---

John Donne - Satire II
Work rating: Low

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, towards them, breeds pitty towards the rest. 
Though Poetry indeed be such a sinne 
As I thinke that brings dearths, 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 them do move. 
One would move Love by rimes; but witchcrafts 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 
Rankly digested, doth those things out-spue, 
As his owne things; `and they are his owne, `tis true, 
For if one eate my meate, though it be knowne 
The meate was mine, th`excrement is his owne. 
But these do mee no harme, nor they which use 
To out-doe Dildoes, and out-usure Jewes; 
To`out-drinke the sea, to`out-sweare the Letanie; 
Who with sinnes all kindes as familiar bee 
As Confessors; and for whose sinfull sake 
Schoolemen new tenements in hell must make: 
Whose strange sinnes, Canonists could hardly tell 
In which Commandements large receit they dwell. 
But these punish themselves; the insolence 
Of Coscus onely breeds my just offence, 
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe, 
And plodding on, must make a calfe an oxe) 
Hath made a Lawyer, which was (alas) of late 
But a scarce Poet; jollier of this state, 
Then are new benefic`d ministers, he throwes 
Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoere he goes, 
His title`of Barrister, on every wench, 
And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench: 
`A motion, Lady.` `Speake Coscus.` `I`have beene 
In love, ever since tricesimo` of the Queene, 
Continuall claimes I`have made, injunctions got 
To stay my rivals suit, that hee should not 
Proceed.` `Spare mee.` `In Hillary terme I went, 
You said, If I returne next size in Lent, 
I should be in remitter of your grace; 
In th`interim my letters should take place 
Of affidavits--`: words, words, which would teare 
The tender labyrinth of a soft maids eare, 
More, more, then ten Sclavonians scolding, more 
Then when winds in our ruin`d Abbeyes rore. 
When sicke with Poetrie,`and possest with muse 
Thou wast, and mad, I hop`d; but men which chuse 
Law practise for meere gaine, bold soule, repute 
Worse then imbrothel`d strumpets prostitute. 
Now like an owlelike watchman, hee must walke 
His hand still at a bill, now he must talke 
Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will sweare 
That onely suretiship hath brought them there, 
And to`every suitor lye in every thing, 
Like a Kings favorite, yea like a King; 
Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre, 
Bearing like Asses, and more shameless farre 
Then carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; for 
Bastardy`abounds not in Kings titles, nor 
Symonie`and Sodomy in Churchmens lives, 
As these things do in him; by these he thrives. 
Shortly (`as the sea) hee`will compasse all our land; 
From Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand. 
And spying heires melting with luxurie, 
Satan will not joy at their sinnes, as hee. 
For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitching-stuffe, 
And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe, 
Of wasting candles, which in thirty yeare 
(Relique-like kept) perchance buyes wedding geare; 
Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much time 
Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime. 
In parchments then, large as his fields, hee drawes 
Assurances, bigge, as gloss`d civill lawes, 
So huge, that men (in our times forwardnesse) 
Are Fathers of the Church for writing lesse. 
These hee writes not; nor for these written payes, 
Therefore spares no length; as in those first dayes 
When Luther was profest, he did desire 
Short Pater nosters, saying as a Fryer 
Each day his beads, but having left those lawes, 
Addes to Christs prayer, the Power and glory clause. 
But when he sells or changes land, he`impaires 
His writings, and (unwatch`d) leaves out, ses heires, 
As slily`as any Commenter goes by 
Hard words, or sense; or in Divinity 
As controverters, in vouch`d texts, leave out 
Shrewd words, which might against them cleare the doubt. 
Where are those spred woods which cloth`d heretofore 
Those bought lands? not built, not burnt within dore. 
Where`s th`old landlords troops, and almes? In great hals 
Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bachanalls 
Equally`I hate; meanes blesse; in rich mens homes 
I bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs, 
None starve, none surfet so; But (Oh) we`allow 
Good workes as good, but out of fashion now, 
Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawes 
Within the vast reach of th`huge statute lawes.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.