10

15

Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And bless'd with issue of a large increase;
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state:
And, pondering, which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried, 'Tis resolv'd; for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule that most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years:
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty :
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, 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.
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came

20

23

30

V. 33. And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came] And coarsely cloth'd in rusty drugget came. MS. T.

35

To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40
And big with hymn, commander of a host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss❜d.
Methinks I see thee, new Arion, sail,

50

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar:
Echoes from Pissing-Alley Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. André's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme;
Though they in number as in sense excel:
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.'

55

Here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept for joy, In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.

V. 53. St. André's feet ne'er kept, &c.] A French dancingmaster, at this time greatly admired. D.

All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.

63

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind, (The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd,) An ancient fabric rais'd to inform the sight, There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: A watchtower once; but now, so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains: From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, 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,

70

Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledg'd 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 Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:

60

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 Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker prophesied long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,

V. 81. Simkin just reception finds] Simkin is a character of a cobbler in an interlude. Panton, who is mentioned soon after, was a famous punster. D.

95

100

Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense:
To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humourists and Hypocrites it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now empress Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling street.
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,
And Herringman was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, 110
And lambent dulness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome;

105

So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dulness would maintain ; And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. The king himself the sacred unction made,

120

As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,
He plac'd 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,

130

And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung. 125
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,
That nodding seem'd to 'consecrate his head.
Just at the point of time, if fame not lie,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
The admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign

To far Barbadoes on the western main;

Of his dominion may no end be known,

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140

And greater than his father's be his throne; Beyond Love's Kingdom let him stretch his pen! He paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen.

V. 143. Beyond Love's Kingdom, &c] This is the name of that one play of Flecknoe's which was acted, but miscarried in the representation. D.