SInce here I'me banded up and down
By the keen blows of Fortunes frown,
When Art and Nature vainly strive
To make th'unhappy Poet live,
I'le flie such native Plagues, as these,
For refuge to the calmer Seas.
And try if bodeing Stars dispence
Ev'ry where the same Influence,
Climes vary Constitutions, so
Why may not they change Fortunes too?
Through th' habitable World I'll go
And if that fails, I'll search for New.
Wit somewhere has an happy Reign,
Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain.
Here she her Bounty does provide
For ev'ry thing that breaths beside.
The Dunce made Batchelor of Art
Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart:
Then Preaches to a Country-Squire,
Who his deep Learning does admire,
And gives him Six-score pounds a Year.
Then he must marry th' Chamber-maid
Who is forsooth a Mistress made.
So he goes on with a fair hope,
And of his Pulpit makes a Shop.
Yet he esteems himself but poor:
Your wooden Doctor can do more.
He is a Bishop and can teach
Ye how to Pray, tho he can't Preach.
That's how to Pray, and Worship him
Else the old Bard looks monstrous grim.
And to correct ye straight will send
His Excommunic'm Capiend'.
Here perhaps Reader you surmise,
That I the reverend Gown despise;
Whose Royal Function I approve,
Next to the Ministers Above.
All I design'd was to debate
On the unequall Acts of Fate,
Who cheisly Fools and Knaves prefer,
Perhaps, 'cause only such do worship Her.
Then there are mighty Peers o' th' Realm,
Whose conduct helps to steer the Helm:
They're great pretenders unto Wit.
And that they may seem to incourage it
They'll have a Poet at their Tail:
And that to know him they mayn't fail,
He has an old fashion thread-bare Coat,
Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a Groat;
One points and cries, there goes Long-lane,
Another cries, he's Long-and-Lean.
For like one newly fluxt he'l crawl,
And lets the Foot-Boys take the Wall.
But when to th' Tavern they do go,
Their Honours will more freedom show;
There they may Swagger Swear and Lye,
And doe any thing, but Pay:
Damn ye, I din'd with such a Lord to Day,
And such a Lord did like my Play:
And without Vanity it is
The best I writ, my Master-peice.
Observe the empty Citizen,
That but in shape excel the Swine:
Those profane Atheists that do hold,
There is no Deity but Gold.
They hate the Poet, 'cause he's poor,
And but the Golden Calf adore.
They say our Plays are wicked dear,
Th' Expence in Ballads would go far:
And I protest; I've heard some say,
Plays are a kind of Popery.
I' th' City-shops they 're thought profane,
As were Mince-pies in Cromwel's Reign:
Where when for Dryden's Works I came,
They star'd and said they never heard his Name,
But they had Baxter if you please,
And such Diviner things as these.
But from damn'd Plays L. Mayor defend 'em,
And rather to a Conventicle send 'em.
See how the gaping Merchant range
To hunt his Cully o're th'Exchange:
Where such a discord they compound,
Like the loud Billows, when your Ships they drown'd.
There they more fat in one warm Hour do sweat,
Then a poor Poet in a year can get.
'Tis pretty sport to see the Tailer,
The Shoemaker, and Millener,
And every Fop that sells his Ware
O're the poor Poet domineer.
"Is this the Wit? the Devil take it,
"For without question he did make it:
"The truest Wit is Honesty,
"And to get Coyn your Debts to pay:
"Wit is an Ass, where Money's slow,
"For 'tis that makes the Ass to go.
"Why, I am but a mean Trades-man,
"And yet doe more than any Poet can.
"I walk the Street, yet fear no Dun
"Nor in their Debts, nor from them run:
"Nor yet for fear of being found out,
"Do I walk half a mile about.
The Bookseller grows fat o'th' gain,
He sucks from the poor Poets Brain:
He and the Printer, that do know
Nothing beyond the Christ-Cross-Row,
Will their Heads together joyn
To rob the Poet of his Coyn.
He wresty Drudge must toile and sweat,
But honourable stabs to get.
And is forc't to sigh and stay
For the Lawrels till he's gray.
And at the last together come
To his Honor and his Tomb.
Tho, when dead, his Friends may'nt raise
Enough to guild his Funeral Bays.
The Quacks as often as they will
Can get Licenses to kill,
Whilst the hungry Poet may
For an Imprimatur slay,
Till he has eaten up his Play.
Nothing that's witty now can pass,
An heavy burden may fit an Ass.
Who if by chance discerns the Wit,
His envious Pen will murther it.
He who himself does guilty know,
No lawful Satyr will allow;
For seeing there his ugly Face,
He will be sure to break the Glass.
I speak not this for all, but one
Whose Malice I've severely known:
And all because I told not quick
Who is Father to Melchisedeck.
As for his Name leave that alone;
There's ne're a Poet in the Town,
But wish the Man they ne're had known.
But prythee Muse here calm thy Brow,
Least thou shouldst seem Revengeful too.
In every thing but Poetry
Something impossible we see:
Rhet' rick, which we so much adore
N'ere had a perfect Orator.
The lingring Chimist blows his Fire
And waits till his own Lamp expire.
Searching for th' inchanted Stone
Till he himself's as cold as one.
The natural Philosopher
About perpetual motion keeps a slir;
But straight his Engines rest obtain,
And all the motion's in his Brain.
How nauseous are Grammatick fools
Arm'd but with noise and canting Rules?
Where Lilly does debauch poor Verse
And gibberish in Heroick dress.
Astronomy each faith engage,
And with dark Notions cheats the Age.
But take off their disguise, you'll see
It is more feign'd than Poetry.
Else let it for a certain show
Whether this Globe has wings or no,
Or Ovid blame, who said the Sun
Did run away with Phaeton.
What is Geometry I'de know,
But a salse brat of fancy too?
If 'tis a Science, let it tell
How far from hence the Stars do dwell,
And the due proportion give between
A direct and a crooked Line.
And what is Logick but a cheat?
Nothing or something worse than it.
A Delphich Sword bent any way,
To make Truth yeild to Sophistry.
Arithmetick how little Art!
Poetry is not so confin'd:
One Unite speak, can all thy Art
To the defects of Nature find.
Ye black Lectures of Mortality,
And of flegmatick Morality
Adue! Adue! I soar too high
For your short Wings to follow me.
Speak dull Philosopher, what's all
You in mistake do Science call?
Since Socrates with much ado
Learnt only that he nothing knew.
Nothing is unconfin'd and free
Besides the Soul of Poetry;
When it does on the Organs play,
Throw all your mistick Books away,
And study Natures Library.
Move up to Heav'ns refulgent Throne,
There by the tab'ring Muses drawn;
First pause a while, then write, and all
The Gods to Convocation call.
Then with impartial Frowns survey
Man varying in Apostacy.
Pitty poor Princes that do grone
Under the burden of a Crown
And contemn Riches, which we see
Is but a golden Slavery:
We're richer far in Poetry.
And when we punish Avarice
'Tis only 'cause we 'ld cure the Vice.
But the dull crowd our Power profane,
And say we only Write for gain.
Altho Experience proves this sure,
'Tis only Writing makes us poor.
Yet we're so just, we'l doe the Law,
Tho shame is all the gain we draw.
And when we serve them with a Play,
We must like Catch-poles sneak away.
But hold!
I'me almost starved, as I'me a Sinner,
Prythee Jack, trust me for a Dinner.
Poor Poet! what a Wretch thou art grown,
Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne.
You who but now did reach the Skie.
Low as despair condemn'd to lie.
Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire,
With thy Poetick rage expire.
'Twas but a Dream: and now I see
Riddles untie themselves to fetter thee.
The Angels height procur'd their thrall,
But 'tis thy lowness makes thee fall.
Had Nature giv'n thee a rich Mine,
Thou of all Fops hadst happiest been:
Thou hadst not been exposed thus,
Nor this complaint made thee ridiculous.
But now again my self I grow;
I th' Poet am, yet wish I was not so.
Never poor Creature such strange Fortunes had,
A Poet's not himself, unless he's Mad.
Go backward Age, go backward Age,
And to Ben's days reduce the Stage.
Whose easie Palats would commend,
What entertainments Heav'n did send.
Judges were then as Ladies now a days,
Whom any thing that's Flesh and Bloud can please.
But now a Poet's counted out of fashion,
And Wits the only drug in all the nation.
Nature and Fate such Rivals are
That they can't Reign in the same Sphere.
And as when Kings each other thwart
Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart;
So those to whom Nature is kind
Must fortunes rage and malice find;
And till these friends and partners grow,
Who can have Wit and Money too?
I've often heard this question rise,
Whether Wit made Men Poor, or Poverty Men Wise?
'Twas Poverty first me a Poet made,
And I'de fain know him who is rich o'th' Trade.
But if the World has such a Creature,
He is a Monster and not made by Nature.
Poets must break before they well can doe,
And a great trade will make them bankrupts too,
They are good Chimists, tho, they do not know
To make imperfect Metals currant grow,
Yet what you give them, they'll straight turn to Sack,
Nay if there's need, the very cloths o'th' back.
Then with that Sack they'l wondrous things prepare,
They'll Castles build, nay Kingdomes in the Air,
And give themselves vast Lordships there.
And since they here so disagree
About a paltry Lawrel-tree,
I wonder what a Devil will they doe,
When they hereafter to their lands will go?
But now I think on't they'll be all Gods there,
And every one will have a distinct Sphere.
For those great Deities of which we read,
Were by th' Almighty Poets made;
And they who did those God-heads make,
May at their pleasure take them back.
Honest dear Reader, do not call
This Author mean and pittiful,
Tho he has spoken in his rage
The damn'd dull humour of the Age;
Yet by these following lines you'll see
His excellent good Company.
Lacy in his Prologue to Monsieur
Rogolle.I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,
Both by my empty Purse and empty Brain.
I've other Symptoms to confirm it too,
I've Great and Self-Conceit of what I do.
I have my little Cullies too i'th' Town
Both to admire my Works and lend a Crown.
My Poets Day I Morgage to some Citt,
At least six Months before my Play is Writ;
And on that day away the Poet runs,
Knowing full well, in Sholes come all his Duns.
If these things make me not a proper Poet,
He that hath better Title let him show it.
Lacy
in his Prologue to Pastor Fido.
WHO would not damn a silly Rhiming Fop?
When there is scarce a Foreman of a Shop,
With Sense of Animal and Face of Stoick,
But Courts poor tawdry Sempstress in Heroick:
Will make you Rhimes on Cakes and Ale, rehearse
An Holyday-Treat at Islington in Verse.
Otway
in his Prologue to the Cheats of Schapin.
NOW Wit is grown so common, let me die,
Gentlemen scorn to keep it Company.
Leonard
in his Prologue to the Country Innocence.
NEver was Wit so much abus'd before;
The Trade's grown common, and the gilting Whore
Debauch'd in every Street, at every Door.
Sir Charles Scroop
in his Prologue to Alexander.
HOW hard the Fate is of that Scribling Drudg,
Who writes to all and yet so few can judg?
Wit, like Religion, once Divine was thought,
And the dull Crowd believ'd as they were taught;
Now each Fanatick Fool pretends to 'xplain
The Text, and does the sacred Wit prophane.
Idem.
THen Fencer-like they one another hurt,
And with their Wounds, they make the Rabble Sport.
In the Prologue to the
Debauchee.— A Poet's such a Tool,
Fit to make nothing till he's made a Fool.
Dryden
to Lee
on his Alexander.
SO many Candidates there stands for Wit,
A place in Court is scarce so hard to get.
Desert, how known so'ere, is long delay'd,
And then too Fools and Knaves are better pay'd.
Lee
in his Epilogue to Alexander.
— How ought they to be curst,
Who this censorious Age did polish-first.
Who the best Play for one poor Error blame,
As Priests against our Ladies Art declaim,
And for one Patch both Soul and Body damn.
In the Prologue to the
Morning Ramble.Poets we justly may Wits Bubles call,
For they to almost nothing Venture all,
Hard Fate have they above all men beside,
Behind some Curtain still their Faults do hide,
Statesmen their Errors on their Agents lay,
'Tis chance of War makes Souldiers loose the Day.
And the Physicians Shame Death sweeps away:
But every Fool finds fault with ev'ry Play.
Things being so, it cannot be deny'd,
But to be Poet is a Mans Blind-side.
This is the Cause, why active Times produce
The fewest Writers to the Stages use.
Sir Charles Sidly.
'TIs well that Wit has something of the Mad,
Else how could Poets for the Stage be had?
Dryden
in his Prologue to Circe.
— The Brothers of the Trade.
Who scattering their Infection through the Pit,
With aking Hearts, and empty Purses sit.
Settle
in his Prologue to the Conquest of China.
WHen our Fore-Fathers did our Judges sit,
And Spite and Malice were not counted Wit;
Mens Appetites lay quite another way,
They went to'a Play-House then to like a Play,
They came to meet Diversion from the Stage,
But 'tis not that which brings them here this Age.
That Mode of liking Plays is as much out
As 'tis to go to Church to be Devout.
Fancy and Wit can no more please them here,
Than Faith and Reason can persuade them there.
Shadwell in his Prologue to the
Virtuoso.NOW Drudges of the Stage must oft appear,
They must be bound to Scrible twice a Year.
And like the Thred-bareVicar, who must Toil,
Whilst the Fat Lazy Doctor bears the Spoil.
Dryden in his Prologue to —
THE Clergy thrive and the Litigious Bar:
Dull Heroes fatten on the Spoùs of War.
All Southern Vices, Heav'u be prais'd, are here,
But Wit and Luxury they count too deer.
In the Prologue to the
Rehearsal.IF it be true that monstrous Births Presage
The following Mischiefs that afflict the Age;
And sad Disasters to the State Proclaim:
Plays without Head or Tail may do the same.
Wherefore for ours and for our Countrys Peace,
Let this Prodigious way of Writing cease.
Let's have at least once in our Lives a Time,
When we may have some Reason, not all Rhime.
Dryden in his Epilogue to the
Indian Queen.Their Confidence
Is plac'd in lofty Sounds and humble Sense.
Then see the little Infants of the Time,
That write New Songs, and Trust in Tune and Rhime.
Lacy in his Prologue to the
Dumb Lady.HEre I am, and not asham'd who know it,
I humbly come your forma Pauper is Poet.
Crown in his Prologue to the
Country-Wit.THE Mighty Wits now come to a New Play,
Only to tast the Scraps they throw away;
Poets now Treat them at their own Expence,
All but the Poets now abound in Sense.
City and Country now with Wit's o'reflown,
Weeds grow no faster there, than Wits i'th' Town.
Plays are so common, they are little priz'd,
And to be but a Poet is despis'd.
In the Epilogue to the
Morning Hamble.Some dare say
They have not seen of late a good New Play.
Not but this Age has many Men as Wise,
But wisely they this begging Art despise.
And two to one was Shakesphear here to Day,
He'd have more Wit than e're to Write a Play.
Whicherley
in his Prologue to Love in a Wood.
YOU hardned Renegado Poets, who
Treat Rhiming Brothers worse than Turks would do.
See we in vain your Pity now would crave,
Who for your Selves, alas! no Pity have,
And your own grasping Credit will not save.
In the Epilogue to the
Dutch Lover.Hlss 'em and Cry 'em down, 'tis all in Vain,
Incorrigible Scriblers can't refrain.
But impudently in th' old Sin engage,
Tho doom'd before, nay banish'd from the Stage.
Durfey in his Prologue to the
Fond Husband.ADulterate Age! where Prudence is a Vice,
And Wit's as scandalous as Avarice.
Yet in despight of this, ye're Poets too;
And what two Fops rail at, a third will do.
Upon our Priviledges you encroach,
And with dull Rhymes, the Noble Art debauch.
THat which gave Birth to Poetry, and hath supported its Reputation among the most Ingenious of every Age, is the desire of Imitation which is interwoven with every Man's Essence. Hence we admire the well-drawn Pictures of those dead Bodies, whose Original we have in Horror. And we are ravish'd to hear the Voice of a Swine Naturally counterfeited, tho we hate it in that Animal. So Poetry and Painture in some manner expresseth every thing that is done in Nature. Whence Poetry is term'd a speaking Picture, and a Picture dumb Poetry. And the Word Poet does not signify one that Feigns but one that Makes. As when he speaks of a Tempest, he must make the Winds Mutiny, Ships Split, Mountains of Water Clash, and loose themselves in Gulfs. Which makes Poetry so difficult, and consequently so rare and admirable, that few succeed well in it.
Another Excellency in Poetry is its Harmony, Natural not only to Man; but to the meanest Individual, which God hath created in Number and Measure: Which [Page 18]made the Pythagoreans say, that not only the Celestial Bodies make a most agreeable Consort, but also the Plants by their Proportions, and the Beasts by their Motions, chant measured Odes in praise of their Creator. Therefore with more Reason must Man (whose Soul is a number moveing of it self) be delighted with numerous Language, which is Poetry, the most sensible Effect of that Divine Harmony, which is infus'd into his Body. And we may make a Judgment of good from vulgar Wits by their Delight or Disaffection to Poetry. For if a Man ought to be regular in his Actions, Why not in his Words? the Image of his Reason, as Reason is of his Soul. As if you should say that the well regulated Dance of a Ball, ought to be less priz'd than an ordinary Walk, or Country-Dance.
Moreover Poetry hath such power over Mens Minds, that Tyrtoeus animated his Souldiers to fight by the rehearsal of his Verses; which was also the Custom of the Germans, when they were to charge their Enemies. Moses, David, and many other Prophets accounted nothing more worthy than Poetry, to sing the Praises of God. And the first Poets, as Musoeus, Orpheus and Linus were the Divines of Paganism. Yea the Gods of Antiquity affected to deliver their Oracles in Verse. So did Legislators their Laws to render them more venerable.
Besides they greatly help the Memory; the Cadence or Measure serving as a Rule to the Mind to keep it from being at a loss. Poetry alone among all the Arts supplies Praise to Virtue, the Rampant Stile of Rhetorical Discourse, tho it borrow its fairest Flowers and square Periods from Poetry, being not comparable to it, which is far more sublime, and consequently more fit to immortalize [Page 19]the Memory of Heroick Actions. Upon which account the Muses were believ'd the Daughters of Mnemosyne or Memory. Tho Poets have been sometimes expell'd out of States, so have Philosophers, Physicians, Mathematicians, and many other Professors of Arts, acknowledged nevertheless useful to Humane Society. If some of them have been Lascivious, others Impious, others Slanderous, those are the Faults of the Poets not Poetry. And as the more delicate any wine is, the more hurtful its Excess is to the Body; so Poetry is so much the more excellent by how much its abuse is noxious. Plato, who advis'd the banishing of it out of his imaginary Common- Wealth, calling it a sweet Poyson, deserv'd more than it to be really interdicted. There not being in all the Poets such Fables, Impieties and Impurities, as that of his Convivium, his Phoedrus, and some other Pieces. In the mean time he is forc'd to admire them, to call them the Sons and Interpreters of the Gods, yea Divine and the Fathers of Wisdom. For the Raptures cannot be called Folly, unless in that Sense as Aristotle saith, To Philosophize well, a Man must be besides himself. But there Wisdom being extream, and their Motions unknown to the vulgar, therefore they call that Fury, which they ought to call the highest pitch and point of Wisdom, term'd Enthusiasm or Divine Inspiration, because it surpasseth the reach of Man. And indeed every one acknowledges in Poetry some Character of Divinity. And therefore 'tis received by all the World, and serves for a guide and introducer to great Persons, who otherwise would not give audience, but like that well in Verse, which they would blame in Prose. Which obliged Sylla to reward the Good, that they might be encouraged to continue their [Page 20]Divine Works, and the bad Poets on condition that they made no more. And 'tis of these, as of some Rhymes of our times that they speak, who blame Poetry; in whose reproches the true Poets are no more concern'd than Physitians in the infamy of Mountebanks. The Fables of the Antient Poets are full of Mysteries, and serve for ornament to the Sciences, and to Divinity it self. Nor has variety of Wit appear'd in any Science more than Poetry, which serves not barely to teach and instruct, as the other Liberal Sciences, but withal to recreate and delight, which is an excellent Method to prevent the Disgust, which Disciplines bring even in their Rudiments.
And if they have complain'd in all Ages of not advancing their fortunes, this doth not argue any demerit of theirs, but rather the want either of judgment or gratitude in others.
FINIS.