A SATYR AGAINST WIT.
The Second Edition.
LONDON:
Printed for Samuel Crouch, at the Corner of Pope's-Head-Alley, over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1700.
A Satyr against WIT.
VVHO can forbear, and tamely silent fit,
And see his Native Land undone by Wit?
Boast not, Britannia, of thy happy Peace,
What if Campaigns and Sea-Engagements cease,
Wit, a worse Plague, does mightily encrease?
Some monstrous Crimes to Ages past unknown,
Have surely pull'd this heavy Judgment down.
Fierce Insect-Wits draw out their noisy Swarms,
And threaten Ruin more than Foreign Arms.
O'er all the Land the hungry Locusts spread,
Gnaw every Plant, taint every flowry Bed,
And crop each tender Virtue's tender Head.
How happy were the old unpolished Times,
As free from Wit as other modern Crimes?
As our Forefathers Vig'rous were and Brave;
So they were Virtuous, Wise, Discreet and Grave,
Detesting both alike the Wit and Knave.
They justly Wits and Fools believ'd the same,
And Jester was for both the common Name.
[Page 4]Their Minds for Empire form'd would never quit
Their noble Roughness, and dissolve in Wit.
For Business born and bred to Martial Toil.
They rais'd the Glory of Britannia's Isle.
Then she her dreadful Ensigns did advance,
To curb Iberia, and to conquer France.
But this degenerate, loose and foolish Race
Are all turn'd Wits, and their great Stock debase.
Our Learning daily sinks, and Wit is grown
The senseless Conversation of the Town.
Enervated with this our Youth have [...]
That stubborn Virtue, which we once could boast.
The Plague of Wit prevails, I fear 'tis vain
Now to attempt its Fury to restrain.
It takes Men in the Head, and in the Fit
They lose their Senses, and are gone in Wit.
By various ways their Frenzy they express,
Some with loose Lines run haring to the Press,
In Lewdness some are Wits, some only Wits in Dress.
Some seiz'd like Gravar, with Convulsions strain
Always to say fine Things, but strive in vain,
Urg'd with a dry Tenesmus of the Brain.
Had but the People scar'd with Danger run
To shut up Wills, where first this Plague begun:
Had they the first infected Men convey'd
Strait to Moorfields, the Pest-house for the Head;
The wild Contagion might have been supprest,
Some few had fal'n, but we had sav'd the rest.
An Act like this had been a good Defence
Against our great Mortality of Sense.
But now th' Infection spreads, the Bills run high,
At the last Gasp of Sense ten thousand dy.
[Page 5]We meet fine Youth in every House and Street,
With all the deadly Tokens out, of Wit.
Vannine that look'd on all the Danger past,
Because he scap'd so long, is seiz'd at last.
By Pox and Hunger and by D— [...] bit
He grins and snarles, and in his dogged Fit
Froths at the Mouth, a certain Sign of Wit.
Craper runs madly midst the sickest Crowd,
And fain would be infected, if he cou'd.
Under the Means he lies, frequents the Stage,
Is very leud, and does at Learning rage.
Pity that so much Labour should be lost
By such a healthful Constitution crost.
Against th' Assaults of Wit his Make his proof,
Still his strong Nature works the Poison off.
He still escapes, but yet is wondrous pleas'd
Wit to recite, and to be thought Diseas'd.
So Hypocrites in Vice in this vile Town
To Wickedness pretend, that's not their own.
A Bantring Spirit has our Men possest,
And Wisdom is become a standing Jest.
Wit does of Virtue sure Destruction make;
Who can produce a Wit and not a Rake?
Wise Magistrates leud Wit do therefore hate,
The Bane of Virtue's Treason to the State.
While Honour fails and Honesty decays,
In vain we beat our Heads for Means and Ways
What well-form'd Government or State can last,
When Wit has laid the Peoples Virtue wast?
[Page 6]The Mob of Wits is up to storm the Town,
To pull all Virtue and right Reason down.
Quite to subvert Religion's sacred Fence,
To set up Wit, and pull down common Sense.
Our Libraries they gut, and shouting bear
The Spoils of ruin'd Churches in the Air.
Their Captain Tom does at their Head appear,
And S— [...] in his Gown brings up the Rear.
Aloud the Church and Clergy they condemn,
Curse all their Order, and their God blaspheme.
Against all Springs of Learning they declare,
Against Religion's Nurseries, and swear
They will no All—e, M—ll or Ch—t spare:
But the leud Crew affirm by all that's good
They'll ne'er disperse unless they've B—ly's Blood.
For that ill-natur'd Critic has undone
The rarest Piece of Wit that e'er was shown.
Till his rude Stroaks had thresh'd the empty Sheaf,
We thought there had been something else than Chaff.
Crown'd with Applause this Master Critic sits,
And round him ly the Spoils of ruin'd Wits.
How great a Man! What Rev'rence were his due,
Could he suppress the Critic's Fastus too?
As certain Words will Lunaticks enrage,
Who just before appear'd sedate and sage.
So do but Lock or Books or Bentley name,
The Wit's in clammy Sweats, or in a Flame.
Horror and Shame! What would the Madmen have?
They dig up learned Bernard's peaceful Grave.
The Sacred-Urn of famous Stilling fleet,
We see prophan'd by the leud Sons of Wit.
The skilful Ty—n's Name they dare invade,
And yet they are undone without his Aid.
[Page 7] Ty—n with base Reproaches they pursue,
Just as his Moorfields Patients use to do.
For next to Virtue, Learning they abhor,
Laugh at Discretion, but at Business more.
A Wit's an idle, wretched Fool of Parts,
That hates all Liberal and Mechanick Arts.
Wit does enfeeble and debauch the Mind,
Before to Business or to Arts inclin'd.
How useless is a fauntring empty Wit,
Only to please with Jests at Dinner fit?
What hopeful Youths for Bar and Bench design'd,
Seduc'd by Wit have learned Coke declin'd?
For what has Wit to do with Sense or Law?
Can that in Titles find or mend a Flaw?
Can Wit supply great T—by's nervous Sense?
Or S—r's more than Roman Eloquence?
Which way has H—lt gain'd Universal Fame?
What makes the World thy Praises, F—ch, proclaim?
And charming P—s what advanc'd thy Name?
'Twas Application, Knowledge of the Laws,
And your vast Fund of Sense, gain'd you Applause.
The Law will ne'er support the bant'ring Breed,
A Sl— may sometimes there, but Wits can ne'er succeed.
R—t—ffe has Wit, and lavishes away
More in his Conversation every Day,
Than would supply a modern Writer's Play.
But 'tis not that, but the great Master's Skill,
Who with more Ease can cure, than C—h kill,
That does the grateful Realm with his Applauses fill.
Thy Learning G—ns, and thy Judgment H—w,
Make you in envy'd Reputation grow.
[Page 8]This drew Invectives on you, all agree,
From the lean Small-craft of your Faculty.
Had you been Wits you had been both secure
From Business, and for Satyr too Obscure,
Ill-natur'd, Arrogant, and very Poor.
But let Invectives still your Names assail,
Your Business is to Cure, and theirs to Rail.
Let 'em proceed and make your Names a Sport
In leud Lampoons, they've Time and Leisure for't.
Despise their Spite, the Thousands whom you raise
From threaten'd Death will bless You all their Days,
And spend the Breath you sav'd, in just and lasting Praise.
But Wit as now 'tis manag'd would undo
The Skill and Virtues we admire in You.
In G— the Wit the Doctor has undone,
In S—d the Divine, Heav'ns guard poor Ad—son.
An able Senator is lost in M—l,
And a fine Scholar sunk by Wit in B—l.
After his foolish Rhimes both Friends and Foes
Conclude they know, who did not write his Prose.
Wit does our Schools and Colleges invade,
And has of Letters vast Destruction made.
Has laid the Muses choicest Gardens wast,
Broke their Inclosures and their Groves defac't.
We strive in Jests each other to exceed,
And shall e'er long forget to Write or Read.
Unless a Fund were settled once that cou'd
Make our deficient Sense and Learning good,
Nothing can be expected, for the Debt
By this loose Age contracted, is so great,
To set the Muses mortgag'd Acres free,
Our Bankrupt Sons must sell out-right the Fee.
[Page 9]The present Age has all their Treasure spent,
They can't the Int'rest pay at Five per Cent.
What to discharge it can we hope to raise
From D—fy's, or from Poet D—n—'s Plays,
Or G—th's Lampoon with little in't but Praise?
O S—er, T—bot, D—set, M—gue,
Gr—y, Sh—ld, C—d—sh, P—ke, V—n, you
Who in Parnassus have Imperial Sway,
Whom all the Muses Subjects here obey,
Are in your Service and receive your Pay;
Exert your Soveraign Power, in Judgment sit
To regulate the Nation's Grievance, Wit.
Pity the cheated Folks that every Day
For Copper Wit good Sterling Silver pay.
If once the Muses Chequer would deny
To take false Wit, 'twould lose its currency.
Not a base Piece would pass, that pass'd before
Just wash'd with Wit, or thinly plated o'er.
Set forth your Edict, let it be enjoyn'd
That all defective Species be recoyn'd.
St. E—m—t and R—r both are fit
To oversee the Coining of our Wit.
Let these be made the Masters of Essay,
They'll every Piece of Metal touch and weigh,
And tell which is too light, which has too much Allay.
'Tis true, that when the course and worthless Dross
Is purg'd away, there will be mighty Loss.
Ev'n C—e, S—n, Manly W—ly,
When thus refin'd will grievous Suff'rers be.
Into the melting Pot when D—n comes,
What horrid Stench will rise, what noisome Fumes?
[Page 10]How will he shrink, when all his leud Allay,
And wicked Mixture shall be purg'd away?
When once his boasted Heaps are melted down,
A Chest full scarce will yield one Sterling Crown.
Those who will D—n—s melt and think to find
A goodly Mass of Bullion left behind,
Do, as th' Hibernian Wit, who as 'tis told,
Burnt his gilt Leather to collect the Gold.
But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear
Th' Examination of the most severe.
'Twill S—r's Scales and T—bot's Test abide,
And with their Mark please all the World beside.
But when our Wit's call'd in, what will remain
The Muses learned Commerce to maintain?
How pensive will our Beaus and Ladies sit?
They'll mutiny for want of ready Wit.
That such a failure no Man may incense,
Let us erect a Bank for Wit and Sense.
A Bank whose current Bills may Payment make,
Till new Mill'd Wit shall from the Mint come back.
Let S—er, D—set, Sh—ld, M—gue,
Lend but their Names, the Project then will do.
The Bank is fixt if these will under-write,
They pay the vastest Sums of Wit at fight.
These are good Men, in whom we all agree,
Their Notes for Wit are good Security.
Duncombs and Claytons in Parnassus all,
Who cannot sink unless the Hill should fall.
Their Bills, tho' ne'er supported by Trustees,
Will through Parnassus circulate with ease.
[Page 11]If these come in, the Bank will quickly fill,
All will be scrambling up Parnassus Hill.
They'll crowd the Muses Hall and throng to write
Great Sums of Wit, and will be Gainers by't.
V—e and C—e both are Wealthy, they
Have Funds of Standard-Sense, need no Allay,
And yet mix'd Metal oft they pass away.
The Bank may safely their Subscriptions take,
But let 'em for their Reputation's sake,
Take care their Payments they in Sterling make.
Codron will under-write his Indian Wit,
Far-fetch'd indeed, so 'twill the Ladies fit.
By Hearsay he's a Scholar, and they say
The Man's a sort of Wit too in his way.
Let 'em receive whatever P—r brings,
In nobler Strains no happy Genius sings.
'Tis Complaisance when to divert his Friends,
He to facetious Fancies condescends.
T—e will subscribe, but set no Payment-Day,
For his slow Muse you must with Patience stay,
He's honest, and as Wit comes in, will pay.
But how would all this new Contrivance Prize,
How high in value would their Actions rise?
Would Fr—k engraft his solid, manly Sense,
His Learning L—k, Fl—d his Eloquence.
The Bank when thus establish'd will supply
Small Places, for the little, loitt'ring Fry
That follow G—th, or at Will Vr—'s ply.
[Page 12]Their Station will be low, but ne'ertheless
For this Provision they should Thanks express:
'Tis sad to be a Wit and Dinnerless.
T—n the great Wit-Jobber of the Age,
And all the Muses Broakers will engage
Their several Friends to cry the Actions up,
And all the railing Mouths of Envy stop.
Ye Lords who o'er the Muses Realm preside,
Their Int'rests manage and their Empire guide;
Regard your Care, regard the sacred State
Laid by Invaders wast and desolate.
Tartars and Scythians have in barb'rous Bands
Riffled the Muses and o'er-run their Lands.
The Native Subjects who in Peace enjoy'd
The happy Seat, are by the Sword destroy'd.
Gardens and Groves Parnassus did adorn,
Condemn'd to Thistles now, and curst with Thorn.
Instead of Flowers and Herbs of wholsom use,
It does rank Weeds and pois'nous Plants produce.
Fitter to be for Witches a Retreat,
Owls, Satyrs, Monkies, than the Muses Seat.
Ev'n these debauch'd by D—n and his Crew,
Turn Bawds to Vice and wicked Aims pursue.
Therefore some just and wholesome Laws ordain,
That may this wild Licentiousness restrain.
To Virtue and to Merit have regard,
To punish learn, you know how to reward.
Let those Correction have, and not Applause,
That Heav'n affront and ridicule its Laws.
No sober Judge will Atheism e'er permit
To pass for Sense, or Blasphemy for Wit.
[Page 13]Declare that what's Obscene shall give Offence,
Let want of Decency be want of Sense.
Roscom.
Send out your Guards to scow'r the Ways and seize
The Footpads, Outlaws, Rogues and Rapparees,
That in the Muses Country rob and kill,
And make Parnassus worse than Shooter's Hill.
Poetic Justice should on these be shown,
Or soon the Muses State must be undone.
For now an honest Man can't peep abroad,
And all chast Muses dread the dangerous Road.
If in Parnassus any needy Wit
Should filch and Petty Larceny commit,
If he should riffle Books, and Pilferer turn,
An Inch beside the Nose the Felon burn.
Let him distinguish'd by this Mark appear,
And in his Cheek a plain Signetur wear.
Chastise the Poets who our Laws invade,
And hold with France for Wit an Owling Trade.
Felonious G— pursuing this Design,
Smuggles French Wit, as others Silks and Wine.
But let his Suff'rings doubly be severe,
For he both steals it there, and runs it here.
Condemn all those who 'gainst the Muses Laws
Sollicit Votes, and canvas for Applause.
When Torman writes he rattles up and down,
And makes what Friends he can, to make the Town.
By Noise and Violence they force a Name,
For this leud Town has Setters too for Fame:
It is not Merit now that recommends,
But he's allow'd most Sense, that makes most Friends
[Page 14]In Panegyrick let it be a Rule,
That for the Sense none praise a Wealthy Fool.
D—n condemn who taught Men how to make
Of Dunces Wits, an Angel of a Rake.
By Treats and Gifts our Youth may now commence,
Wits without Brains, and Scholars without Sense.
They cry up Darfel for a Wit, to treat
Let him forbear, and they their Words will eat.
Great Atticus himself these Men would curse,
Should Atticus appear without his Purse.
Of any Price you may bespeak a Name,
For Characters they cut, and retail Fame.
Bounty's the Measure of a Patron's Mind,
For they have still most Sense, that prove most kind.
Fame on Great Men's a Charge that still goes on,
For Wits, like Scriv'ners, take for Pro and Con.
Without his Gold what generous Oran writ,
Had ne'er been Standard, sheer Athenian Wit.
Those who by Satyr would reform the Town,
Should have some little Merit of their own,
And not be Rakes themselves below Lampoon.
For all their Libels Panegyrick's are,
They're still read backward like a Witch's Pray'r.
Ell—t's Reproofs who does not make his Sport?
Who'll e'er repent that S—d does exhort?
Therefore let Satyr-Writers be supprest,
Or be reform'd by cautious D—set's Test.
'Tis only D—set's Judgment can command,
Wit the worst Weapon in a Madman's Hand.
The Biting Things by that great Master said,
Flow from rich Sense, but theirs from want of Bread.
Whatever is by them in Satyr writ
Is Malice all, but his excess of Wit.
[Page 15]To lash our Faults and Follies is his Aim,
Theirs is good Sense and Merit to defame.
In D—set Wit (and therefore still 'twill please)
Is Constitution, but in them Disease.
Care should be taken of the Impotent,
That in your Service have their Vigor spent.
They should have Pensions from the Muses State,
Too Old to Write, too Feeble to Translate.
But let the lusty Beggar-Wits that lurk
About the Hill, be seiz'd and set to Work.
Besides some Youths Debauches will commit,
And surfeit by their undigested Wit.
Th' intoxicating Draught they cannot bear,
It takes their Heads before they are aware.
Weak Brothers by Excesses it appears
Have oft been laid up Months, and some whole Years.
By one Debauch a tender Wit was try'd,
And he 'tis known was likely to have dy'd.
That neither Sick nor Poor you may neglect,
For all the Muses Invalids erect,
An Hospital upon Parnassus Hill,
And settle Doctors there of Worth and Skill.
This Town can numbers for your Service spare,
That live obscure and of Success despair.
Fracar has many sour Invectives said,
And Jests upon his own Profession spred,
And with good Reason, 'twill not find him Bread.
And some such Doctors, sure you may persuade
To labour at th' Apothecary's Trade.
They'll Med'cines make, and at the Mortar sweat,
Let 'em pound Drugs, they have no Brains to beat.
FINIS.