T

ALL human things are fubject to decay,
And when fate fummons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguftus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long :
In profe and verfe, was own'd, without difpute,
Through all the realms of Nonfenfe, abfolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And bleft with iffue of a large increase;
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To fettle the fucceffion of the state:

And, pondering, which of all his fons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cry'd, 'Tis refolv'd; for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who moft resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulnefs from his tender years:
Shadwell alone, of all my fons, is he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into fenfe.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval:
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rifing fogs prevail upon the day.
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtiefs majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that fhade the
plain,

And spread in folemn state fupinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of tautology!
Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent 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 ftrung,
When to king John of Portugal I fung,

Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames didit cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an hoft,
The like was ne'er in Epfom blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail,
At thy well-fharpened thumb from shore to fhore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they refound from Afton-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'ft thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Pyfche's rhyme :
Though they in numbers as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton foreswore
The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but moft his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.

Clofe to the walls which fair Augufta bind, (The fair Augufta much to tears inclin'd) An ancient fabric rais'd t' inform the fight, There flood of yore, and Barbican it hight: A watch-tower once; but now, fo fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains : From its old ruins brothel-houses 1ife, Scents of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, And, undisturb'd hy watch, in filence fleep.

Near those a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are 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 Johnson dare in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin jufl reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches the suburbian Mufe affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknee, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously defign'd his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker prophecy'd long fince,
That in this pile fhould reign a mighty prince,
Born for a fcourge of wit, and flail of fenfe.
To whom true dulnefs fhould fome Pyfches owe,
But worlds of mifers from his pen fhould flow:
Humourists and hypocrites it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now empreís fame had publish'd the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rouz'd by report of fame the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street.
No Perfian carpets fpread th' imperial way,
But fcatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dufty fhops 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 ftationers 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 Afcanius fate.
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent duiness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Swore by his fire, a mortal foe to Rome;
So Shadwell fwore, nor fhould 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 facred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.

In his finifter 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 fceptre, and his rule of fway,
Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd

young,

And from whofe loins recorded Pysche sprung.
His temples, laft, with poppies were o'eripread,
That nodding feem'd to confecrate his head.
Juft at the point of time, if fame not lie,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tyber's brook,
Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then fhook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed

Full on the filial dulnefs; long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging God;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens blefs my fon! from Ireland let him
To far Barbadoes on the western main; [reign
Of his dominion may no end be known,
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 cry'd Amen.
Then thus continued he: My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without births, and fruitless industry,
Let virtuofos in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage:
Let Gully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their foily fhew the writer's wit.
Yet ftill thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and differing but in name.
But let no alien Sedley interpofe,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And when falle flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst

cull,

Truft nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy beft, and top; and, in cach line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :

Sir Formal, though unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Johnton's hoftile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raife.
Tbon art my blood, where Johnfon had no part:
What fhare 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 fwept the duft in Pyfche's humble strain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-ftitch, kiss my arfe,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his Mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Etherage did transfufe to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play;
This is that boafted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide ftill,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likenefs; thine's a tympany of fenfe.
. tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic Mufe gives fmiles, thy comic fleep.

With whate'er gall thou fett'ft thyfclf to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
t does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen lambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command,

Some peaceful province in Acroftic land.

There thou mayft wings difplay and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.

Or if thou wouldst thy different talents fuit, Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute. He faid; but his laft words were fcarcely

heard:*

For Bruce and Longvel had a trap prepar'd,
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

As there is mufic uninform'd by art
In those wild notes, which with a merry heart
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us lefs:
So in your verfe a native fweetnefs dwells,
Which fhames compofure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmnefs does fuppofe them deep;
Such is your Mufe: no metaphor fwell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Thofe mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a ftrength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.

'Tis ftrange each line fo great a weight fhould bear,

And yet no fign of toil, no fweat appear.
Either your art hides art, as stoics feign
Then leaft to feel, when moft they fuffer pain;
And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden fprings within the engine be.

Or 'tis fome happiness that still pursues
Each ac and motion of your graceful Mufe.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms cafually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce fo beautiful a world.
Nor dare I fuch a doctrine here admit,
As would deftroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your ftrong genius then which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run fo lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel thofe heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,'
Yet our inftruction make their fecond end:
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that

WOO

At once a beauty, and a fortune too Į iiij

Of moral knowledge poefy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their
charge.

Like fome brave captain, your fuccessful pen
Reftores the exil'd to her crown again :
And gives us hope, that, having feen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion reft,
"A fober prince's government is best."
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th' improvement of the richest ground,
That foil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the facred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's griefs are fo exprefs'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true,
Had the fo fpoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had faid.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly has difcharged those,
Eliza's fhade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no lefs
Your kindness great Achilles doth confefs;
Who, drefs'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin robes he took,
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view:
Then we fhall fee his work was lamely rough,
Each figure ftiff, as if design'd in buff:
His colours laid fo thick on every place,
As only fhew'd the paint, but hid the face,

But as in perspective we beauties fee,
Which in the glafs, not in the picture, be;
So here our fight obligingly mistakes
That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar difhes are, by cooks difguis'd,
More for their dreffing, than their substance
priz'd.

Your curious notes fo fearch into that age,
When all was fable but the facred page,
That, fince in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But, what we most admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth contefs.
Ere our weak eyes difcern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you faw great Charles his morning
break.

So fkilful feamen ken the land from far,
Which fhews like mifts to the dull paffenger.
To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous love,
As ftill the antients did begin from Jove.
With Monk you end, whofe name preferv'd
fhall be,

As Rome recorded Rufus' memory,
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His country's intereft, than the world to fway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen:
Yet let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture in your right to prophesy.
"This work, by merit first of fame fecure,
"Is likewife happy in its geniture:
"For, fince 'tis born when Charles afcends the
"It fhares at once his fortune and its own."

(throne,

THE longeft tyranny that ever sway'd,
Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd
Their free born reafon to the Stagirite,
And made his torch their univerfal light.
So truth, while only one fupply'd the state,
Grew fearce, and dear, and yet fophifticate.
Stil it was bought, like emp'ric wares, or charms,
Hard words feal'd up with Ariftotle's arms.

Columbus was the first that shook his throne;
And found a temperate in a torrid zone:
The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze,
The fruitful vales fet round with fhady trees;
And guiltless men, who danc'd away their time,
Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime.
Had we still paid that homage to a name,
Which only God and nature justly claim;