| |
| ALL 1 humane things are subject to decay, | |
| And, when Fate summons, Monarchs must obey: | |
| This Fleckno found, who, like Augustus, young | |
| Was call’d to Empire and had govern’d long: | |
| In Prose and Verse was own’d, without dispute | 5 |
| Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute. | |
| This aged Prince now flourishing in Peace, | |
| And blest with issue of a large increase, | |
| Worn out with business, did at length debate | |
| To settle the Succession of the State; | 10 |
| And pond’ring which of all his Sons was fit | |
| To Reign, and wage immortal War with Wit, | |
| Cry’d, ’tis resolv’d; for Nature pleads that He | |
| Should onely rule, who most resembles me: | |
| Sh—— 2 alone my perfect image bears, | 15 |
| Mature in dullness from his tender years; | |
| Sh—— alone of all my Sons is he | |
| Who stands confirm’d in full stupidity. | |
| The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, | |
| But Sh—— never deviates into sense. | 20 |
| Some Beams of Wit on other souls may fall, | |
| Strike through and make a lucid intervall; | |
| But Sh——’s genuine night admits no ray, | |
| His rising Fogs prevail upon the Day: | |
| Besides, his goodly Fabrick fills the eye | 25 |
| And seems design’d for thoughtless Majesty: | |
| Thoughtless as Monarch Oakes that shade the plain, | |
| And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. | |
| Heywood and Shirley were but Types of thee, | |
| Thou last great Prophet of Tautology: | 30 |
| Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, | |
| Was sent before but to prepare thy way: | |
| And coarsely clad in Norwich Drugget came | |
| To teach the Nations in thy greater name. | |
| My warbling Lute, the Lute I whilom strung, | 35 |
| When to King John of Portugal I sung, | |
| Was but the prelude to that glorious day, | |
| When thou on silver Thames did’st cut thy way, | |
| With well tim’d oars before the Royal Barge, | |
| Swelled with the Pride of thy Celestial charge; | 40 |
| And, big with Hymn, Commander of an Host, | |
| The like was ne’er in Epsom blankets tost. | |
| Methinks I see the new Arion Sail, | |
| The Lute still trembling underneath thy nail. | |
| At thy well sharpned thumb from Shore to Shore | 45 |
| The Treble squeaks for fear, the Bases roar: | |
| Echoes from Pissing-Ally, Sh—— call, | |
| And Sh—— they resound from A—— 3 Hall. | |
| About thy boat the little Fishes throng, | |
| As at the Morning Toast that Floats along. 4 | 50 |
| Sometimes, as Prince of thy Harmonious band, | |
| Thou wield’st thy Papers in thy threshing hand. | |
| St. Andrés feet ne’er kept more equal time, | |
| Not ev’n the feet of thy own Psyche’s rhime: | |
| Though they in number as in sense excell, | 55 |
| So just, so like tautology they fell | |
| That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore | |
| The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore, | |
| And vow’d he ne’er would act Villerius more. | |
| Here stopt the good old Syre; and wept for joy, | 60 |
| In silent raptures of the hopefull boy. | |
| All Arguments, but most his Plays, perswade | |
| That for anointed dulness he was made | |
| Close to the Walls which fair Augusta bind, | |
| (The fair Augusta much to fears inclin’d) | 65 |
| An ancient fabrick raised t’ inform the sight, | |
| There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: | |
| A watch Tower once, but now, so Fate ordains, | |
| Of all the Pile an empty name remains. | |
| From its old Ruins Brothel-houses rise, | 70 |
| Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, | |
| Where their vast Courts the Mother-Strumpets keep, | |
| And, undisturb’d by Watch, in silence sleep. | |
| Near these a Nursery erects its head, | |
| Where Queens are formed, and future Hero’s bred; | 75 |
| Where unfledged Actors learn to laugh and cry, | |
| Where infant Punks their tender voices try, | |
| And little Maximins the Gods defy. | |
| Great Fletcher never treads in Buskins here, | |
| Nor greater Johnson dares in Socks appear. | 80 |
| But gentle Simkin just reception finds | |
| Amidst this Monument of vanisht minds; | |
| Pure Clinches, the suburbian Muse affords; | |
| And Panton waging harmless war with words. | |
| Here Flecknoe, as a place to Fame well known, | 85 |
| Ambitiously design’d his Sh——’s throne. | |
| For ancient Decker prophesi’d long since, | |
| That in this Pile should Reign a mighty Prince, | |
| Born for a scourge of Wit, and flayle of Sense, | |
| To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe, | 90 |
| But Worlds of Misers from his pen should flow; | |
| Humorists and Hypocrites it should produce, | |
| Whole Raymond Families and Tribes of Bruce. | |
| Now Empress Fame had publisht the renown | |
| Of Sh——’s Coronation through the Town. | 95 |
| Rows’d by report of Fame, the Nations meet, | |
| From near Bun-Hill and distant Watling-street. | |
| No Persian Carpets spread th’ imperial way, | |
| But scatter’d Limbs of mangled Poets lay; | |
| From dusty shops neglected Authors come, | 100 |
| Martyrs of Pies and Reliques of the Bum. | |
| Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, | |
| But loads of Sh—— almost choakt the way. | |
| Bilk’t Stationers for Yeomen stood prepar’d | |
| And H—— 5 was Captain of the Guard. | 105 |
| The hoary Prince in Majesty appear’d, | |
| High on a Throne of his own Labours rear’d. | |
| At his right hand our young Ascanius sat | |
| Rome’s other hope and Pillar of the State. | |
| His Brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, | 110 |
| And lambent dullness plaid around his face. | |
| As Hannibal did to the Altars come, | |
| Swore 6 by his Syre a mortal Foe to Rome; | |
| So Sh—— swore, nor should his Vow bee vain, | |
| That he till Death true dullness would maintain; | 115 |
| And, in his father’s Right, and Realms defence, | |
| Ne’er to have Peace with Wit, nor truce with Sense. 7 | |
| The King himself the sacred Unction made, | |
| As King by Office, and as Priest by Trade: | |
| In his sinister hand, instead of Ball, | 120 |
| He placed a mighty Mug of potent Ale; | |
| Love’s Kingdom to his right he did convey, | |
| At once his Sceptre and his rule of Sway; | |
| Whose righteous Lore the Prince had practis’d young | |
| And from whose Loyns recorded Psyche sprung. | 125 |
| His temples, last, with Poppies were o’erspread, | |
| That nodding seem’d to consecrate his head: | |
| Just at that point of time, if Fame not lye, | |
| On his left hand twelve reverend Owls did fly. | |
| So Romulus, ’tis sung, by Tyber’s Brook, | 130 |
| Presage of Sway from twice six Vultures took. | |
| Th’ admiring throng loud acclamations make | |
| And Omens of his future Empire take. | |
| The Syre then shook the honours of his head, | |
| And from his brows damps of oblivion shed | 135 |
| Full on the filial dullness: long he stood, | |
| Repelling from his Breast the raging God; | |
| At length burst out in this prophetick mood: | |
| Heavens bless my Son, from Ireland let him reign | |
| To far Barbadoes on the Western main; | 140 |
| Of his Dominion may no end be known, | |
| And greater than his Father’s be his Throne. | |
| Beyond loves Kingdom let him stretch his Pen; | |
| He paused, and all the people cry’d Amen. | |
| Then thus continued he, my son, advance | 145 |
| Still in new Impudence, new Ignorance. | |
| Success let others teach, learn thou from me | |
| Pangs without birth, and fruitless Industry. | |
| Let Virtuoso’s in five years be Writ; | |
| Yet not one thought accuse thy toyl of Wit. | 150 |
| Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage, | |
| Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; | |
| Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the Pit, | |
| And in their folly show the Writers wit. | |
| Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence | 155 |
| And justifie their Author’s want of sense. | |
| Let ’em be all by thy own model made | |
| Of dulness and desire no foreign aid, | |
| That they to future ages may be known, | |
| Not Copies drawn, but Issue of thy own. | 160 |
| Nay let thy men of wit too be the same, | |
| All full of thee, and differing but in name; | |
| But let no alien S—dl—y 8 interpose | |
| To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. | |
| And when false flowers of Rhetorick thou would’st cull, | 165 |
| Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull; | |
| But write thy best, and top; and in each line | |
| Sir Formal’s oratory will be thine. | |
| Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, | |
| And does thy Northern Dedications fill. | 170 |
| Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame, | |
| By arrogating Johnson’s Hostile name. | |
| Let Father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise | |
| And Uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. | |
| Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part: | 175 |
| What share have we in Nature or in Art? | |
| Where did his wit on learning fix a brand | |
| And rail at Arts he did not understand? | |
| Where made he love in Prince Nicander’s vein, | |
| Or swept the dust in Psyche’s humble strain? | 180 |
| Where sold he Bargains, Whip-stich, kiss my Arse. | |
| Promis’d a Play and dwindled to a Farce? | |
| When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, | |
| As thou whole Eth’ridg dost transfuse to thine? | |
| But so transfused as Oyls 9 on waters flow, | 185 |
| His always floats above, thine sinks below. | |
| This is thy Province, this thy wondrous way, | |
| New Humours to invent for each new Play: | |
| This is that boasted Byas of thy mind, | |
| By which one way, to dullness, ’tis inclined, | 190 |
| Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, | |
| And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. | |
| Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence | |
| Of likeness; thine’s a tympany of sense. | |
| A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ, | 195 |
| But sure thou ’rt but a Kilderkin of wit. | |
| Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep; | |
| Thy Tragick Muse gives smiles, thy Comick sleep. | |
| With whate’er gall thou settst thy self to write, | |
| Thy inoffensive Satyrs never bite. | 200 |
| In thy fellonious heart though Venom lies, | |
| It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dyes. | |
| Thy Genius calls thee not to purchase fame | |
| In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram: | |
| Leave writing Plays, and chuse for thy command | 205 |
| Some peaceful Province in Acrostick Land. | |
| There thou maist wings display, and Altars raise, | |
| And torture one poor word Ten thousand ways; | |
| Or, if thou would’st thy diff’rent talents suit, | |
| Set thy own Songs, and sing them to thy lute. | 210 |
| He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, | |
| For Bruce and Longvil had a Trap prepar’d, | |
| And down they sent the yet declaiming Bard. | |
| Sinking he left his Drugget robe behind, | |
| Borne upwards by a 10 subterranean wind. | 215 |
| The Mantle fell to the young Prophet’s part | |
| With double portion of his Father’s Art. | |
