Discommendatory verses, on those which are truly commendatory, on the author of the two Arthurs, and the Satyr against wit.

Discommendatory verses, on those which are truly commendatory, on the author of the two Arthurs, and the Satyr against wit.

Table of contents

Title page

The Preface.

Diſcommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS, AND THE Satyr againſt WIT.

A Short and True Hiſtory of a certain Captain-General.

To the Poetical Knight, who would have no Body ſpoil Paper but Himſelf.

To the Proſaick POET, occaſion'd by the two following Lines: Thy Satyrs Bite not, but like Aeſop's Aſs, Thou Kick'ſt the Darling whom thou would'ſt Careſs.

The Noble Corrected; or Advice to a Quality Commentator, who Writes in Defence of Greek Epiſtles as if he underſtood 'em.

To the Sorry Poetaſter at Will's Coffee-Houſe.

An Equal Match, or the Drawn Battle.

To the Noble Captain, who was in aD amn'd Confounded Pet, becauſe the Author of the Satyr againſt Wit, was pleas'd to Pray for his Friend, occaſion'd by this Diſtich: His Mercy, not his Juſtice, made thee Knight, Which P—r may demand with equal Right.

To the Inviolably Dull Critick, on his Heroical Strains upon the Satyr againſt Wit.

To a Rhimer, who if he takes pains, Writes as if he did not.

A Modeſt Requeſt to the Poetical Squire.

To a L—d who would be a Saint, if he was as free from all other Sins, as he is from Hypocriſie.

To a Lady dignified and diſtinguiſh'd by the Name of Critick and Poet, on Her incomprehenſible Raileries on the Satyr againſt Wit.

To an Author, who never wrote but two Diſtichs and an half, and thoſe could not paſs Muſter.

Occaſion'd by the News that Tom B—n had the Courage to Engage with Sir Richard Blackmore, after his Bookſeller had Defeated him.

A Tale taken to pieces.

To Codron's and the Lady's Humble Servant.

To the ſame, on the ſame Subject.

To the ſame, occaſion'd by the Verſe which reflects on Dr. Gibbons, (viz.) He will his Health to Mirmil's Care reſign.

An Epigram on Dr. Ch—ood.

An Anſwer to a great many Impertinent Queſtions.

To the ſame upon his calling Sir R—B—re's Compoſures; Coffee Rhimes.

To the Quibling, Drib'ling, Scribling Poetaſter, who has let himſelf out for Scandal to the Wits at Will's Coffee-Houſe.

To the-ſame Trifling Fellow, T—B—n.

Upon ſeeing a Man wipe his A—ſe with T—B—'s Satyr againſt the French King.

An Epigram, occaſion'd by Mr. B—dy's, about his Friend Mr. Tate.

A Reply to the Story of the Greek Chevalier.

To the ſame.

To the Unworthy Author of the Verſes on the Satyr againſt Wit.

Merry Thoughts on Dr. B—d's Melancholy Reflections on the Deficiency of Uſeful Learning.

On the ſame, to a Friend who ſaid Dr. B—d Talk'd like an Apothecary.

On the ſame Eternal Tatler.

To a midnight Author who does not Cant I'll be Sworn.

The Adviſer taken to Task.

To the ſame.

To a Great Man who makes himſelf Little.

To T. B—upon His concealing his Name, when He made the Author of the Satyr againſt Wit, the Subject of his harmleſs Satyr for concealing His.

To the ſame.

To the ſame.

To an Epigrammatic Parſon.

A Gonſolatory Paper of Verſes to Dr. D—ke, upon the News that He commended the 4th. Edition of Dr. Garth's Diſpenſary, and could not get His own Tranſlation of Herodotus to bear One.

To Mr. F. M. on his Incomprehenſible Farce, which goes by the Name of the Generous Choice.

To the ſame, on his Poem, call'd Greenwich-Hill.

A Pun, by Mr. D—P—To T—B—upon his Witches Truſty Broomſtaff.

To the ſame, by one who is Free of the Sadler's Company.

To the Infamous Poetaſtor at Will's Coffee-Houſe.

To the Gentleman whom Dr. C—lb—ch Cur'd of the Gout.

To the ſame.

To a Bluſtring Poet, who never Spoke or Wrote any thing that was taken notice of before.

An Epigram on T—m B—n.

On the Same.

An Epigram flung away on a certain Ballad-making Senator.

Notes on the two Celebrated Copies in the Commendatory Verſes, to let the Reader know the difference between the faithfulneſs of their Epitome and our Copies; taken verbatim from their own Words, without the omiſſion of one Line.

§

[Page]

[Page] Diſcommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS, AND THE Satyr againſt WIT.

Laudat, amat, cantat noſtros mea Roma Libellos,

Me (que) ſinus omnes, me manus omnis habet.

Ecce! rubet quidam, pallet, ſtupet, oſcitat, odit,

Hoc volo, nunc nobis Carmina noſtra placent.

Mart.

LONDON: Printed in the Year, MDCC.

The Preface.

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[Page]

AS it requires not much Thought to find out the Author of the Dedication to the Commendatory Verſes, ſo there is no neceſſity of much Pains to return an Anſwer to it. Since Falſities are known to People who are unprejudic'd by their first appearance, and there is occaſion for no other Method to find 'em out, than a true knowledge of the Gentleman who is abus'd. The Dedicator has long ſince been converſant in Scandal, and Abuſes are as familiar to him as it is to be abus'd: We ſhall therefore leave him a while for his Maſters who ſet him at Work, and diſtinguiſh'd him, by giving him the Title of Secretary to the Confederates at Will's Coffee-houſe. They may be fine Gentlemen for all that I know in their Chambers, and pretty Converſation for the Ladies they Dreſs themſelves up for; their Coaches may make a noble Appearance, and their Footmens Hatbands may, like their Maſters, riſe up and take leave of the Crowns of their Hats; their Perukes may be well adjuſted, and their Perſons ſet off to the greateſt Advantage; yet for all this Sir R—Bl—re might chuſe whether or no he would be laugh'd at for running into their Commendations. Several of 'em are Quality by their Cloths, but forfeit the Name by their Expreſſions. They have reaſon perhaps to boast of the Lady's Favours, but will never have any (till they Write better) to brag of the Reader's. In ſhort, if they are Gentlemen, it's more than their Verſes ſpeak 'em to be; and 'tis manifest, that they who have choſen T—B—for their Leader, fall not a Tittle ſhort of coming up to his admirable Qualifications. Ev'ry individual Man is a Giant in Scandal, and ſhews his Teeth to a Miracle, but what they would have done, had not the Gentleman they bark'd at been a Phyſician, it is not in our Power to divine. Bills, Pills, and Kills, are excellent Rhimes; and they had loſt the greateſt part of their Endeavours after Satyr, had Sir Richard been without that Title, which as it has done him Honour, ſo he has amply return'd it on the Profeſſion by the Regularities and Succeſs of his Practice. But we have taken the liberty to give ſome Account of their Works, and ought to do the ſame by our own; and ſince in ſome Places we may be accus'd for running into the ſame Faults we blame [Page] them for, we ought to make what Excuſes we can for ſo doing. We have endeavour'd to anſwer ev'ry individual Copy as the Nature of 'em ſeem'd to require. The Scurrilous we have return'd a ſuitable Roughneſs to, and to the Dull (which are not very few) a Contempt which is proper for 'em. But where their Verſes have ſeem'd too long for Epigrams, which they were deſign'd for, we have either anſwer'd 'em with thoſe that are ſhorter, or made two or three on the ſame Subjects; and though the Covent-Garden Wits may make Cuckolds of thoſe Citizens which are Old and Superanuated, yet we hope we have giv'n ſuch a Specimen of our Performance in the following Sheets, that they cannot make Fools of thoſe which are Young. And let their Editor be, as ſoon as he thinks fit, out with the Verſes he promis'd us on Job and Habbakuk, unleſs he anſwers 'em himſelf, he ſhall not ſtay ſo long for our Anſwer as he has been endeavouring at the performance of his Promiſe. In the mean time ſince his Motto ſpeaks him to be a Reader of Martial, without doubt he has met with the following Epigram, which we deſire him to apply to himſelf; and have render'd into Engliſh for his Service.

Feſtive credis te Calliodore jocari,

Et ſolum multo permaduiſſe ſale.

Omnibus arrides, dicteria dicis in omnes,

Sic te Convivam poſſe placere putas.

At ſi ego non belle ſed vere dixero quiddam,

Nemo propinabit Calliodore Tibi.

B—nThou believ'st Thou'rt famous for a Jest,

And none like Thou, for Wit, can bear the Test;

Thou flatter'st All, on All Thou fling'st Thy Spight,

Thus think'st Thy Company must needs delight:

But if I ſpeak what's Truth, though courſe and plain,

Thou ne'er will't have thy Reck'ning paidagain.

Diſcommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS, AND THE Satyr againſt WIT.

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A Short and True Hiſtory of a certain Captain-General.

BY Nature Small, and of a Dwarfiſh Breed,

Peeviſh was ſent to School, to Write and Read;

Where brib'd by Gifts the Pedagogick Don

Abus'd the Father, and Deceiv'd the Son;

As for a freſh Reward he prais'd his Child,

And graſp'd one's Sugar, as he t'other ſpoil'd.

Thence, ſwol'n with Figures, and poſſeſs'd with Tropes,

On Iſis he beſtow'd his Parents Hopes;

[Page] And there H'had ſcarce put on the Tufted-Gown,

And wildly view'd the Colleges and Town,

But Fortune, who no time would let him loſe,

Gave him a Royal Infant for his Muſe;

And Him he ſung with Whimſies in his Brains,

Praiſing a borrow'd Prince, with borrow'd Strains.

Next, when the Doubtful Times were chang'd He ſaw

He left the Son, to praiſe the Son in Law;

And with his Righteous Undertaking warm'd,

He ſtar'd, and in Pindarick Frenzie ſtorm'd;

As wiſely He the ſtrongeſt ſide careſs'd,

And Curs'd the Babe his ſelfiſh Lays had Bleſs'd.

All Matters fix'd, and likely to remain

In favour of the Great Naſſovian's Reign,

The Dapper 'Squire revolving in his Thought,

That he that Rhim'd, not pleas'd as he that Fought;

To Arms, as faſt as Legs would carry, ran,

And Fretfully reſolv'd to be a Man.

And ſince no Spark had walk'd up High-ſtreet bolder,

The Fellow-Commoner turn'd Fellow-Soldier;

In Camps purſuing what in Schools h'had read,

As he Lampoon'd the very Foes he Fled.

But Heav'n, leaſt ſome miſchievous Ball ſhould hit

This little Prodigy of Rhimes and Wit,

Put it in William's thoughtful Head to make

A Peace, and fight no more for Fighting's ſake;

Thence he return'd, and a rich Father Dead,

Fatten'd the growing Maggots in his Head,

As he wrote Epigrams for Ladies Smiles,

And govern'd in B—ſtreet the Leeward Iſles.

And now he rides a Tiptoe in his Coach,

Frowning at every Hack that dares approach;

[Page] As he by Prince and Subject both prefer'd,

Is own'd a Patron, and adjudg'd a Bard;

A Patron fit for Br—n's and Ma—g's Flights,

If he Rewards no better than he Writes.

To the Poetical Knight, who would have no Body ſpoil Paper but Himſelf.

APox on Rhimes and Phyſick, S—ly cry'd,

(And he had Senſe and Reaſon on his ſide;)

For both of Rhimes and Phyſick H'had his fill,

And ſwallow'd more than ev'ry Verſe a Pill.

A Doctor coming by, and loath to loſe

A Knight ſo Famous for a P—and Muſe,

Offer'd him means to give his Knighthood eaſe,

And make the radicated Torments ceaſe.

Vile Quack, ſaid he, go patch up Mother Q—les,

Sir Richard turn Preſcriber to Sir Ch—Is?

It ſhall not be, jog Homeward if you pleaſe,

I'll have no Paper ſpoil'd on my Diſeaſe.

The Doctor cry'd, 'Tis true, th' Infection's ſuch,

Twill certainly diſcolour't with a Touch;

But I'll affirm, and ſo withdrawing ſmil'd,

My Papers may, but Thou can'ſt ne'er be Spoil'd.

To the Proſaick POET, occaſion'd by the two following Lines:

Thy Satyrs Bite not, but like Aeſop's Aſs,

Thou Kick'ſt the Darling whom thou would'ſt Careſs.

TIs plain that Wit at Will's is very ſcarce,

By the poor Contradictions of thy Verſe;

[Page] Elſe ſurely ſome Acquaintance would have made

Thoſe Hobbing Lines ſpeak Senſe, which Senſe upbraid;

But thou brim full of emptineſs of Thought,

Betray'ſt thy ſelf, and by thy ſelf art caught:

As thou art faſhion'd for a ſtanding Jeſt,

And giv'ſt us the Reverſe of Aeſop's Beaſt;

Who ſhould, if Bl—more's Folly thou'dſt have ſhown,

Careſs the Man he'd Kick, as Thou haſt done.

The Noble Corrected; or Advice to a Quality Commentator, who Writes in Defence of Greek Epiſtles as if he underſtood 'em.

LET B—le write on, and ſtill'd a Man of Letters,

Prefer Dull Heavy Authors to their Betters;

Let him His own to B—lv's Senſe oppoſe,

And knowing little fancy much he knows;

Let D—nis in his Commendation ſtrain,

And Codron praiſe him, to be prais'd again:

Let ev'ry Wit, and ev'ry Beau declare

What his bright Genius is, and what They are;

As ſome commend his Parts, and ſome his Cloths,

Let him be any thing they pleaſe in Proſe.

But ye, who ſeemingly appear his Friends,

And baſely flatter him for ſordid Ends,

Perſwade him to avoid the Muſes Hill,

And ceaſe to Wound himſelf, who'd others Kill.

For its enough that he in Proſe is Brave,

And Butchers many an Author in his Grave,

That againſt Truth, and Bently's Worth he joyns,

And plays the Tyrant o're a Tyrant's Lines.

To the Sorry Poetaſter at Will's Coffee-Houſe.

[Page]

PRithee, dear Scribbling Doctor, why ſo ſhort?

Rail on if thoud'ſt have Bl—re thank thee for't

Be permanent in Cenſure and Diſpraiſe,

And grinning ſhew thy Teeth ten Thouſand ways:

For 'tis acknowledg'd by the Court and Town,

Nothing can make him ſmile like M—Frown.

He Patients has, 'tis true, which often Die,

And ſo, thoud'ſt vainly ſay perhaps, have I.

But Quack, 'tis falſe, thy Self-deſtroying Pill

Ne're had it in its Pow'r as yet to kill,

And as for Patients which thou Dead would'ſt own,

Thou haſt as many Living, that is none.

An Equal Match, or the Drawn Battle.

IF Bards would have a Shortliv'd Poem writ,

P—ck ſhould dictate Rules, and T—mb Wit;

Like which no Mortal piece can e're be found

With Lines of Conſtitution ſo unſound.

But that where T—mb ſhall a Judge commence,

To file the Ruſt of Wit from P—ck's Sence.

To the Noble Captain, who was in aD amn'd Confounded Pet, becauſe the Author of the Satyr againſt Wit, was pleas'd to Pray for his Friend, occaſion'd by this Diſtich:

His Mercy, not his Juſtice, made thee Knight,

Which P—r may demand with equal Right.

[Page]

BOld Man of War, the drift of thy Deſigns?

And let us know the meaning of thy Lines.

If Mercy is a Suff'rance of a Fact,

How comes it then to give Rewards, and act?

Define, and tell us when thou'rt in the right,

And own that Mercy ſpares, but cannot Knight.

P—r and Thou may be forgot and ſpar'd,

He for a Traytor, thou a Senceleſſ Bard.

Yet neither can attone for either's Crimes,

He for his Fooliſh Plot, or Thou for Rhymes.

Though D—ke to purge thy Muſe ſhou'd Phyſick ſend,

Or S—d ſhould abſolve him as a Friend.

To the Inviolably Dull Critick, on his Heroical Strains upon the Satyr againſt Wit.

SOme Scribbling Fops as D—is is by Name,

Never can hit, although they always aim,

And Storm, and Swear, and Drink, and Write for Fame.

What Star prevents 'em, or what Planet ſhines,

To keep the Lucky Goddeſs from their Lines;

Let thoſe decide, who have it in their Sphere,

Doubtleſs they err, becauſe they perſevere.

[Page]

But thou, my crabbed piece of bluſtring Wit.

Erring do'ſt think the wiſh'd for Mark is hit;

And, Pox upon thy Judgment and thy Skull,

Labour'ſt to be thought intricate and dull.

For ſhame, Grave Don, 'tis time that thou wer't wiſe,

Having ſeen Years enough before thine Eyes.

E'en do, as Men of Ancient ſtanding ſhou'd,

Or underſtand, or elſe be underſtood,

Since 'tis in vain to ſhew thy fruitleſs ſpight,

And thou can'ſt find leſs Faults, than thou canſt write.

To a Rhimer, who if he takes pains, Writes as if he did not.

WHO e're Thou art, to Me and Senſe unknown,

Correct not others Follies but thy own;

Nor dare to Cenſure R—ff's healing Arts,

Or point at G—n's Wit thy Leaden Darts.

What have they done to call thy Nonſence forth,

And make thee ſhew thy Penury of Worth?

Or how could B—re's Muſe deſerve thy Spight,

Unleſs it was for teaching thee to write?

Prithee, for ſhame acknowledge this Offence,

And own 'em Men of Skill, and Men of Sence.

But Oh! Kind Heav'n forbid it that thy Quill

Should dare t'attempt their Judgment or their Skill,

That thou ſhould'ſt riſe and injure 'em with praiſe,

And ſtab their Reputations with thy Lays,

For nothing but the poiſon of thy Lines,

Defeats their Cure, and mocks their great Deſigns.

A Modeſt Requeſt to the Poetical Squire.

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SInce You to Poetry will make pretence,

And H—ly 'll be a Wit in H—ly's Sence,

As you reſign'd to Dullneſs, in your Chair,

Think on foul Lines to gratifie the Fair:

Long may you Rhime, and on your Lute and Spinnet

Play many a woful Tune with nothing in it.

But in return my dear Facetious Squire,

For once to gratifie a Friends deſire,

Think as I do, you'll fling your Verſes in the Fire.

To a L—d who would be a Saint, if he was as free from all other Sins, as he is from Hypocriſie.

ADvice to P—rs, th' Adviſer's Zeal may prove,

But ne'er like Praiſe can ſwell 'em into Love.

Then give me leave to do the thing that's ſafe,

And fling away ſome Verſe in your Behalf.

That you have Travell'd, is exceeding true,

And that your L—p's Muſe hath Teeth to ſhew,

But among all the Frolicks you have ſhewn,

Religion is a Trick you ne'er have known.

To a Lady dignified and diſtinguiſh'd by the Name of Critick and Poet, on Her incomprehenſible Raileries on the Satyr againſt Wit.

BElieve me, Madam, that your Muſe has ſhown

So foul a Face, I beg you'd hide your own;

[Page] And if you'r real Quality be Civil,

For T—d and A—ſe all over is the Devil.

That you're no Pious Lady is confeſs'd,

By making Weſly's Sacred Work your Jeſt;

Which (tho' it does not with the Witty take)

Might pleaſe the Wiſe for its great Subjects ſake.

Not but I think you've been at Church ſometimes,

Becauſe you write of Sextons and of Chimes;

But that you are a Woman few can tell

So right, as thoſe you think you praiſe ſo well.

For Heaven's ſake, Madam, qualifie this Fit,

Some ſpeak you Nobly Born, and yet a Wit?

Nor let me be ſucceſsleſs in my Pray'r,

A Muſe ſhould not take up a Lady's care;

For 'tis a Compoſition moſt abſurd,

That's made of Rhimes, of Woman, and of Turd.

To an Author, who never wrote but two Diſtichs and an half, and thoſe could not paſs Muſter.

YOU bid me take my Pen again, 'tis true,

But I ſhall ſcarce requeſt the ſame of You.

Five Lines already have your Judgment ſhewn,

Tho' you'd be more eſteem'd for writing none;

And if exceſs of Dulneſs Life can give,

You need not ſcribble Knight, you'r ſure to Live.

Occaſion'd by the News that Tom B—n had the Courage to Engage with Sir Richard Blackmore, after his Bookſeller had Defeated him.

[Page]

WHen B—Contending I with R—r ſpy'd,

I wonder'd, but not pitty'd either ſide;

Well knowing, if they were of Scratching ſick,

Abel could buy, and Tom could beg a Stick.

Next came a Dun, and at his Garret ſtood,

He'd have his Money truly that he wou'd;

But ſtill I could not pity him, as knowing

Tom would ſoon find a Trick to ſend him going.

But when I ſaw him brandiſhing his Muſe,

The Bad to Flatter, and the Good Abuſe,

With Pity then, and much Concern, I cry'd,

Tom, Do'ſt thou know what Folly's on thy ſide?

Give the fierce waſpiſh Col'nel back his Gold,

Nor let thy Praiſe be bought, thy Lies be ſold;

Blackmore and Job believe it will ſubdue

Ten Thouſand ſuch Malicious Fiends as You.

How? Said the Bard, Moſt excellent Advice!

A Poet, and be Maſter of a Sice?

Find out that Place where e're I paid one Score,

Then I'll return the Guinea's, not before.

A Tale taken to pieces.

IF Shallow Criticks, as your pleas'd to ſay,

Judge Tully when at Poetry at Play,

[Page] And Ignorance would cenſure and ſuppoſe

He ne'er had been a Conſul but for Proſe:

How comes it then that Caeſar, who's confeſs'd

To know the Man, and know his Talent beſt,

Who in Fame's Liſt for Judgment is enroll'd,

(Whether you mean the Modern or the Old)

Should with the Shallow for a Judge be brought,

And make their Sence authentick with his Thought.

O Youth, tho' ſweet and flowing be thy Song,

Thy Numbers beautious, and thy Beauties ſtrong;

Tho' Force and Eaſe alternately appear,

And Fancy glads the Sight, and charms the Ear;

Yet, if amidſt thy Turns of Verſe and Thought

Miſtake ſhould blend, or Haſt neglect a Fault;

If uncorrected Errors ſhall be found

T'offend our Senſes, or our Judgments wound;

As to be fearleſs, is not to be Brave,

And Squire's a Noble, while a Knight's a Slave;

In vain you meaſure out your fruitleſs Lays,

And gloſs your want of Sence with gilded Praiſe;

For if you'd write with Credit and Succeſs,

You muſt mind Judgment more, and Friendſhip leſs.

To Codron's and the Lady's Humble Servant.

NOT that I blame your Flatt'ry, or your Spleen,

But prithee give's the Senſe of what you mean:

Can Bl—re write without Deſign, or Art,

And yet deſign a—at Codron's Heart?

Unthinking Bard! ſtuff'd up with Praiſe and Spight,

Gravely conſider next before you write;

And if you'd ſhew a Man of Senſe and Stile,

Bring other Vouchers than a Lady's Smile:

For if I know 'em well, they'd rather chuſe

His P—tle to divert 'em than his Muſe.

To the ſame, on the ſame Subject.

[Page]

CODRON may pleaſe the Ladies, as he writes,

And pretty things for pretty things Endites;

But Thou be damn'd, and fling away thy Pen,

Such Fops as Thou, can never pleaſe the Men.

To the ſame, occaſion'd by the Verſe which reflects on Dr. Gibbons, (viz.) He will his Health to Mirmil's Care reſign.

FRiend, by my Soul, the Devil's in thy Quill,

Or Thou would'ſt never write and judge ſo ill;

For whilſt thou Laugh▪ſt at Gibbon's skill, 'tis ſure,

Thou ſtand'ſt in need thy ſelf of *Dr. Tyſon is Phyſitian to Bethlem Hoſpital. Tyſon's Cure.

Nor would the Youth, the Subject of thy Song,

Accept thy Flatt'ries, or permit thy Tongue

To blaſt his Credit with defaming Praiſe,

And take Lethargick Opiats from thy Lays;

Was He the Man thy Rhimes would have him be,

Or Thou the Man for whom he judges thee.

An Epigram on Dr. Ch—ood.

Poor Job was plagu'd, of Holy Men the beſt,

But Ch—ood ſins, and in this Life is Bleſs'd;

With Loſſes he, and Pains, and Fire was vex'd,

And he divides Fat Capons with his Text.

One had a Friend and Woman to perſwade,

But t'other He can Curſe without their aid.

As he delights to play the Tempter's part,

And labours to be Damn'd with all his Heart.

When having loſt the Preacher in the Beaſt,

He ſhews the Devil, who ſhould act the Prieſt.

An Anſwer to a great many Impertinent Queſtions.

[Page]

MEthinks you take too much upon you, Sir,

And tho' you ſtirring ſtink, you needs muſt ſtir;

Elſe, why ſo many Fooliſh Queries brought

T'upbraid the Queriſt's want of Sence and Thought?

That he found fault with Wit, is very true,

But, Captain, what a Pox is that to you?

Untouch'd by Satyr you may ſafely paſs,

Unleſs to be a Wit's to be an A—.

To the ſame upon his calling Sir R—B—re's Compoſures; Coffee Rhimes.

IF Coffee does Awake the Senſes keep,

And guards our Eye-lids from approaching Sleep,

Well haſt thou giv'n the Doctor's Rhimes the Name,

And prais'd his Merits, which thou would'ſt defame;

For we with wakeful Pleaſure can peruſe,

And meditate the Beauties of his Muſe,

When Thy Compoſures we for Opiats take,

And only run 'em o're for Sleepings ſake.

To the Quibling, Drib'ling, Scribling Poetaſter, who has let himſelf out for Scandal to the Wits at Will's Coffee-Houſe.

BE not puff'd up with Punning, Friend of mine,

I've Slep't o'er many Jeſts as good as thine;

And tho' at preſent thou may'ſt ſtrut and ſtare,

Blown up with Treats and Covent-Garden Air;

Yet when their Turns are ſerv'd, believe it, then

Spark thou muſt Dine on Smoak at How's again;

So different is thy wretched State from his,

Thou haſt been Uſh, but never can'ſt be phiz.

To the-ſame Trifling Fellow, T—B—n.

[Page]

DAme Fortune's juſt, malicious Fool, I ſee

By what ſh' has done for Blackmore, and for thee.

He in his Chariot, which is paid for, ſits,

And dares the feeble Spleen of Thredbare Wits,

Who juſt like thou bruſh'd out in Tally Suit,

Laugh at his Coach, but Raſcals, laugh a foot.

E'en take thy fill, and play a Zany's part,

And cenſure Judgment, and reflect on Art,

While he by Parents, and by Children bleſs'd,

By Husbands pray'd for, and by VVives careſs'd,

Brings Health and Safety at the Patient's call,

And riſes when thou can'ſt not lower fall.

Upon ſeeing a Man wipe his A—ſe with T—B—'s Satyr againſt the French King.

IF ſhitten Lines ſhould wipe a ſhitten A-ſe,

Thomas, the Man does Juſtice to thy Verſe;

As it was Born, whatever thou may'ſt think,

Thy Ballad makes its Exit too in Stink.

When Mortal Man is buried, then the Word

Is Duſt to Duſt, but here it's T—d to T—d.

An Epigram, occaſion'd by Mr. B—dy's, about his Friend Mr. Tate.

PRithee, my gentle Man of Crape, and Pray'r,

Why ſo concern'd, and full of Noiſe and Care?

T—e, 'tis allow'd, makes Payments when he can,

And ſlowly ſhews himſelf an Honeſt Man:

But I ne'er heard of B—dy's Payments yet,

Either in ready Money, or in Wit.

Then reſt contented, as a Man ſhould be,

Sir Richard ne'er will ſay the ſame of Thee.

A Reply to the Story of the Greek Chevalier.

[Page]

IF Monarch's (as you'll hav't) on Truſt reward,

I ſhall not ask why Sh—ld was prefer'd?

But I'll be ſworn, and vouch, it as 'tis true,

That Author's baulk'd, who waits Rewards from you.

To the ſame.

IF you'r a L—d, as whiſpering Fame reports,

And know the Conſtitutions well of Courts,

Does not your Honour think 'twould be a hard caſe,

He could not make a Knight, who made a M—ſs.

To the Unworthy Author of the Verſes on the Satyr againſt Wit.

IF B—re labours as he writes, to pleaſe,

VVhy do'ſt not thou conſult thy Reader's Eaſe?

And hammer out a Thought may ſhew thy pains,

To countenance thy Scarcity of Brains?

Sence may decline, and VVit conſummate may

VVear itſelf out in time, and know decay;

But VVit like thine, and ſtumbling into Rhime,

Defies the Injuries of Fate, or Time:

'Tis ſtill the ſame amongſt the Learn'd and VViſe,

And as it cannot fall, it cannot riſe.

Merry Thoughts on Dr. B—d's Melancholy Reflections on the Deficiency of Uſeful Learning.

THat B—d Raves, both Friends and Foes conclude,

Yet neither Friends nor Foes can ſay he's rude;

Rudeneſs they know's a meditated Crime,

But B—d never thought in all his Time:

Abſolve him then from Guilt, his Soul is clean,

For he that never thinks, can nothing mean.

On the ſame, to a Friend who ſaid Dr. B—d Talk'd like an Apothecary.

[Page]

WILL, thou do'ſt much miſtake the Doctor's Parts,

And wrong'ſt his Knowledge, and his great Deſerts.

He mimicks no Diſcourſe, or Talks by Rule,

But prattles like Himſelf, and that's a F—l.

On the ſame Eternal Tatler.

B—d with noiſie Cures may make us ſmile,

Yet cannot ſhew one Bill on any File:

What can it be that thus obſtructs his Fame?

Becauſe his Patients cannot ſay the ſame.

He on his own Report preſcribes his Pills,

But Fame gives out, He neither Cures nor Kills.

To a midnight Author who does not Cant I'll be Sworn.

THat c—Drinks hard, and late in Taverns ſits,

'Tis known for Truth amongſt the B—w-ſtreet Wits;

But I deny that VVitneſs can be brought

That c—k was ever Drunk with too much Thought.

The Adviſer taken to Task.

IF Knighthood only be the Hero's Right,

VVhat made a certain Man at Will's, a Knight,

Who never burn'd a Town, or gain'd a Fight?

Sir, you remember certainly what ſcores

Your Bombs defeated, of dull Sunburn'd Moors,

And how 'twas counted Valour to retreat,

And Nobler to be beaten than be beat.

Then pray deal fairly, and with Fame agree,

Owning the Juſtice of the Doctor's Plea;

Since He for ſaving many lives, is known,

VVhen Thou juſt ſav'dſt thy ſelf, and that is One.

To the ſame.

[Page]

THe Parliament who cry'd down Squibbs and Rockets,

Provided for our Safeties and our Pockets.

Not thinking Engineers in warlike times,

Inſtead of Squibbs wou'd fall a making Rhimes.

But 'tis no matter, Knight, purſue thy Punns;

They'l do as little Miſchief as thy Guns.

To a Great Man who makes himſelf Little.

WEre I to turn Phyſician, and preſcribe

To certain P—a moſt facetious Tribe,

I'de not make uſe of Syringes, and Tricks

To cure their Ulcers, and to mend their

That Ladies foul might hug 'em in their Arms,

And praiſe their Money, while They praiſe their Charms.

No, I'd another ſort of Cure begin,

And leave their Running-Nags to ſmart for Sin,

As I preſcrib'd Reſtringents in my Bills,

To cure the running Humours of their Quills,

And make 'em ſome more noble Frollick ſeek;

Not try to write that Sence, They cannot ſpeak.

To T. B—upon His concealing his Name, when He made the Author of the Satyr againſt Wit, the Subject of his harmleſs Satyr for concealing His.

[Page]

SOme Folks may write, and writing be conceal'd,

When ſuch as Thou take pains to be reveal'd.

Scandal's a ſort of Wit thou giv'ſt the Town,

And a B—n's Works ſpeak nothing but a B—n.

As thy lewd Muſe with Infamy her Task

Cannot, becauſe ſhe's poor, provide a Mask.

No more than when her Maſter in a heat,

Reſolving to be Cudgell'd, or to Beat;

For want of Cane-Man's Faith, and want of Pence,

Could get a Stick to ſhew his want of Sence.

To the ſame.

JOB, as thou ſay'ſt, being willing to forget

The Cauſe, for which thou mad'ſt him ſtorm and fret,

Plundg'd into Lethe's Streams to ſeek relief,

And loſt the ſad remembrance of his Grief.

But take my word, Sir Richard need not uſe

That method for the Scandal of thy Muſe:

For what e're flows from ſuch a triffling Sot,

Dies of it ſelf, and's born to be forget.

To the ſame.

[Page]

TOM, take my word, thou'ſt done like Man of Skill,

And I applaud the Conqueſt of thy Quill;

The Wife and Satan fail'd in Their deſign;

But thou had'ſt brought their Wiſh about in thine.

Thou teacheſt Job moſt heartily to Curſe;

Satan cou'd ne're have taught him what was worſe.

So well thou'ſt play'd the ſubtle Tempter's part;

Yet he muſt give precedence to thy Art.

As full of Wonder we can neither grant,

Or Job the greater Fiend, or B—n the greater Saint.

To an Epigrammatic Parſon.

'TIs falſe, leud Prieſt, I ſpeak it to thy Face,

As are thy Actions infamous and baſe.

His Satyr tickle? No, it cannot be;

Eſpecially that part which touches Thee.

Wounds almoſt cur'd, Experience will teach,

May have a Titillation, and an Itch.

But as for Thine, I'de have Thee reſt aſſur'd,

Thou'l ne're be tickled, who can'ſt ne're be curd'.

A Gonſolatory Paper of Verſes to Dr. D—ke, upon the News that He commended the 4th. Edition of Dr. Garth's Diſpenſary, and could not get His own Tranſlation of Herodotus to bear One.

[Page]

BOld thy Attempt, let Truth and Friendſhip ſpeak,

In theſe dull Times to venture forth at Greek.

And dare to Conſtrue and Tranſlate with ſpeed,

What Gentlemen of Practice cou'd not read.

Yet as Succeſs not always waits the Brave,

And Heroes loſe the Laurel for the Grave;

So tho' thy Volumes by their Bulk diſcloſe,

What havock thou ha'ſt made of Senſe and Proſe.

Yet to our ſorrow We, thy Friends, behold

Thy Price beat down, and ev'ry Sheet unſold;

While other Verſions are receiv'd and bought,

Pigmies in Miſchief to the Giant thought.

However, Man, take heart of Oak, and dare

Ev'n ſtill to ſhew the World thy stupid Care,

To mangle other's Works thy time employ,

Fools may, perhaps, at laſt be found to buy;

And thou acknowledg'd with thy skilful Pen,

As fit to murther Senſe, as murther Men.

O D—ke! How great ſhall be thy future Name?

What multitudes of Trunks ſhall ſpeak thy Fame!

Band-Box ſhall in thy Vindication riſe,

And many a Cook with thee defend his Pies,

Which otherwiſe (I'm to thy merit juſt)

Would never tempt Young Children with their Cruſt.

[Page]

Then take Thy Pen, as Men of Letters ſhou'd,

And Scrible for ſucceeding Trader's good.

What! If ſome certain Bookſellers agree

Not to be Broke by ſuch a Scribe as Thee,

'Tis Ten to One, but Thou a Chap may'ſt find

Among the Trading ſort of Human Kind,

Who for the ſake of dealing once in Greek,

Will take it off Thy hands, and nobly break.

Ariſe then, Friend, and reaſſume thy Pen,

And ſwear B—G—d, 'tis good, like Antient Ben;

Like a true Author magnifie thy Pains,

And tell Ben T—k he has no Guts in's Brains,

Who durſt ſuch uſeful Knowledge to decry,

He cannot underſtand who does not buy.

Theſe are the ways preceeding Writers us'd

When once flung by, and Their own Price refus'd,

And Theſe, my Friend, are what the preſent tread,

As ſoon as ſlighted and return'd unread.

Curſe ev'ry thing in Print which has Succeſs,

Make Author's write, and Readers buy, by gueſs;

Like Paper Kites, let other's Labour's fly,

And by mere force of Wind be born on high.

But reſt aſſur'd, and eaſie in Thy Mind,

Thy Volumes dare the moſt Tempeſtuous Wind,

Though North and South, and each contending Blaſt

Should in united Storms their Furies caſt,

Unmov'd by Force, and uninform'd by Sence,

Stupidity ſhall be their ſafe Defence;

Fix'd to their Shelv's no Winds can make 'em riſe,

And there Thou'lt let 'em lie if thou art wiſe.

To Mr. F. M. on his Incomprehenſible Farce, which goes by the Name of the Generous Choice.

[Page]

By a Lady.

THy Thoughts were never great, it's very plain,

By this poor Trifling product of Thy Brain;

But I, in queſtion do my Judgment call,

If Thou had'ſt Brains, Thou would'ſt not write at all.

To the ſame, on his Poem, call'd Greenwich-Hill.

By another Lady.

LAwyer, and Bard, believe me for Thy Friend,

If I Thy ſtupid Poem don't Commend.

The Lady's are Indebted to Thy Quill,

And Greenwich muſt acknowledge Thy good will;

But now Thou'ſt prais'd 'em both, dear Scribbler ſee,

If any Fools will do the ſame by Thee.

A Pun, by Mr. D—P—To T—B—upon his Witches Truſty Broomſtaff.

[Page]

BY all the Punns that D—l ever made,

Moſt wiſely fitted, and moſt bravely ſaid,

Broomſtaff muſt own, if Broomſtaff had a Tongue,

It owes it's chiefeſt glory to thy Song.

Truſty's a Noble Epithet, and Safe,

A Witch can never fall from ſuch a Staff:

But Thou muſt own, if Thoud'ſt to Truth be juſt,

Thou'dſt ſooner giv't a Vintner, if He'd Truſt.

To the ſame, by one who is Free of the Sadler's Company.

THat we have wooden Horſes at our Doors,

Is full as True as Thine has Chalks and Scores,

Our's ſtand without, but Thomas, 'tis no Sin,

To ſay, Thy Garrat has an A—ſs within.

To the Infamous Poetaſtor at Will's Coffee-Houſe.

IF Wit (as Thou art told) is a Diſeaſe,

Thou need'ſt not give Sir R—Bl—re Fees,

For ev'ry Fool, with any Brains, muſt own,

He cannot Purge off Humours, where are none.

To the Gentleman whom Dr. C—lb—ch Cur'd of the Gout.

[Page]

SIR, If you'd ſhew the Doctor's VVorth and Skill,

Ask Him, who Cur'd your Legs to cure your Quill,

And You will never Write ſo curſed Ill.

To the ſame.

SIR, We Rejoyce to hear that You are ſound,

That you drink Wine, and ſend the Glaſſes round;

That Punks no more your want of Strength upbraid,

But all Love's reck'nings now are fully paid.

E'en take the Manly Pleaſures of the Field,

And follow the Delights which Drama's yield.

But be Advis'd, and once, I beg You, think,

Quit the Debauches of Leud Pen and Ink.

The Doctor's Mother Thought, 'tis very plain

Amongſt Her Childbed Pangs, and felt the Pain;

But Your's ne're Thought at all, I durſt believe,

By the few ſigns of Thought Your Writings give.

To a Bluſtring Poet, who never Spoke or Wrote any thing that was taken notice of before.

I Tell Thee Man, thy Charges I defie,

Stradle and Damn Thy ſelf, why, what care I.

Put off the Fool, and he'll put off his Rhimes,

For Fool's make Poets in our Senceleſs Times:

Be Wiſe in Day-time, and be Chaſt at Night,

And That's the way to make Him ceaſe to Write.

An Epigram on T—m B—n.

[Page]

HOW B—n was born in Garret or in Cell,

Let thoſe determine who can better tell;

Or for what Ends the vengeful Heav'ns deſign'd

This Peſtilence of Wit and human Kind:

But this I dare affirm, without a Lie,

His Epigrams are only born to die.

On the Same.

IF Artbur from a Raviſh'd Parent came,

Thy Ballad's merry Birth is much the ſame;

For Thou (believe it Bard without Offence)

Writing, doſt ſtill commit a Rape on Senſe.

An Epigram flung away on a certain Ballad-making Senator.

WHere N—n lives I cannot tell,

If ne'er ſo fain I wou'd;

But N—n this I know full well,

Where'er the Maggot makes you dwell,

You'll never do much good.

Notes on the two Celebrated Copies in the Commendatory Verſes, to let the Reader know the difference between the faithfulneſs of their Epitome and our Copies; taken verbatim from their own Words, without the omiſſion of one Line.

BY Nature meant, by Want a Pedant made,

Bl—re at firſt ſet up the Whipping-Trade,

Had'st Thou been whipp'd Thou ne'er would'st Schools upbraid.

[Page] Grown fond of Buttocks he would laſh no more,

But kindly cur'd the A—ſe he gall'd before:

And prithee where's the Sin to cure a Sore?

So Quack commenc'd; thence fierce with Pride he ſwore

That Tooth-Ach, Gripes, and Corns, ſhould be no more:

Had he ſaid Fops, thoud'st call his Mother Whore.

In vain his Drugs, as well as Birch he try'd,

His Boys grew Block-heads, and his Patients dy'd,

Then Thou hast got the Block-heads on thy Side.

Next he turn'd Bard and mounted on a Cart;

Whoſe hideous Rumbling made Apollo ſtart;

Doubtleſs thy Coachman drives with Eaſe and Art.

Burleſqu'd the braveſt, wiſeſt Son of Mars,

In Ballad-Rhimes and all the Pomp of Farce.

A Commendation fit to wipe his A—ſe.

Still he chang'd Callingo, and at length has hit

On Buſineſs, for his matchleſs Talent fit

To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit.

Thou need'st no Drench take Bl—re's Word for it.

Bold thy Attempt in theſe hard Times to raiſe

In our unfriendly Clime the tender Bays,

But bolder thine thy Country to diſpraiſe.

While Northern Blaſts drive from the neighb'ring Flood,

And nip the ſpringing Lawrel in the Bud;

That thine e'er ſprung I never underſtood.

On ſuch bleak Paths our preſent Poets tread,

The very Garland withers on each Head,

When thou hast none to wither, as it's ſaid.

In vain the Criticks ſtrive to Purge the Soil,

Fertile in Weeds it mock's their buſy Toil,

And D—ke's ſhoot up to be a C—er's Foyl.

[Page] Spontaneous Crops of Job's and Arthur's riſe,

Whoſe tow'ring Nonſenſe braves the very Skies,

While poor Herodotus unprinted lies.

Like Paper-Kites the empty Volumes fly,

And by meer force of Wind are rais'd on high;

Thy Works would do the ſame if T—ke would buy.

While we did theſe with ſtupid Patience ſpare,

And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care;

The Plants far'd ne'er the worſe I durſt to ſwear.

The Muſes Garden did ſmall Product yield,

And Hemp and Hemlock over-ran the Field;

I warrant 'twas becauſe thou laid'st conceal'd.

'Till skilful Garth with Salutary Hand,

Taught us to Weed and Cure Poetick Land;

But thou ne'er learnd'st the Cure I underſtand.

Grubb'd up the Brakes and Thiſtles which [...]

And ſow'd with Verſe and Wit the ſacred Ground,

Not Verſe and Wit like thine, which cannot wound.

But now the Riches of that Soil appear,

Which four fair Harveſts yield in half a Year;

Four more than thy Tranſlation e'er will bear.

No more let Criticks of the Want complain,

Of Mantuan Verſe or the Maeonian Strain:

For thoſe two Books are in the Preſs again.

Above 'em Garth does on their Shoulders riſe,

And, what our Language wants, his Wit ſupplies;

Who ſays the ſame of Thine by Heaven lies.

Fam'd Poets after him ſhall ſtretch their Throats,

And unfledg'd Muſes chirp their Infant Notes;

Unfledg'd I gueſs becauſe they have no Coats.

[Page] Yes Garth; thy Enemies confeſs thy Store,

They burſt with Envy, yet they long for more,

A ſort of Envy never known before.

Ev'n we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindneſs call,

To ſee thy Stock ſo large and Gift ſo ſmall;

Some Folks had lik'd him, if no Gift at all.

But Jewels in ſmall Cabinets are laid,

And richeſt Wines in little Casks convey'd;

Thou ſeldom drink'st thoſe Wines I am afraid.

Let lumpiſh Bl—re his dull Hackney Feight,

And break his Back with heavy Folio's Weight,

For which if I were He, I'd break thy Pate.

His Pegaſus is of the Flanders Breed,

And Limb'd for Draught or Burthen, not for Speed;

A Sign his Strength of Thought does thine exceed

With Cart-Horſe Trot he ſweats beneath the Pack

Of Rhiming Proſe, and Knighthood on his Back;

A Burthen thou'lt ne'er have, malicious Quack.

Made for a Drudge e'en let him beat the Road,

And tug of ſenſleſs Reams th' Heroick Load;

Thou hast Reams by thee cannot get abroad.

'Till overſtrain'd, the Jade is ſet, and tires,

And ſinking in the Mud with Groans expires:

Who ſay thy Muſe can ſink are errant Lyars.

Then Bl—re ſhall this Favour owe to Thee;

That thou perpetuateſt his Memory;

Collier has done the very ſame by Thee.

Bavius and Maevius ſo their Works ſurvive,

And in one ſingle Line of Virgil's live;

A Gift which all Thy Lines can never give.

FINIS.

[Page]

Information about this book

Title statement

Discommendatory verses, on those which are truly commendatory, on the author of the two Arthurs, and the Satyr against wit.

Blackmore, Richard, Sir, d. 1729.

Edition statement

1700

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A69586

ID [STC]

Wing B3075A

ID [STC]

ESTC R29732

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99834086

ID [PROQUEST]

99834086

ID [VID]

38569

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This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A69586)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 38569)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1439:54 or 1755:7)

Source

— Discommendatory verses, on those which are truly commendatory, on the author of the two Arthurs, and the Satyr against wit., Blackmore, Richard, Sir, d. 1729..

Extent

[4], 28 p.

[s.n.],. London :: printed in the year, MDCC. [1700]. (By Sir Richard Blackmore.) (Reproductions of the originals in the Harvard University Library (reel 1439), and the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery (reel 1755).)

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The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.

Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.

Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.

Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.

The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.

Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).

Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site.