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Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so As men from Jails to execution go; For, hung with deadly sins, I see the wall, And lin'd with Giants deadlier than 'em all: 275 Each man an Askapart, of strength to toss For Quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross. Scar'd at the grizly forms, I sweat, I fly, And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy. 279

Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine: Charge them with Heav'n's ArtiU'ry, bold Divine! From such alone the Great rebukes endure, Whose Satire's sacred, and whose rage secure: Tis mine to wash a few light stains, but theirs To deluge sin, and drown a Court in tears. 285 Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit, In time to come, may pass for Holy Writ.

Ver. 274. For, hung with deadly sins,] The room hung with old Tapestry, representing the seven deadly sins. P.

Ver. 286. my Wit,~] The private character of Donne was very amiable and interesting; particularly so, on account of his secret marriage with the daughter of Sir George More; of the difficulties he underwent on this marriage; of his constant affection to his wife, his affliction at her death, and the sensibility he displayed towards all his friends and relations.







The following words of Quintilian might not be an improper motto for these Dialogues:

"Ingenii plurimum est in eo, et acerbitas mira, et urbanitas, et vis summa; sed plus stomacho, quam consilio dedit. Prreterea ut amari sales, ita frequenter amaritudo ipsa ridicula est."

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Fr. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in Print, And when it comes, the Court see nothing in't.


After Ver. 2 in the MS.

You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, Because you think your reputation made:Like good Sir Paul, of whom so much was said, That when his name was up he lay a-bed. Come, come, refresh us with a livelier song, Or, like St. Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long.
P. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ.
F. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit. Besides, you grow too moral for a Wit.


Ver. 1. Not twice a twelvemonth, &c.] These two lines are from Horace; and the only lines that are so in the whole Poem; being meant to give a handle to that which follows in the character of an impertinent Censurer,

'* Tis all from Horace," &c. P.

By long habit of writing, and almost constantly in one sort of measure, he had now arrived at a happy and elegant familiarity of style, without flatness. The satire in these pieces is of the strongest kind; sometimes, direct and declamatory, at others, ironical and oblique. It must be owned to be carried to excess. Our country is represented as totally ruined, and overwhelmed

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