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Not that tradition's parts are useless here:
When gen'ral, old, difinterested, clear:
That ancient fathers thus expound the page,
Gives truth the reverend majefty of age:
Confirms its force by 'biding ev'ry telt;
For beft authorities, next rules, are belt.
And still the nearer to the spring we go,
More limpid, more unfoil'd, the waters flow.
Thus first traditions were a proof alone;
Could we be certain, fuch they were, fo known;
But fince fome flaws in long defcent may be,
They make not truth, but probability.
Ev'n Arius and Pelagius durft provoke
To what the centuries preceding fpoke ;
Such diffrence is there in an oft-told tale :
But truth by its own finews will prevail.
Tradition written therefore more commends
Authority, than what from voice descends.
And this, as perfect as its kind can be,
Rolls down to us the facred hiftory:
Which, from the univerfal church receiv'd,
Is try'd, and after, for itself believ'd.

The partial Papifts would infer from hence,
Their church, in last resort, fhould judge the sense.
But firft they would affume with wond'rous art,
Themselves to be the whole, who are but part
Of that vaft frame the church; yet grant they were
The handers-down, can they from thence infer
A right t'interpret? or would they alone,
Who brought the prefent, claim it for their own?
The book's a common largefs to mankind;
Not more for them than ev'ry man defign'd:
The welcome news is in the letter found;
The carrier's not commiflion'd to expound.
It speaks itself, and what it does contain,
In all things needful to be known is plain.

In times o'ergrown with ruft and ignorance,
A gainful trade their clergy did advance:
When want of learning kept the laymen low,
And none but pricfts were authoriz'd to know:
When what small knowledge was, in them did
dwell;

And he a god who could but read and spell;
Then mother church did mightily prevail;
She parcel'd out the Bible by retail:

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Confulted foberly his private good;

And fav'd himfelf as cheap as e'er he could.
'Tis true, my friend, and far be flatt'ry hence,
This good had full as bad a confequence:
The book thus put in ev'ry vulgar hand
Which each prefum'd he beft could understand,
The common rule was made the common prey
And at the mercy of the rabble lay.

The tender page with horny fifts was gall'd;
And he was gifted moft that loudeft baul'd:
The fpirit gave the doctoral degree:
And ev'ry member of a company

Was of his trade, and of the Bible free.
Plain truths enough for needful ufe they found;
But men would ftill be itching to expound:
Each was ambitious of th'obfcureft place,
No measure ta'en from knowledge, all from
grace.

Study and pains were now no more their care;
Texts were explained by fasting and by pray'r:
This was the fruit the private fpirit brought;
Occafion'd by great zeal and little thought.
While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion
About the facred viands buz and swarm. [warm,
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood,
And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
A thousand daily sects rise up and die;
A thousand more the perith'd race fupply:
So all we make of Heav'n's difcover'd will,
Is not to have it, or to use it ill.

The danger's much the fame; on fev'ral shelves
If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.

What then remains, but, waving each extreme,
The tides of ignorance and pride to stem?
Neither fo rich a treasure to forego;
Nor proudly feek beyond our pow'r to know:
Faith is not built on difquifitions vain ;
The things we must believe are few and plain;
But fince men will believe more than they need,
And ev'ry man will make himself a creed,
In doubtful queftions 'tis the fafeft way,
To learn what unfufpected ancients fay:
For 'tis not likely we should higher foar
In fearch of heav'n than all the church before 3
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we fee
The fcripture and the fathers difagree.
If after all, they stand fufpected still
(For no man's faith depends upon his will)
'Tis fome relief, that points not clearly known
Without much hazard, may be let alone:
And, after hearing what our church can fay,
If still our reafon runs another way,
That private reafon 'tis more just to curb,
foThan by difputes the public peace disturb;
[well, For points obfcure are of fmall ufe to learn;
But common quiet is mankind's concern.

But ftill expounded what the fold or gave;
To keep it in her power to damn and fave.
Scripture was fearce, and, as the market went,
Poor laymen took falvation on content;
As needy men take money, good or bad:
God's word they had not, but the priest's they had.
Yet whate'er falfe conveyances they made,
The lawyer ftill was certain to be paid.
In thofe dark times they learn'd their knack
That by long ufe they grew infallible.
At laft a knowing age began t'enquire.
If they the book, or that did them inspire:
And making narrower fearchthey found, tho'late,
That what they thought the priest's, was their
eftate :

Taught by the will produc'd, the written word,
How long they had been cheated on record.
Then ev'ry man who faw the title fair,
Claim'd a child's part, and put in for a fhare;

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Thus have I made my own opinions clear:
Yet neither praife expect, nor cenfure fear :
And this unpolish'd rugged verfe I chole,
As fitreft for difcourfe, and nearest profe:
For while from facred truth I do not swerve,
Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadwell's rhymes
will ferve.

Mac Flecknoe,

$29. Mac Flecknoe. DRYDEN

ALL human things are fubject to decay; [obey:
And, when Fate fummons, monarchs muft
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,
Thro' all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blefs'd with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with bus'ness, did at length debate
To fettle the fucceffion of the state;

And pond'ring 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 most resembles me.
Sh, alone, my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulnefs from his tender years:
Sh, alone, of all my fons, was he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The reft, to fome faint meaning make pretence;
But Sh- never deviates into fenfe.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike thro', and make a lucid interval;
But Sh'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 thoughtless majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that fhade the plain,
And, fpread in folemn ftate, 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, coarfely 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 didft 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-fharpen'd thumb, from shore to fhore,
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh- call,
And Sh- 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 e'en the feet of thine own Pfyche's rhyme:
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
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 dulness he was made,

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind
An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the fight,
(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd)
There ftood of yore, and Barbican its height:
A watch-tow'r once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains:
From its old ruins brothel-houses rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vaft courts the mother-strumpets
keep,

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And, undisturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.
Near these a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
Where un fledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in bufkins here,
Nor greater Jonfon dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin juft reception finds
Pure clinches the fuburbian muse affords,
Amidft this monument of vanish'd minds:
And Panton waging harmless war with words,
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitioufly defign'd his Sh'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;
But worlds of Mifers from his pen
To whom true dulnefs should fome Pfyches owe;
fhould flow
Humorifts and Hypocrites it fhould produce;
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce,
Now emprefs Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation thro' the town.
Rouz'd by report of Faine, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill, and diftant Watling-street,
No Perfian carpets fpread th'imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dufty fhops neglected authors come,
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
Martyrs of pyes, and reliques of the bum.
But loads of Sh- almost choak'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen food prepar'd,
And H-n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state;
At his right hand our young Afcanius fat,
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulnefs play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome,
So Shfwore, nor should his vow be vain,
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
That he, till death, true dulnef's would maintains
The king himself the facred unction made,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
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,
Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd
At once his fceptre, and his rule of fway; [young,
And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche fprung:
His temples laft, with poppies were o'erspread,
That, nodding, feem'd to confecrate his head.

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Jus

Juft at the point of time, if rame not lye,
On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tiber's brook,
Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.
Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.

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The fire then fhook the honors of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion thed
Full on the filial dulnefs; long he stood,
Repelling from his breaft the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:
Heav'ns 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 ftretch his pen!"
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen.
Then thus continu'd he: My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach, learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitlefs industry.
Let Virtuofos in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the ftage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, fhew the writer's wit.
Yet ftill thy Fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftify their author's want of fenfe.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, 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 diff'ring but in name.
But let no alien S-dl-y interpofe,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And, when falfe flow'rs of Rhetoric thou would't
Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But write thy beft, and top; and, in each 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 Jonfon's hoftile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raife.
Thou art my blood, where Jonfon has no part:
What hare 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 Plyche's humble ftrain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-ftitch, kifs my arfe;
Promis'd a play, and dwindl'd to a farce?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Ethridge doft 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 wond'rous 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 likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like nine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic mufe gives fmiles, thy comic, fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fet'ft thyself to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irith pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen lambics, but mild Anagram.
Leave writing plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acroftic land.
There thou may'ft wings difplay, and altars raise,
And torture one poor word a thousand ways.
Or if thou would'ft thy diff'rent talents fuit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute.
He faid; but his laft words were fcarcely

heard;

For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd;
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard..
Sinking, he left his drugged 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.

$30. An Efay upon Satire.

DRYDEN and BUCKINGHAM.

HOW dull, and how infenfible a beast

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the reft! Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove In ev'ry age the lumpifh 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, Myfterious 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 reft, And is the boldeft way, if not the best, To tell men freely of their fouleft faults; Tolaugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. In fatire too, the wife took diff'rent ways; To each deferving its peculiar praife. Some did all folly with juft sharpness blame, Whilft others laugh'd, and fcorn'd them into But of thefe two, the laft fucceeded beft, [fhame. As men aim righteft when they fhoot in jeft. Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides, And cenfure thofe who cenfure all befides; In other things they juftly 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 eafier 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 friendfhip to Whitehall. But with fharp eyes those nicer faults to find, Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind;

That"

That little speck 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, cach little wit
Will be fo glad to fee the greater hit ;
Who judging better, though concern'd the moft,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boast.
In fuch a fatire all would feek a share,
And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old ftory-tellers too muff 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 soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear;
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight;

Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much lefs half-wits; that's more against our
For they are fops; the other are but fools. [rules;
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 knav'ry makes fo much ado;
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like fop's fox, becomes a prey at last.
Nor fhall the royal miftrelles be nam'd;
Too ugly, or too cafy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a
[pother,
They are as cominon that way as the other:
Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his beastly

brace,

Meets with diffembling fili 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 milled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred ?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of bufy blockheads, fhall have here no place;
At council fet as foils on Dorfet'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 their company, and choose
Some fitter fubject for a fharper Mufe.

Firft, let's behold the merrieft man alive
Against his careless genius vainly ftrive;
Quit his dear cafe, fome deep defign to lay,
'Gainft a fet time, and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Juft 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 bus'nefs 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, tranform'd, fat gravely and demure,
Till moufe appear'd, and thought himself fecure;

;

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But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And, from her friend did juft as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We muft 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 bustle 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-coupl'd? Jowler lugs him ftill
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill.
"Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To ufe a body fo, tho' 'tis one's own :
Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er, [foar :
That whilft he creeps his vig'rous thoughts can
Alas! that foaring, to thofe few that know,
Is but a bufy grov'ling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the iky,
Whilft on the ground th'intranced wretches lie:
So modern fops have fancy'd they could fly.
As the new earl with parts deferving prafe,
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 busy man.
And what is that at beft, but one, whofe mind
Is made to tire himfelf and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let iam reign;
For if fome odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgʼry do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beaft that lives,
Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and ftones,
Refin'dly 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 ftatefiman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.

Though fatire nicely writ no humour ftings
But thofe who merit praise in other things;
Yet we muft 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 scarce defèrves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing fmoothly, and for reas'ning wrong,
As boys on holydays, 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 flow'r'd foolish dress;
So have I mighty fatisfaction found,
To fee his tiniel reafon on the ground;
To fee the florid fool defpis'd, and know it,
By fome who fcarce have words enough to fhow 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 fenfe !
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 woolfack, fop at council-table.
There are the grievances of fuch fools as would
Be rather wife than honeft, great than good.
Some other kind of wits muít be made known,
Whose harmiefs errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their cafe ;
To live diffolv'd in pleatures till they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of furfeits, head-aches, claps, are feen,
We scarce perceive the little time between ;
Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake,
And pleasure lofe only for pleafure's fake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we fquander life away.

Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Marry'd; but wifer pufs ne'er thought of that;
And first he worry'd her with railing rhime,
Like Pembroke's maftives at his kindeft time;
Then for one night fold all his flavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife ;
Swell'd by contact of fuch a fulfome 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 dulnefs in malicious rhymes.

Mulgrave had much ado to 'fcape the fnare, Tho' learn'd in all thofe arts that cheat the fair; For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzl'd, 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 with'd-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 ftill, Forc'd to live happily against his will: Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r Break not his boasted quiet ev'ry 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, fure 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 mittake 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 naftinefs offends his fkilful nofe; Which from all stink can, with peculiar art, Extrat perfume and effence from a f—t : Expecting fupper is his great delight; He toils all day but to be drunk at night:

3

Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rochefter I defpife for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven foot
For while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find:
And fo like witches justly fuffers fhame,
Whose harmless malice is fo much the fame.
Falfe are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd, the head he breaks?
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mifchievous in him :
A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry 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 sparks fome may their pleasures say
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance ftill ;
Falfely he falls into fome dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose;
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 almoft as well as me.
Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under fo much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Muft toil all day in afhes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idol works appear,
The wretched texts deferve no comments here;
Where one poor thought fometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulnefs muft atone.

How vain a thing is man, and how unwife;
Ev'n he, who would himself the most despise !
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 fharply fhewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own:
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but fatives to fet up ourselves.
I (who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev'n with my mafter, who first fatire taught
And did by that defcribe the task so hard,
It seems ftupendous, 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 fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

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