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Satyre II. |
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Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate |
Perfectly 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
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[CW: Rankly] |