|
| Directly came to me, hanging the head, |
| And constantly a while must keep his bed. |
|
| Satyre II. |
|
| Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I doe hate |
| Perfectly all this towne, yet there's one state |
| In all ill things so excellently best, |
| That hate toward them, breeds pitty toward 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 bee 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 read |
| And saves his life) gives idiot Actors meanes, |
| Starving himselfe to live by his labour'd sceanes. |
| As in some Organ, Puppits dance above |
| And bellows pant below, wch them do move. |
| One would move Love by rithmes; but witchcrafts charms |
| Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes. |
| Rammes, and slings now are seely batery, |
| Pistolets are the best Artillery. |
| 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.
|
[CW: But] |