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AN ESSAY UPON SATIRE,

BY

MR. DRYDEN AND THE EARL OF MULGRAVE.

How dull, and how infenfible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the reft!
Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove
In every age the lumpish mafs to move :
But thofe were pedants, when compar'd with thefe,
Who know not only to inftruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; fo that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wifer too.
Satire has always fhone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their fouleft faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In fatire too the wife took different ways,
To each deferving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with juft fharpness blame,
Whilft others laugh'd, and fcorn'd them into

fhame.

But of these two, the laft fucceeded beft,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jeft.
Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides,
And cenfure those who cenfure all befides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd:
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd;
Against the groffeft follies they declaim;
Hard they purfue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:

Befides 'tis labour loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach?
"Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with fharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifest mind;
That little fpeck which all the reft does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loofe-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd fcenes of our declining stage;
Above all cenfure too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to fee the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boast.
In fuch a fatire all would feek a fhare,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old ftory-tellers too muft pine and die,
To fee their antiquated wit laid by ;
Like her, who mifs'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing fparks appear;
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much lefs half wits: that's more against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr ?

The cunning courtier should be flighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Elop's fox becomes a prey at laft.
Nor fhall the royal mistreffes be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy, to be blam'd;

With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a pother,
They are as common that way as the other:
Yet fauntering Charles, between his beatly
brace,

Meets with diffembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him :
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail fo long as he can fleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
Fake, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Early and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of bufy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At counsel fet as foils on Dorset's score,

To make that great falfe jewel fhine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

But there's no meddling with such nauseous men;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen:
'Tis time to quit my company, and choose
Some fitter fubject for a fharper muse.

First, let's behold the merriest man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay,
'Gainst a fet time, and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Jaft as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reafon or at rule,
He turns himself the beft to ridicule,
Let him at business ne'er fo earnest fit,

Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit;
That shadow of a jeft fhall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd,
So cat transform'd fat gravely and demure,
Till moufe appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Raching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find
That nimbleft creature of the bufy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this buftle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To fee him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still
Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's
'Twere crime in any man but him alone
To ule a body fo, though 'tis one's own:
Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er;
That whilft he creeps his vigorous thoughts can
fear:

Alas! that foaring, to thofe few that know,
Is but a bufy groveling here below.

[ill.

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As the new earl with parts deferving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet lofes all foft days and fenfual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune flights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a bufy man.

And what is that at beft, but one, whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go: faith, let him reign;
For if fome odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and stones,
Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel, and bark to be employ'd?
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?

Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.

Though fatire nicely writ no humour ftings But those who merit praise in other things; Yet we must needs this one exception make, And break our rules for folly Tropos fake; Who was too much defpis'd to be accus'd, And therefore fcarce deferves to be abus'd; Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue, For railing fmoothly, and for reafoning wrong. As boys on holy-days let loofe to play, Lay waggish traps for girls that pafs that way; Then fhout to fee in dirt and deep diftrefs Some filly cit in her flower'd foolish drefs; So have I mighty fatisfaction found, To fee his tinfel reafon on the ground: To fee the florid fool despis'd, and know it, By fome who fcarce have words enough to fhew

it :

For fenfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker
The finner, nay fometimes the wittiest speaker:
But 'tis prodigious fo much eloquence
Should be acquired by fuch little fense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abufive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woollack, fop at council-table.
Thefe are the grievances of fuch fools as would
Be rather wife than honeft, great than good.

Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whofe harmlefs errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their eafe:
To live diffolv'd in pleasures ftill they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of furfeits, head-achs, claps, are feen,
We fearce perceive the little time between:
Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake,
And pleature lofe only for pleafure's fake;
Each pleature has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we fquander life away.

Thus Dorfer, purring like a thoughtful cat, Marry'd, but wifer puts ne'er thought of that: And first he worried her with railing rhyme, Like Pembroke's maftives at his kindeft time; Then for one night fold all his flavish life, A teeming widow, but a barren wife;

C

Swell'd by contact of such a fulfom toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill reftor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would ufe in his old fneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brifker times
Had fam'd for dullnefs in malicious rhymes.

Mulgrave had much ado to scape the fnare,
Though learn'd in all thofe arts that cheat the
For after all his vulgar marriage mocks, [fair:
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes,
To fee him catch his tartar for his prize:
Th' impatient town waited the wifhed-for change,
And cuckolds fmil'd in hopes of fweet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with forrow fee,
As his eftate, his perfon too was free:
Him no foft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against bis will:
'Tit not his fault, if too much wealth and power
Break not his boafted quiet every hour.

And little Sid. for fimile renown'd, Pleasure has always fought but never found: Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, His are fo bad, furc he ne'er thinks at all. The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong, His meat and miftreffes are kept too long. But fure we all mistake this pious man, Who mortifies his perfon all he can: What we uncharitably take for fin, Are only rules of this odd capuchin ; For never hermit under grave pretence, Has liv'd more contrary to common sense; And 'tis a miracle we may fuppofe, No naftiness offends his fkillful nofe: Which from all ftink can with peculiar art Extract perfume and effence from a f―t: Expecting fupper is 'is great delight; He toils all day but to be drunk at night: Then o'r his cups this night-bird chirping fits, Till he takes Hewit and Jack Hal: for wits.

Rochefter I defpife for want of wit, Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet; For while he mifchief means to all mankind, Himself alone the ill effects does find: And fo like witches juftly fuffers fhame, Whofe harmless malice is fo much the fame.

Falfe are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks
Mean in each action, lewd in every limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:
A proof that chance alone makes every creature,
A very Killigrew without good-nature.
For what a Beffus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd?
For, there's the folly that's ftill mixt with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear;
Of fighting fparks some may their pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance ftill:
Falfely he falls into fome dangerous noofe,
And then as meanly labours to get loofe;
A life fo infamous is better quitting,
Spent in bafe injury and low fubmitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under fo much nafty rubbish laid,
To find it out 's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Muft toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deferve no comments here:
Where one poor thought fometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dullness must atone.

How vain a thing is man, and how unwife:
Ev'n he, who would himself the most despile!
I, who fo wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't fee.
While the world's nonfenfe is fo sharply fhewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own;
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but fatires to fet up ourselves.
I, who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev'n with my master, who first satire taught;
And did by that defcribe the task so hard,
It feems ftupenduous and above reward;
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time:
'Tis juft that I fhould to the bottom fail,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all

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