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MAC FLECKNOE

OR, A SATIRE ON THE TRUE BLUE PROTESTANT POET, T. S.

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All human things are subject to decay,
And when Fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owņed, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state;
And, pond'ring which of all his sons was fit
To reign and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried, “ 'T is resolved! for nature pleads that he
Should only rule who 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 confirmed 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 designed 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
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,

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With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge,
And big with hymn, commander of an host;
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail :
At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar; .
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 ev'n 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 vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more."
Here stopped the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade
That for anointed dulness he was made.

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined),
An ancient fabric, raised t inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tower once, but now, so Fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains. ....
Near these a Nursery erects its head,
Where queens are formed and future heroes bred,
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry, .
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 vanished minds;
Pure clinches the suburbian Muse affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.

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For ancient Decker prophesied long since
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
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 published the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Roused by report of fame, the nations meet
From near Bunhill and distant Watling Street.
No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay;
From dusty shops neglected authors come;
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way.
Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared,
And Herringman was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appeared,
High on a throne of his own labours reared.
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,
And lambent dulness played around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome,
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,
As king by office and as priest by trade.
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,
He placed 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 practised young,
And from whose loins recorded “Psyche” sprung;
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,
That, nodding, seemed to consecrate his head.
Just at that point of time, if fame not lie,

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On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 't is sung, by Tiber's brook,

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Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
Th’ 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

135 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;

140 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 paused, and all the people cried, “Amen!" Then thus continued he: “My son, advance

145 Still in new impudence, new ignorance. Success let others teach; learn thou from me Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. Let 'Virtuosos' in five years be writ, Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit;

150 Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage, Make Dorimant betray and Loveit rage; Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, And in their folly show the writer's wit: Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,

155 And justify their author's want of sense. Let 'em be all by thy own model made Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid, That they to future ages may be known, Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.

160 Nay, let thy men of wit, too, be the same, All full of thee, and differing but in name. But let no alien Sedley interpose, To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull, 165 Trust nature: do not labour to be dull, But write thy best, and top; and in each line Sir Formal's oratory will be thine. Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,

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And does thy northern dedications fill.
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share 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 swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain? ...
When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine?-
But so transfused as oil on waters flow:
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play;
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which one way to dulness 't is inclined,
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
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 sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep:
Thy tragic Muse gives smiles; thy comic, sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite;
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acrostic Land:
There thou mayst wings display, and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;
Or if thou wouldst thy diff'rent talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sign them to thy lute."

He said; but his last words were scarcely heard

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