Toi donc, qui de mérite et d'honneurs revêtu,
Des écueils de la Cour as fauvé ta vertu,
Dangeau, qui dans le rang où notre Roi t'appelle,
Le vois toûjours orné d'une gloire nouvelle,
Et plus brillant par foi que par l'éclat des lis,
Dédaigner tous ces Rois dans la pourpre amollis;
Fuir d'un honteux loifir la douceur importune;
A fes fages confeils affervir la Fortune;
Et de tout fon bonheur ne devant rien qu'à foi,
Montrer à l'Univers ce que c'eft qu'être Roi.
Si tu veux te, couvrir d'un éclat légitime,
par mille beaux faits mériter fon eftime:
Sers un fi noble Maître; et fais voir qu'aujourd'hui
Ton prince a des Sujets qui font dignes de lui.
(Von einem englischen Geiftlichen, John Donne, ges boren 1574, gestorben 1631; hat man, außer mehrern Gedichten, sechs Satiren, die mehr Werth von Seiten des oft starken und nachdruckvollen Inhalts, als der Wendung und Einkleidung, haben, die äußerst rauh und ungeschmeidig ist. Vielleicht wären fie längst vergessen, wenn sich Pope nicht ihrer angenommen, und drei davon, die zweite, dritte und vierte, umgearbeitet und modernisirt håtte. Dadurch erhiel ten sie freilich weit mehr Anziehendes, ohne jedoch den eignen Versuchen Pope's in dieser Gattung gleich zu kommen.)
Yes; thank my ftars! as early as I knew
This town, I had the fenfe to hate it too:
Yet here, as ev'n in hell, there must be ftill
One giant-vice fo excellently ill,
That all befide, one pities, not abhors:
As who knows Sappho, fmiles at other whores.
I grant, that poetry 's a crying fin;
It brought (no doubt) th' excise and army in:
Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows
how;
But that the cure is ftarving, all allow.
Yet like the Papift's is the poet's state,
Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your
Here a lean bard, whofe wit could never give
Himself a dinner, makes an actor live:
The thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read.
Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above,
Heav'd by the breath th' infpiring bellows blow:
Th' infpiring bellow's lie and pant below.
One fings the fair; but fongs no longer move;
No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love:
In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege they hold
And fcorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold.
Thefe write to lords, fome mean reward to get,
A's needy beggars fing at doors for meat.
Thofe write because all write and fo have still
Excufe for writing, and for writing ill.
Wretched indeed! but far more wretched yet
Is he who makes his meal on others wit,
'Tis chang'd, no doubt, from what it was before,
His rank digeftion makes it wit no more:
Senfe paft thro' him, no longer is the fame;
For food digefted takes another name.
I pass o'er all thofe confeffors and martyrs
Who live like Stt-n, or who die like Char-
tres,
Outcant old Esdras, or outdrink his heir.
Outufure Jews, or Irifḥmen outfwear:
Wicked as pages, who in early years
Act fins which Prifca's confeffor fcarce heats,
Ev'n thofe I pardon, for whofe finful fake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Of whole ftrange crimes no canonift can tell
In what commandment's large contents they dwell.
One, one man only breeds my just offence; Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence.
Time, that at last matures a clap to pox,
Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox,
And brings all natural events to pass,
Hath made him an attorney of an ass.
No young divine, new-benefie'd, can be
More gert, more proud, more positive than hea
What further could I wish the fop to do
But turn a wit, and fcribble verses too?
Pierce the foft lab'rinth of a lady's ear
With rhymes of this per Cent, and that per year?
Or court a wife, fpread out his wily parts,
Like nets or lime-twigs, for rich widows hearts;
Call himfelf barrifter to ev'ry wench,
And woo in language of the pleas and bench?
Language, which Boreas might to Aufter hold
More rough than forty Germans when they scold.
Curs'd be the wretch, fo: venal and fo vain
Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane
'Tis fuch a bounty as was never known
If Peter deigns to help you to your own:
What thanks, what praife, if Peter but fupplies
And what a folemn face, if he denies!
Grave, as when pris'ners f'hake the head, and fwear
'Twas only furetifhip that brought'em there.
His office keeps your parchment fates entire
He ftarves with cold to fave them from the fire:
For
you he walks the streets thro' rain or duft;
For not in chariots Peter puts his trust!
For you he fweats and labours at the laws,
Takes God to witness, he affects your
And lies to ev'ry lord in ev'ry thing,
Like a king's favourite or like a king.
These are the talents that adorn them all,
From wicked waters ev'n to godly
Not more of fimony beneath black gowns
Not more of baftardy in heirs to crowns
In fhillings and in pence at first they deal;
And steal fo little, few perceive they fteal;
Till, like the fea, they compafs all the land.
From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover ftrand
And when rank widows purchase luscious nights,
Or when a duke to Janfen punts at White's
Or city-heir in mortgage melts away;
Satan himself feels far lefs joy than they.
Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that,
Glean on, and gather up the whole eftate.
Then ftrongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
Indentures cov❜nants articles they draw.
Large as the fields themfelves, and larger far
Than civil codes, with all their gloffes, are:
So vaft, our new divines, we must confels,
Are fathers of the church for writing less
But let them write for you, each rogue impairs
The deeds, and dextroufly omits, Jes heires
No commentator can more ftily pafs
O'er a learn'd unintelligible place;
Or, in quotation, fhrewd divines leave out
Those words that would against them clear the doubt.
So Luther thought the pater-nofter long
When doom'd to fay his beads and even fong,
But having caft his cowl, and left thofe laws
Adds to Chrift's pray'r, the power and glory claufe.
The lands are bought; but where are to be
Thofe ancient woods, that fhaded all the ground?
We fee no new-built palaces afpire,
No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.
Where are thofe troops of poor that throng'd of yore,
The good old landlord's hofpitable door?
Well I could wifh, that ftill in lordly domes
Some beast were kill'd, tho' not whole hetacombs;
That both extremes were banish'd from their walls,
Carthufian fafts, and fulfome Bacchanals:
And all mankind might that just mean obferve,
In which none e'er could furfeit, none could starve.
These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow.
But oh! thefe works are not in fashion now:
Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare,
Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.
Thus much I've faid, I truft, without offence:
Let no court-lycophant pervert my fenfe,.
Nor fly informer watch these words to draw
Within the reach of treafon, or the law.
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