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| SATYRES |
|
| S.r Though (I thanke God for it) I doe hate [57] |
| Perfectly all this towne: yet there's one state |
| In all ill things so excellently best |
| That hate towards, that, breedes pitty toward the rest. |
| Though Poetry indeed bee such a sinne |
| As (I thinke), that, brings Dearth and Spanyards in |
| Though, like the pestilence, or old fashiond Loue |
| It riddingly catch men, and doth remoue |
| Never, till it be steru'd out: yet theyr state |
| Is poore, disarmd, like Papists, not worth hate. |
| One (like a wretch that at barre iudg'd as dead |
| Yet prompts him that stands next and could not reade |
| And saues his life) giues Idiot Actors meanes, |
| Steruing him selfe to liue by his Labourd Scenes. |
| As in some Organ puppets dance aboue |
| And bellows pant below w.ch them doe moue |
| One would moue Loue by rymes, but witchcraft charmes |
| Bringe not now theyr old feares, nor theyr old harmes. |
| Ram̄s and Slings, now, ar silly battery |
| Pistolets are your best artillery. |
| And they who write to Lords rewards to get |
| Are they not like Singers* at dore for meate?
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[CW: And__] |