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Satira .2a. |
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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
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[CW: Others] |