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THE SECOND SATIRE OF DR. JOHN DONNE, VERSIFYED, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Yes; thank my stars! As early as I knew
Last Line: Within the reach of treason, or the law.
Subject(s): Donne, John (1572-1631); Poetry & Poets


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 Sapho, smiles at other whores.
I grant that Poetry's a crying sin;
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 Papists is the Poets 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:
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.
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:
'Tis chang'd no doubt from what it was before,
His rank digestion makes it wit no more:

Sense, past thro' him, no longer is the same,
For food digested takes another name.
I pass o'er all those Confessors and Martyrs
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:
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.
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?
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 'em there.

His Office keeps your Parchment-Fates entire,
He starves with cold to save them from the Fire;
For you, he walks the streets thro' 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 lyes 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 --
Not more of Simony beneath black Gowns,
Nor 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,
Glean on, and gather up the whole Estate:
Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
Indentures, Cov'nants, 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 dextrously omits, ses Heires:
No Commentator can more slily pass
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 Paternoster long,
When doom'd to say his Beads and Evensong:
But having cast his Cowle, and left those laws,
Adds to Christ's prayer, the Pow'r 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,
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, tho' 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;
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.





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