Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high, Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye, There are who have not--and thank heaven there are, Who, if they have not, think not worth their care, Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find, Two of a face, as soon as of a mind.
Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun;The other slights, for women, sports, and wines, All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's mines;Why one like Bu--- with pay and scorn content, Bows and votes on, in Court and Parliament;One, driven by strong benevolence of soul, Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole;Is known alone to that directing power, Who forms the genius in the natal hour;That God of Nature, who, within us still, Inclines our action, not constrains our will:
Various of temper, as of face or frame.
Each individual: His great end the same.
Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap, A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace A man so poor would live without a place;But sure no statute in his favour says How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days:
I, who at some times spend, at others spare, Divided between carelessness and care.
'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store;Another, not to heed to treasure more!
Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day, And pleased, if sordid want be far away.
What is't to me (a passenger, God wot)
Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure, But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger, I neither strut with every favouring breath, Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth.
In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, placed Behind the foremost and before the last.
"But why all this of avarice? I have none."I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour, As wild and mad: the avarice of power?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal?
Not the black fear of death, that saddens all?
With terrors round, can Reason hold her throne, Despise the known, nor tremble at the unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind, And count each birthday with a grateful mind?
Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away, As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your business done, When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?
Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;You've played, and loved, and ate, and drank your fill:
Walk sober off; before a sprightlier age Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage;Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, Where folly pleases, and whose follies please.
THE SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S.
VERSIFIED.
"Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?" HOR. (Sat. LX. 56-9).
SATIRE II.
Yes; thank my stars! as early as I knew This town, I had the sense to hate it too;Yet here; as even 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:
Catched like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving, all allow.
Yet like the Papist's, is the poet's state, Poor and disarmed, and hardly worth your hate!
Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an actor live:
The thief condemned, 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.
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:
'Tis changed, 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 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.
Even 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 brings all natural events to pass, And made him an attorney of an ass.
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?
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 suretyship that brought 'em there.
