Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence 35 Of time, O spent in hearkning to non-sense, With markes also, enough whereby to know, The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so. 'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power, They humm'd against him; And with face most sowre 40 Call'd him a strong lin'd man, a Macaroon, And no way fit to speake to clouted shoone, As fine words [truly] as you would desire, But [verily,] but a bad edifier. Thus did these beetles slight in him that good, 45 They could not see, and much lesse understood. But we may say, when we compare the stuffe Both brought; He was a candle, they the snuffe. Well, Wisedome's of her children justifi'd, Let therefore these poore fellowes stand aside; 50 Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly, Would I his booke should save him; Rather slily I should advise his Clergie not to pray, Though of the learn'dst sort; Me thinkes that they Of the same trade, are Judges not so fit, 55 There's no such emulation as of wit. Of such, the Envy might as much perchance Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance. It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd; 60 And why? but 'cause he came late in the day, And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they. No more of this, least some should say, that I Am strai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie. No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd, 65 A Jury I would summon on his side, That had no sides, nor factions, past the touch Of all exceptions, freed from Passion, such As nor to feare nor flatter, e'r were bred, These would I bring, though called from the dead: 70 Southampton, Hambleton, Pembrooke, Dorsets Earles, Huntingdon, Bedfords Countesses (the Pearles Once of each sexe.) If these suffice not, I Ten _decem tales_ have of Standers by: All which, for DONNE, would such a verdict give, 75 As can belong to none, that now doth live. But what doe I? A diminution 'tis To speake of him in verse, so short of his, Whereof he was the master; All indeed Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed. 80 O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothers Could write for him, as he hath done for others: (Poets I speake to) When I see't, I'll say, My eye-sight betters, as my yeares decay, Meane time a quarrell I shall ever have 85 Against these doughty keepers from the grave, Who use, it seemes their old Authoritie, When (Verses men immortall make) they cry: Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd, _Probatum esset_, DONNE had never dy'd. 90 For mee, if e'r I had least sparke at all Of that which they Poetique fire doe call, Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth,