The temple of death a poem / written by the Marquess of Normanby ...

ON A POET Who Writ in the Praise of SATYR.

By the Earl of Rochester.

TO vex and torture thy unmeaning Brain In Satyr's praise, to a low untun'd strain, In thee, was most impertinent and vain. When in thy Person we more plainly see That Satyr's of Divine Authority; For God made one on Man, when he made thee:

In whom are all those Contradictions joyn'd, That make a Fop prodigious, and refin'd; A Lump deform'd and shapeless, wert thou born, Begot in Love's despight, and Nature's scorn, And art grown up the most ungainly Wight, Harsh to the Ear, and hideous to the Sight: Yet Love's thy Business, Beauty thy Delight. Curse on that silly hour that first inspir'd Thy Longing to Admire, and be Admir'd, To paint thy Grizly Face, to Dance, to Dress, And all those awkard Motions that express Thy Loathsome Love, and Filthy Daintiness. Who needs will be an Ugly Beau, Garsoon, Spit at, and scorn'd by every Girl in Town; Where dreadfully Love's Scare-crow thou art plac'd To fright the tender Flock, who long to taste. For none so Lewd and Silly yet have prov'd, Where thou mad'st Love, t'endure to be Be∣lov'd.

'Twere Counsel lost, or else I would advise; But thy half Wit will ne'er let thee be Wise: Half Witty, and half Mad, and scarce half Brave, Half Honest, which is very much; a Knave, Made up of All those Halves, thou canst not pass For any thing intirely but an Ass.