THE

SATIRES

OF

Dr. JOHN DONNE,

Dean of ST. PAUL's,

VERSIFIED.

Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit Verficulos natura magis factos, et euntes

Mollius?

HOR.

THE

SATIRES of Dr. DONNE.

THE manly wit of Donne, which was the character of his genius, fuited beft with Satire; and in this he excelled, tho' he wrote but little; fix fhort poems being all we find amongft his writings of this fort. Mr. Pope has embellished two of them with his wit and harmony. He called it verfifying them, because indeed the lines have nothing more of numbers than their being compofed of a certain quantity of fyllables. This is the more to be ad mired, because, as appears by his other poems, and especially from that fine one, called the Progress of the Soul, his verse did not want harmony. But, I fuppofe, he took the Jermoni propiora of Horace too feriously; or rather, was content with the character his master gives of Lucilius,

"Emun&tae naris durus componere verfus.

Having spoken of his Progress of the Saul, let me add, that poetry fcarce ever loft more than by his not purfuing and finishing that noble defign; of which he has only given us the introduction. With regard to his fatires, it is almoft as much to be lamented that Mr. Pope did not give us a paraphrafe, in his manner, of the Third, which treats the nobleft fubject not only of this, but perhaps of any fatiric poet. To fupply this lofs, tho' in a very fmall degree, I have here inferted it in the verfification of Dr. Parhell. It will at leaft ferve to fhew the forcé of Dr. Donne's genius, and of Mr. Pope's; by removing all that was ruftic and fhocking in the one, and by not being able to reach a fingle grace of the other.

C

Ompaffion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies The tears a paffage thro' my fwelling Eyes; To laugh or weep at fins might idly show Unheedful paffion, or unfruitful woe.

Satire! arise, and try thy sharper ways,

If ever Satire cur'd an old disease.

Is not Religion (Heav'n-descended dame)
As worthy all our foul's devoutest flame,
As Moral Virtue in her early sway,

When the best Heathens faw by doubtful day?
Are not the joys, the promis'd joys above,
As great and strong to vanquish earthly love,
As earthly glory, fame, refpect, and show,
As all rewards their virtue found below?
Alas! Religion proper means prepares,

These means are ours, and muft its End be theirs?
And shall thy Father's spirit meet the fight
Of Heathen Sages cloath'd in heav'nly light,
Whose Merit of ftrict life, feverely suited
To Reason's dictates, may be faith imputed?
Whilft thou, to whom he taught the nearer road,
Art ever banish'd from the bleft abode.

Oh! if thy temper fuch a fear can find,

This fear were valour of the nobleft kind.

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Dar'st thou provoke, when rebel fouls aspire, 25 Thy Maker's Vengeance, and thy Monarch's Ire? Or live entomb'd in fhips, thy leader's prey, Spoil of the war, the famine, or the sea? In fearch of pearl, in depth of ocean breathe, Or live, exil'd the fun, in mines beneath? Or, where in tempefts icy mountains roll, Attempt a paffage by the Northern pole?

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