A Satyr against satyrs, or, An Answer to a late pamphlet intituled, The picture of a coffee-house 1700 Approx. 7 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 5 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A94208 Wing S712 ESTC R42405 36273504 ocm 36273504 150262

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A94208) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 150262) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 2238:8) A Satyr against satyrs, or, An Answer to a late pamphlet intituled, The picture of a coffee-house Ward, Edward, 1667-1731, supposed author. 7 p. [s.n.], London : Printed in the Year 1700. In verse. Signatures: [A]-B². Title within double line border. Has been attributed to Edward Ward. Imperfect: stained and with print show-through. Reproduction of original in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, University of California, Los Angeles.

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 eng Picture of a coffee-house. 2007-04 Assigned for keying and markup 2007-05 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-06 Sampled and proofread 2007-06 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

A SATYR AGAINST SATYRS: OR, AN ANSWER To a late Pamphlet Intituled, THE Picture of a Coffee-houſe.

LONDON, Printed in the Year 1700.
A SATYR AGAINST SATYRS, &c. WHEN Glittering Stars around bedeck the Sphere, And Silence is diffuſed every where; When ſtretch'd at eaſe the buſie Mortal lies, And Somnus cloſes up the wearied Eyes: I've ſeen bright Lana Traverſing the Sky, With borrow'd Beams Sols Abſence to ſupply. No Sounds are heard, but Ravens, Owls, and Frogs; Or the hoarſe Notes of Envious Snarling Dogs, That Bark at her bright Globe, and Glorious Train, And hurt not her, but fret themſelves in Vain. Such Dogs are Satyriſts that ſhow their Spite, In Railing Pamphlets, and yet cannot Bite; They ſhow their Teeth, and Rack their Aking Brain, To Puniſh Vice, and feel themſelves the Pain. B—re the Prince of Satyriſts has Writ, The Nobleſt Satyr 'gainſt the Plague of Wit; This with the reſt meets equal Fate: Poor Man! Wits will be Madmen ſtill, do what he can; And Madmen-like, Ungratefully they'll Wound, The Doctor that would kindly make them Sound. Tho' G—th himſelf do take the Laſh in Hand, His Satyrs ne'er can a Redreſs Command; Ap • t 〈…〉 H 〈…〉 will be, And hate the Name of the Diſpenſarie. Vagellius ſtill an Ambidexter is, And moulds a Cauſe which way you pleaſe, for Fees. N—k will Love G— • e, Write what you will, The Letcher Whipt, will be a Letcher ſtill: If Juvenal or Flaccus now ſhould Write, They'd Laſh in Vain, and be diſcarded quite. Then what Poetick Fury fills thy Breaſt, Thus Vainly to diſturb thy Peace and Reſt? What could'ſt thou not ſome other Subject find, To Exerciſe thy Vainly Trifling Mind? Could not thy Fancy carry thee to Court, To Weſtminſter, or Park, or Stage for Sport? What, did you never ſee B—'s Buxom Wife? You'd better Paint her Picture to the Life; From Nine to One, from Two till Even dawn, She's Dayly in the Shop to have it Drawn; And there her Buſineſs is from Day to day, To Ogle, Read a Novel, or a Play. Theſe would afford thee, without detriment, Much fitter Subjects for thy Merriment. But poor Stockjobbers in their ſad Diſaſter, Muſt bear th' Affronts of every Poetaſter▪ But if thy Muſe to Satyr hurry thee, And the Stockjobbers muſt the Subject be. Write and Laſh on, quench thy Poetick Thirſt, I dare be Sworn, thy Muſe will tire the firſt; With brows of Braſs they'll hear themſelves reprov'd, And proof againſt all Shame, remain unmov'd▪ Talk Metaphyſicks to the unthinking Swine, Tell the dull Aſs that Five and Four makes Nine; Preach to the Rock, like Venerable Bede; Make theſe to Underſtand, and you'll ſucceed. Vain Fool! To think by Pamphlets of ſuch Price, To make Stockjobbers hate their Darling Vice; Not Laws, nor Shame, nor Fear, can them refrain; They'll break through all, to Intereſt and Gain. Gain's a more ſolid Argument to perſwade, Than all th' Orations Cicero has made. To this we owe the Pamphlets of Tom Br—n, The little Penny Poet of the Town. Whate'er is Gain and Intereſt, they call, Religion, Vertue, Goodneſs, and their All. This is the grand Amuſement of their Mind, That does their Souls in Stubborn Fetters bind; They'll ſerve their Intereſt, no matter how, For Honeſty's a Drug that few do know. The little Citts they dayly Sacrifice, That the great Knaves may on their Ruines Riſe; Thus by the quickeſt way they Cure their Itch, And Right or Wrong, betimes they'd fain be Rich. Thus Wiſely do our Modern Men of Senſe, The dull Formalities of Trade diſpence; And in one day by Knavery get more, Than Honeſty can furniſh in Fourſcore. Thus Alexander, Philip's God-like Son, By formal Arts, his Kingdom ne'er had won; At one bold Stroke his Sword the Knot unty'd, When others many Years in Vain had try'd: So Learned W—b, in one Sheet writes more Senſe, Than F—'s in Ten with ſpun Impertinence. But ſure thou'rt Mad, and Madder ſtill, to think To cleanſe a Common-ſhore, by Pen and Ink; Stop firſt the Inlets that this Sink increaſe; Deſtroy the Cauſe, and the Effect will ceaſe. The City's Pride foments this Baneful Trade, And has of Honeſty Deſtruction made: The Tricks you find among this Jobbing Fry, Are to Indulge their Wives in Foppery. The product of a common Dilligence, Cann't now ſupport a Citizens Expence; 'Twill not maintain Coaches and Six, to wait Upon His Majeſty, in Pomp and State; And nothing leſs with City-Wife goes down, Than Indian Atlas's and Velvet Gown; Rich Damask Petticoats, and in the Room Of Modeſt Silken Fringe, broad Gold Galoom; Brocade, and Jewels, Store of China Ware, With other Trinkets that Expenſive are. Thus theſe Court Mimicks, Empty Baggs and Tills, Faſter than honeſt Gain in Trading fills. A pair of Stockings, or the Price that comes From Sale of now and then a Pound of Plumbs, Cannot maintain our City-Dames ſo high; Unleſs their Husbands deal in Stocks, they'll fly. Then think no more to ſtem this furious Tide, Till you can firſt Correct the City's Pride; But to do this, a greater Labour is, Than all the famous Tasks of Hercules. Then lay aſide thy Pencils dipt in Gall, Since only on thy ſelf the ſmart muſt fall. All Satyr's Vain, and 'tis the Poet's Curſe, To be Deſpis'd, and have an Empty Purſe. And Oh, that G—th would Laſh in Vain no more, but Sing, The Triumphs of our Great and moſt Victorious King. FINIS.