An Epistle to Sr. Richard Blackmore occasion'd by the new session of the poets.

An Epistle to Sr. Richard Blackmore occasion'd by the new session of the poets.

Table of contents

Title page

AN EPISTLE TO Sir Richard Blackmore.

POEMS lately publish'd, and sold by A. Baldwin.

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AN EPISTLE TO Sir Richard Blackmore.

NOT that you need Assistance in your Wars,

Or have receiv'd dishonourable Scars,

By Criticks worried, as by Beasts of Prey,

Men void of Sense, and full as wild as they;

Who against Wit Infernal Batt'ries raise,

And tear with Envy what they ought to praise.

Yet tho undaunted you maintain the Fight,

And force your Foes within the Shades of Night,

Groveling far distant from the Realms of Light,

Suffer an humble Unexperienc'd Muse

Your sacred Harp and trembling Strings to use

(A Muse was only by your Self inspir'd,

And only by the Heat you gave her, fir'd)

Who owns what Merit may to her belong,

Is always due to your Immortal Song.

How blest, how happy were the Infant days,

When Poets only sang their Maker's Praise?

When in united Notes they did reherse

The mighty Founder of the Universe,

[Page]Who forc'd out Light from the Abyss of Shade,

And this vast Orb of slender nothing made;

Whose Surface, water'd with Celestial Dew,

Unto our sight most pleasing Objects threw;

Of Flow'rs and Herbs a Treasure did unfold,

Wondrous in shape, and beauteous to behold;

Whose fertil Womb did every thing produce,

Which might suffice for Ornament or Use?

They saw with wonder the amazing Sea,

How near the Earth it kept its rapid Sway,

And yet eternal Orders did obey;

How its vast Waves in wat'ry Mountains rise,

Whose foaming Pyramids do threat the Skies;

Lash'd by the Winds, how bulky Billows roar,

Yet know their Bounds, and break upon the Shoar:

They saw the Rack dividing from afar

With weighty Clouds the thinner space of Air;

Thunder they heard, which thro the Aether rang;

They saw God's Works, and what they saw, they sang.

The self-same God in antient times did raise

The Heathen Bards to celebrate his Praise.

Tho by Eternal Wisdom he was seen

Only to them with a thick Veil between;

Yet such their Knowledg, that their Harps they strung,

And an Eternal Deity they sung;

[Page]They taught the Nations its indulgent Sway,

And by Example drew them to obey:

They kept their Passions in severest awe,

And made Lust stoop unto impartial Law;

When men grew vicious, and enclin'd to Hell,

They did the Lash of pointed Satyr feel.

Both for their Counsel and their Justice fear'd,

No vicious Kings or Potentates they spar'd:

To future Times they did the Truth declare,

Which were the Lewd, and which the Virtuous were.

So much we now decline from Virtue's ways,

The Poet works his Labours into Plays;

Each Bard is grown a Mimick or Buffoon,

And what was Satyr once, is now Lampoon:

They meanly flatter for the Bread they eat,

And not by Virtue, but by Crimes grow great.

'Tis true, your Genius was by Fate design'd

To shew us Virtue and exalted Mind;

And those blest Paths, alas! we seldom find.

Like Daedalus, an equal distance show,

You neither soar too high, nor creep too low;

'Tis natural all, and not attain'd by Force,

You guide with steddy Reins th' unruly Horse;

[Page]Whilst those who neither Rule nor Distance keep,

Like Icarus descend into the Deep.

To move their Rubbish you your self demean,

Yet cannot this Augean Stable clean;

The nest of Viper-Criticks there you found,

Their snaky Heads erect, and hissing round;

Like the old Serpent, ne'er will they grow wise,

Nor quit their Venom, but retain their Vice.

Of all your Foes, the Rhymer of most note

Is he who the new Session lately wrote,

Who, that his Lines may better pass for Wit,

Has stamp'd with Honour all the stuff he writ.

If we mistrust him, we are not to blame,

Who shews his Honour, but conceals his Name;

No Suit of Scandal can we undergo,

His mighty Honour being incognito.

And cou'd we see this wondrous Son of Wit,

Who late as Scribe did to Apollo sit,

I dare believe his Title he'd disown,

Nor call himself Apollo's hopeful Son:

In thredbare Verse, perhaps in thredbare Clothes,

He do's his honourable Wit impose;

Whose show of Honour signifies as much

As Citt's confin'd within a Booby-Hutch.

[Page]Tho he attempts the Regions of the Sky,

Flutters o'er Earth, nor can ascend on high;

His Pinions broken, and his Lute unstrung,

He sings a horrid and confounded Song.

His mighty Dr—n to the Shades is gone,

And Con—ve leaves Successor of his Throne:

Tho long before his final Exit hence

He was himself an abdicated Prince,

Disrob'd of all Regalities of State,

Drawn by a Hind and Panther from his Seat:

Heir to his Plays, his Fables and his Tales,

Con—is the Poetick Prince of Wales;

Not at St. Germains, but at Will's his Court,

Whither the Subjects of his Dad resort;

Where Plots are hatch'd, and Councils yet unknown,

How young Ascanius may ascend the Throne,

That in despite of all the Muses Laws

He may revenge his injur'd Father's Cause.

Go nauseous Rhymers, into Darkness go,

And view your Monarch in the Shades below,

Who takes not now from Helicon his Drink,

But sips from Styx a Liquor black as Ink;

Like Sisyphus a restless Stone he turns,

And in a Pile of his own Labours burns;

[Page]Whose curling Flames most ghastly Fiends do raise,

Supply'd with Fuel from his impious Plays;

And when he fain would puff away the Flame,

One stops his Mouth with bawdy Limberham:

There, to augment the Terrors of the Place,

His Hind and Panther stare him in the Face;

They grin like Devils at the cursed Toad,

Who made 'em draw on Earth so vile a Load.

Cou'd some Infernal Painter draw the Sight,

And once transmit it to the Realms of Light,

It might our Poets from their Sins afright:

Or cou'd they hear how there the Sons of Verse

In dismal Yells their Tortures do express;

How scorch'd with Ballads on the Stygian Shoar,

They Horrors in a dismal Chorus roar;

Or see how th' Lawreat do's his Grandeur bear,

Crown'd with a Wreath of flaming Sulphur there.

Tho Con—may in time, when he has merit,

The Prophet's Throne in peaceful sway inherit,

The Poets all with one consent agree

His Mantle falls to G—by Destiny,

Who did whilst living wear his Livery;

Who never did a Hero form in Verse,

But what he fashion'd still in Dr—n's Dress;

[Page]Like him's ill-natur'd, and abounds in spleen,

As if his nat'ral Issue he had been;

Like him's Malicious, Envious, and Uncivil,

The three good Properties of Mr. Devil,

Which Dr—n held unto the very last,

Improv'd in Malice as his Life did wast:

His dying Epilogue with Curses cramm'd,

Has both the Arthurs, and their Author damn'd.

No one so fit as G—in all the Nation

T' harangue the Crowd in Funeral Oration:

That nauseous Crowd of Mourners, void of Brains,

Stood more in need of Ty—ns Bedlam Pains.

The former Times produc'd prodigious Men

During the Reigns of Chaucer and of Ben,

Who show'd a Virtuous and exalted Mind,

Which from that time has ever since declin'd.

Cowley indeed endeavour'd to retrieve

The Fame of Verse, and Life to Virtue give;

But that vile Age was in a League with Hell,

And he in the Attempt successless fell.

A Court debauch'd, a Theatre profane,

Were all the Blessings of that virtuous Reign:

Poets themselves by Lewdness then did raise,

By servile Flatt'ry, and by fulsom Praise;

He then wrote best, that made the lewdest Plays.

[Page]

The Poet now the self-same method takes,

His Reason, Virtue, and his God forsakes,

Declines Instructions of the Good and Wise,

By Vanity and Vice attempts to rise;

Some Packhorse for a Pegasus he strides,

And stumbles on Preferment as he rides.

No matter how unfurnish'd be his Scull,

Be he a Sot, incorrigibly dull:

If some lewd Courtier he can meanly praise,

He never fails of Honour and the Bays.

Thus St—ey rose to be a Chit of State,

And Pr—r grew magnificently great;

P—r, who was with M—ue ally'd,

For by their Hands the Hind and Panther dy'd;

They both in Partnership the Monsters shot,

But M—ue the praise of Conquest got.

Great M—ue, the wonder of the Nation,

Only a Poet is by Imputation,

And others Works of Supererrogation.

Haughty and proud, he highly do's disdain

To bless us with the Labours of his Brain.

When e'er we see a Comet in the Sky,

We strait conclude some Potentate will die;

[Page]So when the stormy Winds come puffing on,

Disturb the Waters of smooth Helicon,

This Mountain Poet does bring forth a Mouse,

Larger and bigger than a Souldiers Louse.

What need he write to make Mankind abhor him,

Who has so many Bards to scribble for him?

Not one dares boggle, or his Patron lash,

Who has the hap to keep the Muses Cash,

Which bribes into his Service all the Rhymers,

The Sonneteers and little Dogrel Chimers;

Yet always culls amidst the Multitude

Such as are very dull, or very lewd.

He plants fresh Laurels for each Impious Head,

And builds fine Tombs and Statues for the Dead.

But what vile Bard will e'er lament his Fall,

Or write a Poem on his Funeral?

He like a Tyrant on the Earth will drop,

And no one deign to take the Monster up.

Some Fumes of Claret do from Hogsheads drown,

Such as Ned W—d, or libelling Tom Br—n;

Others being made of different sort of Metal,

Are leud as De—is, or as dull as Sc—le;

Yet all in Council do together sit

How to dethrone the beamy God of Wit;

[Page]How to defame all virtuous Men that write,

They rally Forces, and their Strength unite.

This, Sir's your Fate, curs'd Criticks you oppose,

The most Tyrannical and cruel Foes:

Dr—n their Huntsman dead, no more he wounds,

But now you must engage his Pack of Hounds.

So have I seen an English Mastiff pass

Along the Streets with a Majestick Grace;

The little Dogs come barking from their Cell,

And whine and growl with a confounded Yell;

The num'rous Crowd on the bold Mastiff stare,

And think each minute he the Curs will tear,

When he who with his Jaws might have undone 'em,

Lift up his Leg, and only piss'd upon 'em.

You need not value what the Criticks say,

Keep on your Course, and lead in Virtue's way:

Col—r already has undone the Stage;

But if you strive to mend this vicious Age,

You must with Ty—n, Sir, employ your Pains,

And try if you can cure their want of Brains.

FINIS.

§

§

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AN EPISTLE TO Sr. Richard Blackmore, Occasion'd by The New Session of the POETS.

[figure]

LONDON, Printed for A. Baldwin, in Warwick-Lane. MDCC.

POEMS lately publish'd, and sold by A. Baldwin.

The Dream, To Sir Charles Duncomb, Alderman of London.

A Description of Dryden's Funeral, 3d Edition.

The Way to Heaven in a string; or Mr. Asgill's Argument burlesqu'd.

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Information about this book

Title statement

An Epistle to Sr. Richard Blackmore occasion'd by the new session of the poets.

Edition statement

1700

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-11 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A38518

ID [STC]

Wing E3167

ID [STC]

ESTC R15061

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

11847115

ID [OCLC]

ocm 11847115

ID [VID]

49856

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A38518)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 49856)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 28:10)

Source

— An Epistle to Sr. Richard Blackmore occasion'd by the new session of the poets., Blackmore, Richard, Sir, d. 1729..

Extent

12 p.

Printed for A. Baldwin ...,. London :: 1700.. (Reproduction of original in Harvard University Libraries.) (In verse.)

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