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And spying heirs melting with luxury,
Satan will not joy at their sins as he:
For (as a thrifty wench scrapes kitchen-stuffe,
And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe
Of wasting candles, which in thirty year,
Reliquely kept, perchance buys wedding cheer)
Piecemeal he gets lands, and spends as much time
Wringing each acre, as maids pulling prime.
In parchment then, large as the fields, he draws
Assurances, big as gloss'd civil laws,
So huge, that men, in our times' forwardness,
Are fathers of the church for writing less.
These he writes not; nor for these written payes,
Therefore spares no length (as in those first dayes
When Luther was profest, he did desire
Short paternosters, saying as a fryar




And when rank widows purchase luscious nights,
Or when a duke to Jansen punts at White's,
Or city-heir in mortgage melts away;
Satan himself feels far less joy than they.
Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that,

and gather

the whole estate :
Then, strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
Indenture, covenants, articles, they draw,
Large as the fields themselves, and larger far
Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are;
So vast, our new divines, we must confess,
Are fathers of the church for writing less.
But let them write for you, each rogue impairs
The deeds, and dexterously omits, ses heires : 100
No commentator can more slily pass
O'er a learn'd, unintelligible place;
Or, in quotation, shrewd divines leave out
Those words, that would against them clear the

doubt. So Luther thought the Paternoster long, When doom'd to say his beads and even-song;


105 So Luther thought the Paternoster long. These Satires exhibit the propensity to sneer at the Reformation, which marked the unsettled nature of Donne's opinions in early life; and the decorum of Pope's feelings was not proof against the temptation. In this unlucky spirit be transfers the scoff of the old railer against Luther to his own verses, and makes himself accountable for the slander against the piety of the most illustrious name since the days of the apostles. Donne had written a satirical • Catalogue of Rare Books,' one of which is named, M. Lutherus de abbreviatione Orationis Dominicæ,' with reference to his omission of the doxology. It was written in imitation of Rabelais' • Catalogue of the Library of St. Victor.' Rabelais was in the hands of all the wits of the age.

Each day his beads; but having left those laws, Adds to Christ's prayer the power and glory

clause) But when he sells or changes land, he impaires The 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 clear

the doubt. Where are these spread woods which cloathed

heretofore Those bought lands? not built, not burnt within

door. Where the old landlords' troops, and almes? In

halls Carthusian fasts and fulsome Bacchanals Equally I hate. Means blest. In rich men's

homes I bid kill some beasts, but no hecatombs; None starve, none surfeit so. But, 0, we allow Good works as good, but out of fashion now, Like old rich wardrobes. But my words none

draws Within the vast reach of the huge statutes' jaws.

But having cast his cowl, and left those laws, Adds to Christ's prayer the power and glory clause.

The lands are bought; but where are to be found Those ancient woods that shaded all the ground? We see no new-built palaces aspire,

111 No kitchens emulate the vestal fire. Where are those troops of poor, that throng’d of

yore The good old landlord's hospitable door? Well, I could wish that still in lordly domes 115 Some beasts were kill'd, though not whole heca

tombs; That both extremes were banish'd from their walls; Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bacchanals; And all mankind might that just mean observe, In which none e'er could surfeit, none could starve. These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow, But, O! these 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 said, I trust, without offence; Let no court sycophant pervert my sense ; Nor sly informer watch these words, to draw Within the reach of treason, or the law.




Well! I may now receive, and die. My sin
Indeed is great, but yet I have been in
A purgatory, such as feard hell is
A recreation, and scant map of this.
My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor hath

Poyson’d with love to see or to be seen:
I had no suit there, nor new suit to show;
Yet went to court; but as Glare, which did go
To mass in jest, catch’d, was fain to disburse
Two hundred markes, which is the statute's curse,
Before he 'scaped ; so it pleased my destiny
(Guilty of my sin of going) to think me

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