No More Learning

He found he was translated, and by whom.
Yet then with foot as stumbling as his tongue.
Pressed for his place among the learned throng ;
But Ben, who knew not either foe or friend.
Sworn enemy to all that do pretend.
Rose more than ever he was seen severe.
Shook his gray locks, and his own bays did tear
At this intrusion ; then, with laurel wand,
The awful sign of his supreme command.
At whose dread whisk Virgil himself does

quake.
And HoBACE patiently its strokes does take.
As he crowds in, he whipped him o'er the pate,
Like Pembroke at the miisque, and then did

rate:

Far from these blessed shades tread back
agen,
Most servile wit, and mercenary pen.



* AUnding to the beginning of May's tnuulation of Lu
CA2«*8 Phanalia.



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OP MARVELL. 187

Polydore, Lucan, Alan, Vandal, Gotb,
Malignant poet and historian both.
Go seek the novice statesmen, and obtrude
On them some Roman cast similitude ;
Tell them of liberty, the story's fine,
Until you all grow consuls in your wine,
Or thou, dictator of the glass, bestow
On him the Cato, this the Cickro,
Ti*ansferring old Rome hither in your talk,.
As Bethlem house did to Loretto walk.
Foul architect !
that hadst not eye to see
How ill the measures of these states agrees .
And who by Rome's example England lay.
Those but to Luc an do continue May ;
But thee, nor ignorance, nor seeming good
Misled, but malice fixed and undei'stood.
Because some one than thee more worthy wears
The sacred laurel, hence are all these tears.
Must therefore all the world be set on flame,
Because a Gazette-writer missed, his aim ?
And for a tankard-bearing muse must we,
As for the basket, Guelphs and Ghibelines be ?
When the sword glitters o'er the judge's head,
And fear has coward churchmen silenced,
Then is the poet's time, *tis then he draws,
And single fights forsaken virtue's cause.
He, when the wheel of empire whirleth back,
And though the world's disjointed axle crack,
Sings still of ancient rights and better times.
Seeks wretched good, arraigns successful crimes ;



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188 THE POBMS

But thou, base man, first prostituted hast.
Our spotless knowledge and the studies chaste,
Apostatizing from our arts and us,
To turn the chronicler to Spabtacus ;
Yet wast thou taken hence with equal fate,
Befgre thou couldst great Chablbs's death re-
late,
But what will deeper wound thy little mind,
Hast lefl surviving Dayenant still behind.
Who laughs to see in this thy death renewed.
Right Roman poverty and gratitude.
Poor poet thou, and grateful senate they.
Who thy last reckoning did so largely pay,
And with the public, gravity would come.
When thou hadst drunk thy last, to lead thee

home.
If that can be thy home where Spexseb lies,
And reverend Chauceb; but their dust does

xise
Against thee, and expels .