes on the way,
Saying, Him whom I last left all repute
For his device in handsoming a suit;

To judge of lace, pink, panes, print, cut, and plait,
Of all the court to have the best conceit:

Our dull comedians want him; let him go:"

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But, oh! God strengthen thee; why stoop'st thou so?
Why, he hath travail'd long; no, but to me
Which understood none, he doth seem to be
Perfect French and Italian. I reply'd,

So is the pox. He answer'd not, but spy'd.
More men of sort, of parts and qualities.
At last his love he in a window spies,

And like light dew exhal'd he flings from me,
Violently ravish'd to his lechery.

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Many there were he could command no more; 109
He quarrell'd, fought, bled; and, turn'd out of door,
Directly came to me, hanging the head,
And constantly a while must keep his bed.

SATIRE II.

SIR, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state
In all ill things so excellently best,

112

That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest.
Tho' poetry indeed be such a sin

As I think that brings dearth and Spaniards in;
Tho', 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: 10
One (like a wretch, which at bar 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 puppets 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 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
Th' excuse for writing, and for writing ill.
But he is worst who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others' wit's 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, tho' it be known.

The meat was mine, th' excrement is his own.
But these do me no harm, nor they which use
To out-do dildoes and out-usure Jews,
T'out-drink the sea, t'out-swear the Litany,
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 receipt they dwell.
But these punish themselves. The insolence
Of Coscus only breeds my just offence,

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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
Than are new benefic'd ministers; he throws,
Like pets or lime-twigs, wheresoe'er he goes,

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His title of Barrister on every wench,
And woos in language of the Pleas and Bench.
A motion, Lady! Speak, Coscus. I have been
In love e'er since tricesimo of the Queen.
Continual claims I've made, injunctions got
To stay my rival's suit, that he should not
Proceed; spare me, in Hilary term I went;
You said, if I return'd next 'size in Lent,
I should be in remitter of your grace;
In th' interim my letters should take place
Of affidavits. Words, words, which would tear
The tender labyrinth of a maid's soft ear
More, more than ten Sclavonians scoldings, more
Than when winds in our ruin'd abbies roar.
When sick with poetry, and possest with Muse
Thou wast, and mad, I hop'd; but men which chuse
Law-practice for mere gain, bold souls repute
Worse than imbrothell'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 suretiship hath brought them there,

And to every suitor lie in every thing,

Like a king's favourite, or like a king ;

Like a wedge in a block wring to the bar,
Bearing like asses, and more shameless far
Than carted whores, lie to the grave judge; for
Bastardy abounds not in kings' titles, nor

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