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Satira .2a.
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

[CW: Others]