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Saying, Him whom I last left, all repute * |
For his device, in handsoming a suit, |
To Judge of lace, pink, panes, print, cut, and pleit, |
Of all the Court to have the best conceit; |
Our dull Commedians want him, let him goe; |
Bnt, oh God strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so? |
Why. He hath travelled long; no, but to me |
Which understood none, he doth seem to be |
Perfect French, and Italian. I reply'd, |
So is the Pox. He answer'd not, but spy'd |
More men of sort, of parts and qualities, |
At last his love he in window spies, |
And like light dew exhal'd, he flings from me |
Violently ravished to his lechery. |
Many there were, he could command no more; |
He quarrell'd, fought, bled; and turn'd out of door |
Directly came to me, hanging the head, |
And constantly a while must keep his bed. |
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Satyre II. |
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Sir; though (I thank God for it) I do hate |
Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state |
In all ill things so excellently best, |
That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest. |
Though Poetry, indeed, be such a sin, |
As, I think, that brings dearth, and Spaniards in: |
Though like the Pestilence, and old fashion'd love, |
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove |
Never, till it be starv'd out, yet their state |
Is poor, 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 read,
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[CW: And] |