Samuel(poetButler

A Babylonish dialect
Which learned pedants much affect.

And force them, though it was in spite
Of Nature and their stars, to write.

Some force whole regions, in despite
O' geography, to change their site;
Make former times shake hands with latter,
And that which was before come after.
But those that write in rhyme still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
For one for sense, and one for rhyme,
I think 's sufficient at one time.

A skilful leech is better far
Than half an hundred men of war,
So he appear'd; and by his skill,
No less than dint of sword, cou'd kill.

For his Religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit;
'Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect, whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetick,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick.
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclin'd to,
By damning those they have no mind to:
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipp'd God for spite.
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow:
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin...

Nick Machiavel had ne'er a trick,
Though he gave his name to our Old Nick.

When pious frauds and holy shifts
Are dispensations and gifts.

And bid the devil take the hin'most.

The sun had long since in the lap
Of Thetis taken out his nap,
And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn
From black to red began to turn.

Quoth she, I 've heard old cunning stagers
Say fools for arguments use wagers.

Love is a boy by poets styl'd;
Then spare the rod and spoil the child.

There 's but the twinkling of a star
Between a man of peace and war.

Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated as to cheat.

For truth is precious and divine,—
Too rich a pearl for carnal swine.

And poets by their sufferings grow,—
As if there were no more to do,
To make a poet excellent,
But only want and discontent.

There are more fools than knaves in the world, else the knaves would not have enough to live upon.

With mortal crisis doth portend
My days to appropinque an end.

Who thought he 'd won
The field as certain as a gun.

We idly sit, like stupid blockheads,
Our hands committed to our pockets,
And nothing but our tongues at large,
To get the wretches a discharge:
Like men condemn'd to thunder-bolts,
Who, ere the blow, become mere dolts;
Or fools besotted with their crimes,
That know not how to shift betimes,
And neither have the hearts to stay,
Nor wit enough to run away.

The hollow-hearted, disaffected,
And close malignant are detected ;
Who lay their lives and fortunes down,
For pledges to secure our own.