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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Satire II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate <br>Perfectly all this towne, yet there's one state <br>In all ill things so excellently best, <br>That hate, towards them, breeds pitty towards the rest. <br>Though Poetry indeed be such a sinne <br>As I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in, <br>Though like the Pestilence and old fashion'd love, <br>Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove <br>Never, till it be sterv'd out; yet their state <br>Is poore, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate. <br>One,(like a wretch, which at Barre judg'd as dead, <br>Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade, <br>And saves his life)gives ideot actors meanes <br>(Starving himselfe)to live by'his labor'd sceanes; <br>As in some Organ, Puppits dance above <br>And bellows pant below, which them do move. <br>One would move Love by rimes; but witchcrafts charms <br>Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes: <br>Rammes, and slings now are seely battery, <br>Pistolets are the best Artillerie. <br>And they who write to Lords, rewards to get, <br>Are they not like singers at doores for meat? <br>And they who write, because all write, have still <br>That excuse for writing, and for writing ill. <br>But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw <br>Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw <br>Rankly digested, doth those things out-spue, <br>As his owne things; 'and they are his owne, 'tis true, <br>For if one eate my meate, though it be knowne <br>The meate was mine, th'excrement is his owne. <br>But these do mee no harme, nor they which use <br>To out-doe Dildoes, and out-usure Jewes; <br>To'out-drinke the sea, to'out-sweare the Letanie; <br>Who with sinnes all kindes as familiar bee <br>As Confessors; and for whose sinfull sake <br>Schoolemen new tenements in hell must make: <br>Whose strange sinnes, Canonists could hardly tell <br>In which Commandements large receit they dwell. <br>But these punish themselves; the insolence <br>Of Coscus onely breeds my just offence, <br>Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe, <br>And plodding on, must make a calfe an oxe) <br>Hath made a Lawyer, which was (alas) of late <br>But a scarce Poet; jollier of this state, <br>Then are new benefic'd ministers, he throwes <br>Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoere he goes, <br>His title'of Barrister, on every wench, <br>And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench: <br>'A motion, Lady.' 'Speake Coscus.' 'I'have beene <br>In love, ever since tricesimo' of the Queene, <br>Continuall claimes I'have made, injunctions got <br>To stay my rivals suit, that hee should not <br>Proceed.' 'Spare mee.' 'In Hillary terme I went, <br>You said, If I returne next size in Lent, <br>I should be in remitter of your grace; <br>In th'interim my letters should take place <br>Of affidavits--': words, words, which would teare <br>The tender labyrinth of a soft maids eare, <br>More, more, then ten Sclavonians scolding, more <br>Then when winds in our ruin'd Abbeyes rore. <br>When sicke with Poetrie,'and possest with muse <br>Thou wast, and mad, I hop'd; but men which chuse <br>Law practise for meere gaine, bold soule, repute <br>Worse then imbrothel'd strumpets prostitute. <br>Now like an owlelike watchman, hee must walke <br>His hand still at a bill, now he must talke <br>Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will sweare <br>That onely suretiship hath brought them there, <br>And to'every suitor lye in every thing, <br>Like a Kings favorite, yea like a King; <br>Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre, <br>Bearing like Asses, and more shameless farre <br>Then carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; for <br>Bastardy'abounds not in Kings titles, nor <br>Symonie'and Sodomy in Churchmens lives, <br>As these things do in him; by these he thrives. <br>Shortly ('as the sea) hee'will compasse all our land; <br>From Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand. <br>And spying heires melting with luxurie, <br>Satan will not joy at their sinnes, as hee. <br>For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitching-stuffe, <br>And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe, <br>Of wasting candles, which in thirty yeare <br>(Relique-like kept) perchance buyes wedding geare; <br>Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much time <br>Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime. <br>In parchments then, large as his fields, hee drawes <br>Assurances, bigge, as gloss'd civill lawes, <br>So huge, that men (in our times forwardnesse) <br>Are Fathers of the Church for writing lesse. <br>These hee writes not; nor for these written payes, <br>Therefore spares no length; as in those first dayes <br>When Luther was profest, he did desire <br>Short Pater nosters, saying as a Fryer <br>Each day his beads, but having left those lawes, <br>Addes to Christs prayer, the Power and glory clause. <br>But when he sells or changes land, he'impaires <br>His writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out, ses heires, <br>As slily'as any Commenter goes by <br>Hard words, or sense; or in Divinity <br>As controverters, in vouch'd texts, leave out <br>Shrewd words, which might against them cleare the doubt. <br>Where are those spred woods which cloth'd heretofore <br>Those bought lands? not built, not burnt within dore. <br>Where's th'old landlords troops, and almes? In great hals <br>Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bachanalls <br>Equally'I hate; meanes blesse; in rich mens homes <br>I bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs, <br>None starve, none surfet so; But (Oh) we'allow <br>Good workes as good, but out of fashion now, <br>Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawes <br>Within the vast reach of th'huge statute lawes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419758" data-title="Satire II de John Donne" data-description="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 b..."></div>
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