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Twas a blith
prince exchang'd five hundred crowns
For a fair
turnip. Dig, dig on, O clowns
But how this comes
about, Fates, can you tell,
This more then Maid of
Meurs, this miracle?
Let me not live, if I think not
St. Mark
Has all the oar, as well as beasts, in's
ark!
No wonder 'tis he marries the rich sea,
But
to betroth him to nak'd Poesie,
And with a bankrupt
muse to merchandise;
His treasures beams, sure, have
put out his eyes.
His conquest at Lepanto I'l let
pass,
When the sick sea with turbants night-cap'd
was;
And now at Candie his full courage shown,
That wan'd to a wan line the half-half moon.
This is
a wreath, this is a victorie,
Caesar himself would
have look'd pale to see,
And in the height of all his
triumphs feel
Himself but chain'd to such a mighty
wheel.
And now me thinks we ape Augustus state,
So
ugly we his high worth imitate,
Monkey his godlike
glories; so that we
Keep light and form with such
deformitie,
As I have seen an arrogant baboon
With
a small piece of glasse zany the sun.
Rome to her
bard, who did her battails sing,
Indifferent gave to
poet and to king;
With the same lawrells were his
temples fraught,
Who best had written, and who best
had fought;
The self same fame they equally did feel,
One's style ador'd as much as t' other's steel.
A
chain or fasces she could then afford
The sons of
Phoebus, we, an axe or cord;
Sometimes a coronet was
her renown,
And ours, the dear prerogative of a
crown.
In marble statu'd walks great Lucan lay,
And now we walk, our own pale statua.
They the whole
year with roses crownd would dine,
And we in all
December know no wine;
Disciplin'd, dieted, sure
there hath bin
Ods 'twixt a poet and a Capuchin.
Of princes, women, wine, to sing I see
Is no
apocrypha: for to rise high
Commend this olio of this
lord 'tis fit:
Nay, ten to one, but you have part of
it;
There is that justice left, since you maintain
His table, he should counter-feed your brain.
Then
write how well he in his sack hath droll'd,
Straight
there's a bottle to your chamber roll'd,
Or with
embroider'd words praise his French suit,
Month hence
'tis yours with his mans, to boot;
Or but applaud his
boss'd legs: two to none,
But he most nobly doth give
you one.
Or spin an elegie on his false hair:
'Tis
well, he cries, but living hair is dear.
Yet say that
out of order ther's one curl,
And all the hopes of
your reward you furl.
Write a deep epick poem, and
you may
As soon delight them as the opera,
Where
they Diogenes thought in his tub,
Never so sowre did
look so sweet a club.
You that do suck for thirst
your black quil's blood,
And chaw your labour'd
papers for your food,
I will inform you how and what
to praise,
Then skin y' in satin as young Lovelace
plaies.
Beware, as you would your fierce guests, your
lice,
To strip the cloath of gold from cherish'd
vice;
Rather stand off with awe and reverend fear,
Hang a poetick pendant in her ear,
Court her as her
adorers do their glasse,
Though that as much of a
true substance has,
Whilst all the gall from your
wildink you drain,
The beauteous sweets of vertues
cheeks to stain;
And in your livery let her be known,
As poor and tatter'd as in her own.
Nor write, nor
speak you more of sacred writ,
But what shall force
up your arrested wit.
Be chast; religion and her
priests your scorn,
Whilst the vain fanes of idiots
you adorn.
It is a mortal errour, you must know,
Of any to speak good, if he be so.
Rayl, till your
edged breath flea your raw throat,
And burn remarks
on all of gen'rous note;
Each verse be an indictment,
be not free
Sanctity 't self from thy scurrility.
Libel your father, and your dam buffoon,
The noblest
matrons of the isle lampoon,
Whilst Aretine and 's
bodies you dispute,
And in your sheets your sister
prostitute.
Yet there belongs a sweetnesse, softnesse
too,
Which you must pay, but first, pray, know to
who.
There is a creature, (if I may so call
That
unto which they do all prostrate fall)
Term'd
mistress, when they'r angry; but, pleas'd high,
It is
a princesse, saint, divinity.
To this they sacrifice
the whole days light,
Then lye with their devotion
all night;
For this you are to dive to the abysse,
And rob for pearl the closet of some fish.
Arabia and
Sabaea you must strip
Of all their sweets, for to
supply her lip;
And steal new fire from heav'n, for
to repair
Her unfledg'd scalp with Berenice's hair;
Then seat her in Cassiopeia's chair.
As now you're in
your coach: save you, bright sir,
(O, spare your
thanks) is not this finer far
Then walk un-hided,
when that every stone
Has knock'd acquaintance with
your ankle-bone?
When your wing'd papers, like the
last dove, nere
Return'd to quit you of your hope or
fear,
But left you to the mercy of your host
And
your days fare, a fortified toast.
How many battels,
sung in epick strain,
Would have procur'd your head
thatch from the rain
Not all the arms of Thebes and
Troy would get
One knife but to anatomize your meat,
A funeral elegie, with a sad boon,
Might make you (hei!)
sip wine like maccaroon;
But if perchance there did a
riband come,
Not the train-band so fierce with all
its drum:
Yet with your torch you homeward would
retire,
And heart'ly wish your bed your fun'ral pyre.
With what a fury have I known you feed
Upon a
contract and the hopes 't might speed!
Not the fair
bride, impatient of delay,
Doth wish like you the
beauties of that day;
Hotter than all the roasted
cooks you sat
To dresse the fricace of your alphabet,
Which sometimes would be drawn dough anagrame,
Sometimes acrostick parched in the flame;
Then posies
stew'd with sippets, mottos by:
Of minced verse a
miserable pye.
How many knots slip'd, ere you twist
their name
With th' old device, as both their heart's
the same!
Whilst like to drills the feast in your
false jaw
You would transmit at leisure to your maw;
Then after all your fooling, fat, and wine,
Glutton'd
at last, return at home to pine.
Tell me, O Sun,
since first your beams did play
To night, and did
awake the sleeping day;
Since first your steeds of
light their race did start,
Did you ere blush as now?
Oh thou, that art
The common father to the base
pissmire,
As well as great Alcides, did the fire
From thine owne altar which the gods adore,
Kindle
the souls of gnats and wasps before?
Who would
delight in his chast eyes to see
Dormise to strike at
lights of poesie?
Faction and envy now are downright
rage.
Once a five-knotted whip there was, the stage:
The beadle and the executioner,
To whip small errors,
and the great ones tear;
Now, as er'e Nimrod the
first king, he writes:
That's strongest, th' ablest
deepest bites.
The muses weeping fly their hill, to
see
Their noblest sons of peace in mutinie.
Could
there nought else this civil war compleat,
But poets
raging with poetic heat,
Tearing themselves and th'
endlesse wreath, as though
Immortal they, their wrath
should be so, too?
And doubly fir'd Apollo burns to
see
In silent Helicon a naumachie.
Parnassus hears
these at his first alarms;
Never till now Minerva was
in arms.
O more then conqu'ror of the world, great
Rome!
Thy heros did with gentleness or'e come
Thy
foes themselves, but one another first,
Whilst envy
stript alone was left, and burst.
The learn'd
Decemviri, 'tis true, did strive,
But to add flames
to keep their fame alive;
Whilst the eternal lawrel
hung ith' air:
Nor of these ten sons was there found
one heir.
Like to the golden tripod, it did pass
From this to this, till 't came to him, whose 'twas.
Caesar to Gallus trundled it, and he
To Maro: Maro,
Naso, unto thee?
Naso to his Tibullus flung the
wreath,
He to Catullus thus did bequeath.
This
glorious circle, to another round,
At last the
temples of their god it bound.
I might believe at
least, that each might have
A quiet fame contented in
his grave,
Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite:
For after death all men receave their right.
If it be
sacriledge for to profane
Their holy ashes, what is't
then their flame?
He does that wrong unweeting or in
ire,
As if one should put out the vestal fire.
Let
earths four quarters speak, and thou, Sun, bear
Now
witnesse for thy fellow-traveller.
I was ally'd, dear
Uncle, unto thee
In blood, but thou, alas, not unto
me;
Your vertues, pow'rs, and mine differ'd at best,
As they whose springs you saw, the east and west.
Let
me awhile be twisted in thy shine,
And pay my due
devotions at thy shrine.
Might learned Waynman rise,
who went with thee
In thy heav'ns work beside
divinity,
I should sit still; or mighty Falkland
stand
To justifie with breath his pow'rful hand;
The glory, that doth circle your pale urn,
Might
hallow'd still and undefiled burn:
But I forbear.
Flames, that are wildly thrown
At sacred heads, curle
back upon their own;
Sleep, heavenly Sands, whilst
what they do or write,
Is to give God himself and you
your right.
There is not in my mind one sullen fate
Of old, but is concentred in our state:
Vandall
ore-runners, Goths in literature:
Ploughmen that
would Parnassus new-manure;
Ringers of verse that
all-in-chime,
And toll the changes upon every rime.
A mercer now by th' yard does measure ore
An ode,
which was but by the foot before;
Deals you an ell of
epigram, and swears
It is the strongest and the
finest wears.
No wonder, if a drawer verses rack,
If 'tis not his, 't may be the spir't of sack;
Whilst
the fair bar-maid stroaks the muses teat,
For milk to
make the posset up compleat.
Arise, thou rev'rend
shade, great Johnson, rise!
Break through thy marble
natural disguise!
Behold a mist of insects, whose
meer breath
Will melt thy hallow'd leaden house of
death.
What was Crispinus, that you should defie
The age for him? He durst not look so high
As your
immortal rod, he still did stand
Honour'd, and held
his forehead to thy brand.
These scorpions, with
which we have to do,
Are fiends, not only small but
deadly too.
Well mightst thou rive thy quill up to
the back,
And scrue thy lyre's grave chords, untill
they crack.
For though once hell resented musick,
these
Divels will not, but are in worse disease.
How would thy masc'line spirit, father Ben,
Sweat to
behold basely deposed men,
Justled from the
prerog'tive of their bed,
Whilst wives are per'wig'd
with their husbands head?
Each snatches the male
quill from his faint hand,
And must both nobler write
and understand,
He to her fury the soft plume doth
bow:
O pen, nere truely justly slit till now!
Now
as her self a poem she doth dresse.
And curls a line,
as she would do a tresse;
Powders a sonnet as she
does her hair,
Then prostitutes them both to publick
aire.
Nor is 't enough, that they their faces blind
With a false dye; but they must paint their mind,
In
meeter scold, and in scann'd order brawl,
Yet there's
one Sapho left may save them all.
But now let me
recal my passion.
Oh! (from a noble father, nobler
son)
You, that alone are the Clarissimi,
And the
whole gen'rous state of Venice be,
It shall not be
recorded Sanazar
Shall boast inthron'd alone this new
made star;
You, whose correcting sweetnesse hath
forbad
Shame to the good, and glory to the bad;
Whose honour hath ev'n into vertue tam'd
These
swarms, that now so angerly I nam'd.
Forgive what
thus distemper'd I indite:
For it is hard a SATYRE
not to write.
Yet, as a virgin that heats all her
blood
At the first motion of bad understood,
Then,
at meer thought of fair chastity,
Straight cools
again the tempests of her sea:
So when to you I my
devotions raise,
All wrath and storms do end in calm
and praise.
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