SATYR II.

By Mr. STAFFORD.

In the Second Part of Mifcellany Poems, Page 144.

I Was at firft, a Piece of Fig-tree Wood,

And long an honeft Joiner pond'ring food,
Whether he fhou'd employ his fhaping Tool
To make a God of me, or a Joint-Stool;
Each Knob he weigh'd, on ev'ry Inch did plod,
And rather chofe to turn me to a God.
As a Priapus hence I grew ador'd,

The Fear of ev'ry Thief, and ev'ry Bird.
The Rafcals from their pilf'ring Tricks defift,
And dread each Wooden Finger of my

Fift.
The Reeds fuck in my Cap the Peckers fright,
From our new Orchards far they take their Flight,
And dare not touch a Pippin in my Sight.

When any of the Rabble did decease,

They brought 'em to this Place to stink in Peace.
Un noisome here the Snuffs of Rogues went out,
'Twas once a common Grave for all the Rout.
Loofe Nomentanus left his Riots here,

And lewd Pantalabus forgot to jeer.

Nor in thefe Pit-holes might they put a Bone,
Cou'd lye beneath a Dunghil of his own.

But now the Ground for Slaves no more they tear,

Sweet are the Walks, and vital is the Air:

Myrtle

Myrtle and Orange Groves the Eye delight,
Where Skulls and Shanks did mix a ghaftly Sight,

While here I ftand the Guardian of the Trees,
Not all the Jays are half the Grievances,
As are thofe Hags, who, diligent in Ill,
Are either poys'ning or bewitching still,
These I can neither hurt nor terrify,

But ev'ry Night, when once the Moon is high,
They haunt thefe Allies with their Shrieks and Groans,
And pick up baneful Herbs and Humane Bones,

I faw Canidia here, her Feet were bare,
Black were her Robes, and loose her flaky Hair;
With her fierce Sagana went ftalking round,
Their hideous Howlings fhook the trembling Ground?
A Palenefs, cafting Horror round the Place,
Sat dead, and terrible on either's Face.

Their impious Trunks upon the Earth they caft,
And dug it with their Nails in frantick Hafte:
A coal-black Lamb then with their Teeth they tore,
And in the Pit they pour'd the recking Gore:
By this they force the tortur'd Ghosts from Hell,
And Answers to their wild Demands compel.

Two Images they brought of Wax and Wooll,
The Waxen was a little puling Fool,
A chidden Image, ready ftill to skip,
Whene'er the Woollen one but snapt his Whip.
On Hecate aloud this Beldam calls,
Tifiphone as loud the other bawls,

A Thousand Serpents hifs'd upon the Ground,
And Hell-hounds compass'd all the Gardens round.

H 2

Behind

Behind the Tombs, to fhun the horrid Sight,

The Moon skulk'd down, or out of Shame, or Fright.

May every Crow, and Cuckow, if I tye,
Aim at my Crown as often as they fly:
And never miss a Dab, tho' ne'er fo high.
May Villain Julius, and his Rafcal Crew,
Ufe me with juft fuch Ceremony too.

But how much Time and Patience wou'd it coft,
To tell the Gabblings of each Hag and Ghoft?
Or how the Earth the ugly Beldame scrapes,

And hides the Beards of Wolves, and Teeth of Snakes, While on the Fire the Waxen Image fries.

Vex'd to the Heart to fee their Sorceries,
My Ears torn with their bellowing Sprites, my Guts,
My Fig-tree Bowels wambled at the Sluts.
Mad for Revenge, I gather'd all my Wind,
And bounc'd like Fifty Bladders from behind.

Scar'd with the Noise they fcud-away to Town,
While Sagana's false Hair comes dropping down:
Canidia tumbles o'er, for want of Breath,
And scatters from her Jaws her Set of Teeth;
I almoft burst to fee their Labours croft,

Their Bones, their Herbs, and all their Devils loft.

SATYR

SATYR X..

Nempe Incompofito dixi Pede currere Versus
Lucili

WE

Printed in Rochester's Poems in Twelves.

WELL, Sir, 'tis granted, I faid Dryden's Rhimes
Were ftol'n, unequal, nay, dull many times.

What foolish Patron is there found of his,

So blindly partial to deny me this?

But that his Plays, embroider'd up and down
With Wit and Learning, juftly please the Town,
In the fame Paper I as freely own:

Yet, having this allow'd, the heavy Mafs
That stuffs up his Loose Volumes must not pass;
For by that Rule one might as well admit
Crown's tedious Scenes for Poetry and Wit
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false Senfe
Hits the falfe Judgment of an Audience

Of clapping Fools affembling, a vast Crowd,

'Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull Load:
Tho' ev'n that Talent merits in fome fort,
That can divert the Rabble and the Court:
Which blund'ring Settle never cou'd attain,
And puzzling Otway labours at in vain,
But within due Proportion circumfcribe
Whate'er you write; that with a flowing Tide
The Style may rise; yet, in its Rise, forbear,
With Ufeless Words t'opprefs the weary'd Ear.
Here be your Language lofty; there more light;
Your Rhetorick with your Poetry unite;
H 3

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For

For Elegance fake fometimes allay the Force
Of Epithet; 'twill foften the Discourse:
A Jeft in Scorn points out, and hits the thing
More home than the Morofeft Satyr's Sting.
Shakespear and Johnson did in this excel,
And might herein be imitated well;
Whom refin'd Etheridge copies not at all,
But is himself a meer Original:

Nor that flow Drudge in fwift Pindaric Strains
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with Pains,

And rides a Faded Mufe whipt, with Loofe Reins.
When Lee makes Temprate Scipio fret and rave,
And Hanibal a Whining am'rous Slave,

I laugh, and with the hot-brain'd Fuftian Fool
In Busby's Hands, to be well lafh'd at School.
Of all our Modern Wits, none seem to me
Once to have touch'd upon true Comedy,
But hafty Shadwell and flow Wicherley.
Shadwell's unfinish'd Works do yet impart
Great Proofs of Force of Nature, none of Art ;
With juft bold Strokes he dafhes here and there,

Shewing Great Maßlery with Little Care;

Scorning to varnish his Good Touches o'er,

To make the Fools and Women praise him more.
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er be gains ;
He wants no Judgment, and he fpares no Pains;
He frequently excels, and, at the leaft,
Makes fewer Faults than any of the rest.
Waller, by Nature for the Bays defign'd,
With Force, and Fire, and Fancy unconfin'd,
In Panegyrick does excel Mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and foften things,
To praife great Conquerors, and flatter Kings.

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For