Why words so flowing, thoughts so free, Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? 40 Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam, Absent I follow through th' extended dream; Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms, And now you burst (ah, cruel!) from my arms; And swiftly shoot along the Mall, Or softly glide by the canal, Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray, And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.

PART OF THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK.

1 Lest you should think that verse shall die, Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught, on the wings of truth to fly Above the reach of vulgar song;

2 Though daring Milton sits sublime, In Spenser, native Muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time, Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.

3 Sages and chiefs long since had birth Ere Caesar was, or Newton named; These raised new empires o'er the earth, And those, new heavens and systems framed.

4 Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!

They had no poet, and they died.

In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!

They had no poet, and are dead.

THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST PAUL'S,[171] VERSIFIED.

'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?'

HOR.

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; It brought (no doubt) the Excise and Army in: Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving, all allow. 10 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 carved organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above.

Heaved by the breath the inspiring bellows blow: The inspiring bellows lie and pant below. 20

One sings the fair; but songs no longer move; No rat is rhymed to death, nor maid to love: In love's, in nature's spite, the siege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all--but gold.

These write to lords, some mean reward to get, As needy beggars sing at doors for meat.

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 changed, no doubt, from what it was before, His rank digestion makes it wit no more: Sense, pass'd 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 Sutton, 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; Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence: Time, that at last matures a 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. 50 No young divine, new-beneficed, 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 labyrinth 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 every wench, And woo in language of the Pleas and Bench? 60 Language, which Boreas might to Auster hold More rough than forty Germans when they scold.

Cursed 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 suretiship that brought 'em there. 70 His office keeps your parchment fates entire, He starves with cold to save them from the fire; For you 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, Takes God to witness he affects your cause, And lies to every lord in every thing, Like a king's favourite, or like a king.

These are the talents that adorn them all, From wicked Waters ev'n to godly Paul.[172]

Not more of simony beneath black gowns, 80 Not more of bastardy in heirs to crowns.

In shillings and in pence at first they deal; And steal so little, few perceive they steal; Till, like the sea, they compass all the land, From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand: And when rank widows purchase luscious nights, Or when a duke to Jansen punts at White's, Or city-heir in mortgage melts away; Satan himself feels far less joy than they.

Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that, 90 Glean on, and gather up the whole estate.

Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law, Indentures, covenants, articles they draw, Large as the fields themselves, and larger far Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are; So vast, our new divines, we must confess, Are fathers of the Church for writing less.

But let them write for you, each rogue impairs The deeds, and dext'rously omits, _ses heires_: No commentator can more slily pass 100 O'er a learn'd, unintelligible place; Or, in quotation, shrewd divines leave out Those words, that would against them clear the doubt.

So Luther thought the Pater-noster long, When doom'd to say his beads and even-song; But having cast his cowl, and left those laws, Adds to Christ's prayer, the Power and Glory clause.

The lands are bought; but where are to be found Those ancient woods, that shaded all the ground?

We see no new-built palaces aspire, 110 No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.

Where are those troops of poor, that throng'd of yore The good old landlord's hospitable door?

Well, I could wish, that still in lordly domes Some beasts were kill'd, though not whole hecatombs; That both extremes were banish'd from their walls, Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bacchanals; And all mankind might that just mean observe, In which none e'er could surfeit, none could starve.

These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow; 120 But oh! these works are not in fashion now: Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare, Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.

Thus much I've said, I trust, without offence; Let no court sycophant pervert my sense, Nor sly informer watch these words to draw Within the reach of treason, or the law.

SATIRE IV.

Well, if it be my time to quit the stage, Adieu to all the follies of the age!

I die in charity with fool and knave, Secure of peace at least beyond the grave.

I've had my purgatory here betimes, And paid for all my satires, all my rhymes.

The poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames.

To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.

With foolish pride my heart was never fired, Nor the vain itch t' admire, or be admired; 10 I hoped for no commission from his Grace; I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place; Had no new verses, nor new suit to show; Yet went to court!--the devil would have it so.

But, as the fool that, in reforming days, Would go to mass in jest (as story says) Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd, Since 'twas no form'd design of serving God; So was I punish'd, as if full as proud, As prone to ill, as negligent of good. 20 As deep in debt, without a thought to pay, As vain, as idle, and as false as they Who live at court, for going once that way!

Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came A thing which Adam had been posed to name; Noah had refused it lodging in his ark, Where all the race of reptiles might embark: A verier monster than on Afric's shore The sun e'er got, or slimy Nilus bore, Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain, 30 Nay, all that lying travellers can feign.

The watch would hardly let him pass at noon, At night, would swear him dropp'd out of the moon.

One whom the mob, when next we find or make A Popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take, And the wise justice, starting from his chair, Cry, By your priesthood, tell me what you are?

Such was the wight; the apparel on his back, Though coarse, was reverend, and though bare, was black: The suit, if by the fashion one might guess, 40 Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess, But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd; So time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!

Our sons shall see it leisurely decay, First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.

This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too, And knows what's fit for every State to do; Of whose best phrase and courtly accent join'd, He forms one tongue, exotic and refined Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew, 50 Henley himself I've heard, and Budgell too.

The Doctor's wormwood style, the hash of tongues A pedant makes, the storm of Gonson's lungs, The whole artillery of the terms of war, And (all those plagues in one) the bawling Bar: These I could bear; but not a rogue so civil, Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil; A tongue, that can cheat widows, cancel scores, Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores, With royal favourites in flattery vie, 60 And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.

He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!

What sin of mine could merit such a rod?

That all the shot of dulness now must be From this thy blunderbuss discharged on me!

Permit (he cries) no stranger to your fame To crave your sentiment, if ----'s your name.

What speech esteem you most? 'The King's,' said I.

But the best words?--'Oh, sir, the Dictionary.'

You miss my aim; I mean the most acute 70 And perfect speaker?--'Onslow, past dispute.'