|
| Satira .2a. |
|
| Sr, Though (I thanke God for it) I doe hate [f. 10] |
| Perfectlie all this Towne, yet there is One State |
| In all ill thinges soe excellentlie best, |
| That hate towardes them breedes pittie toward the rest. |
| Thoughe Poetrie indeede bee such a Sinne, |
| As I thinke that bringes dearth, and Spaniardes in, |
| Thoughe like the Pestilence, or olde fashion'd love |
| It riddinglie catche Menn, and doth remove |
| Neuer till it bee sterv'd out, yet theire State |
| Is poore, disarm'd, like Papistes not worth hate. |
| Or like a Wretche wch at Barr iudg'd as dead, |
| Yet promptes him wch stands next, and could not read, |
| And saves his life: Gives Ideott Actors meanes |
| (Starving himselfe) to live by his laboured Scænes. |
| As in some Organes, Puppitts daunce aboue, |
| And Bellowes pant belowe, wch them doe move. |
| One, would move loue by rhimes, but witchcraft charmes |
| Bring not now theire old feares, but* theire old harmes. |
| Rammes, and Slinges now are seelie Batterie. |
| Pistoletts are the best Artilerie:* |
| And they that wright to lordes rewardes to gett |
| Are they not like Boyes singing at dores for Meate? |
| And they who write because all write, have still |
| That scuse for writing, and for writing ill. |
| But hee is worst, that* beggerlie doth chawe
|
[CW: Others] |