The Works of Mr. John Oldham Together with his Remains |
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An Apology for the foregoing Ode, by way of Epilogue.
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 | The Works of Mr. John Oldham |  |
111
An Apology for the foregoing Ode, by way of Epilogue.
My part is done, and you'l, I hope, excuse
Th' extravagance of a repenting Muse,
Pardon what e're she hath too boldly said,
She only acted here in Masquerade.
For the slight Arguments she did produce,
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce.
So we Buffoons in Princely dress expose,
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous.
When she an Hector for her Subject had,
She thought she must be Termagant, and mad:
That made her speak like a lewd Punk o'th' Town,
Who by converse with Bullies wicked grown,
Has learn'd the Mode to cry all Virtue down.
But now the Vizard's off; she changes Scene,
And turns a modest civil Girl agen.
Our Poet has a different taste of Wit,
Nor will to common Vogue himself submit.
Let some admire the Fops whose Talents lie
In venting dull insipid Blasphemy;
He swears he cannot with those terms dispense,
Nor will be damn'd for the repute of sense.
Wit's name was never to profaneness due,
For then you see he could be witty too:
He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,
But that he's Loyal, and knows better things,
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.
He likes not Wit, which can't a Licence claim,
To which the Author dares not set his Name.
Wit should be open, court each Reader's eye,
Not lurk in sly unprinted privacy.
But Crim'nal Writers like dull Birds of Night,
For weakness, or for shame avoid the light;
May such a Jury for their Audience have,
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive.
May they the Tow'r for their due merits share,
And a just wreath of Hemp, not Laurel wear:
Th' extravagance of a repenting Muse,
Pardon what e're she hath too boldly said,
She only acted here in Masquerade.
For the slight Arguments she did produce,
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce.
So we Buffoons in Princely dress expose,
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous.
When she an Hector for her Subject had,
She thought she must be Termagant, and mad:
That made her speak like a lewd Punk o'th' Town,
Who by converse with Bullies wicked grown,
Has learn'd the Mode to cry all Virtue down.
But now the Vizard's off; she changes Scene,
And turns a modest civil Girl agen.
112
Nor will to common Vogue himself submit.
Let some admire the Fops whose Talents lie
In venting dull insipid Blasphemy;
He swears he cannot with those terms dispense,
Nor will be damn'd for the repute of sense.
Wit's name was never to profaneness due,
For then you see he could be witty too:
He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,
But that he's Loyal, and knows better things,
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.
He likes not Wit, which can't a Licence claim,
To which the Author dares not set his Name.
Wit should be open, court each Reader's eye,
Not lurk in sly unprinted privacy.
But Crim'nal Writers like dull Birds of Night,
For weakness, or for shame avoid the light;
May such a Jury for their Audience have,
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive.
113
And a just wreath of Hemp, not Laurel wear:
He could be Bawdy too, and nick the times,
In what they dearly love; Damn'd placket Rhimes,
Such as our Nobles write—
Whose nauseous Poetry can reach no higher
Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire.
So lewd, they spend at quill, you'd justly think;
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.
But he still thought that little Wit, or none,
Which a just modesty must never own,
And a meer Reader with a Blush attone.
If Ribauldry deserv'd the praise of Wit,
He must resign to each illit'rate Citt,
And Prentices, and Car-men challenge it.
Ev'n they too can be smart, and witty there;
For all men on that Subject Poets are.
Henceforth he vows, if ever more he find
Himself to the base itch of Verse inclin'd;
If e're he's given up so far to write;
He never means to make his end delight:
Should he do so; he must despair success:
For he's not now debauch'd enough to please,
And must be damn'd for want of Wickedness.
He'l therefore use his Wit another way,
And next the ugliness of Vice display.
Tho against Vertue once he drew his Pen,
He'l ne're for ought, but her defence agen.
Had he a Genius, and Poetick rage,
Great as the Vices of this guilty Age.
Were he all Gall, and arm'd with store of spight;
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write;
To noble Satyr he'd direct his aim,
And by't Mankind, and Poetry reclaim,
He'd shoot his Quills just like a Porcupine
At Vice, and make them stab in every Line,
The world should learn to blush,—
And dread the Vengeance of his pointed Wit,
Which worse than their own Consciences should fright,
And all should think him Heav'ns just Plague, design'd
To visit for the sins of lewd Mankind.
In what they dearly love; Damn'd placket Rhimes,
Such as our Nobles write—
Whose nauseous Poetry can reach no higher
Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire.
So lewd, they spend at quill, you'd justly think;
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.
But he still thought that little Wit, or none,
Which a just modesty must never own,
And a meer Reader with a Blush attone.
If Ribauldry deserv'd the praise of Wit,
He must resign to each illit'rate Citt,
And Prentices, and Car-men challenge it.
Ev'n they too can be smart, and witty there;
For all men on that Subject Poets are.
Henceforth he vows, if ever more he find
Himself to the base itch of Verse inclin'd;
114
He never means to make his end delight:
Should he do so; he must despair success:
For he's not now debauch'd enough to please,
And must be damn'd for want of Wickedness.
He'l therefore use his Wit another way,
And next the ugliness of Vice display.
Tho against Vertue once he drew his Pen,
He'l ne're for ought, but her defence agen.
Had he a Genius, and Poetick rage,
Great as the Vices of this guilty Age.
Were he all Gall, and arm'd with store of spight;
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write;
To noble Satyr he'd direct his aim,
And by't Mankind, and Poetry reclaim,
He'd shoot his Quills just like a Porcupine
At Vice, and make them stab in every Line,
The world should learn to blush,—
115
Which worse than their own Consciences should fright,
And all should think him Heav'ns just Plague, design'd
To visit for the sins of lewd Mankind.
| The Works of Mr. John Oldham | |