University of Virginia Library

A Satire upon the Poets, in Imitation of the Seventh Satire of Juvenal.

SIR,

All my Endeavours, all my Hopes depend
On you the Orphans, and the Muses Friend;
The only great good Man, who will declare
Virtue and Verse the object of his Care;
And prove a Patron in the worst of Times,
When hungry Bayes forsakes his Empty Rhymes,
Beseeching all true Cath'licks Charity,
For a poor prostitute which long did lie,
Under the Mortal Sins of Verse, and Heresy.
Shadwell, and starving Tate I cease to name,
Poets of all Religions are the same:
Recanting Settle brings the tuneful Ware,
Which wiser Smithfield damn'd to Sturbridge Fair;
Protests his Tragedies and Libels fail
To yield him Paper, Penny-loaves and Ale,
And bids our Youth by his Example fly
The Love of Politicks, and Poetry.
And all Retreats except New-Hall refuse
To shelter Durfey, and his Jocky Muse;
There to the Butler, and his Grace's Maid,
He turns, like Homer, Sonneteer for Bread;
Knows his just Bounds, nor ever durst aspire
Beyond the swearing Groom, and Kitchin fire.
Is there a Man to these Examples blind,
To clinking Numbers fatally design'd?
Who by his Parts would purchase Meat, and Fame,
And in new Miscellanies plant his Name;
Were my Beard grown, the Wretch I'd thus advise,
Repent, fond Mortal, and be timely wise;
Take heed, nor be by gilded Hopes betray'd,
Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade;
By Verse you'l starve: John Saul cou'd never live,
Unless the Bellman made the Poet thrive;
Go rather in some little Shed by Pauls,
Sell Chevy-chase, or Baxter's Salve for Souls,
Cry Raree-Shows, sell Ballads, transcribe Votes,
Be Carr or Keach, or any thing but Oates.
Hold, Sir, some Bully of the Muses cries,
Methinks you're more Satyrical, than Wise;
You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme,
At once encourage, and condemn the Crime.
True, Sir, I write and have a Patron too,
To whom my Tributary Songs are due;
Yet with your leave I'd honestly disswade
Those wretched Men from Pindus barren shade:
Who tho' they fire their Muse, and rack their Brains
With blustering Heroes, and with piping Swains,
Can no great patient giving Man engage
To fill their Pockets, and their Title-Page.
Were I, like these, unhappily decreed
By Penny Elegies to get my Bread,
Or want a Meal unless George Croom and I
Could strike a Bargain for my Poetry,
I'd damn my Works to wrap up Soap and Cheese,
Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices
To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess.
But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue,
Herd with the hungry little chiming Crew,
Obtain the empty Title of a Wit,
And be a free-cost, Noisy in the Pit;
Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place
A Crown of Laurel, and a meager Face.
And may just Heav'n thy hated Life prolong,
Till thou, blest Author, seest thy deathless Song,
The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall,
And find'st thy Picture starch'd 'gainst Suburb Wall,
With Johnny Armstrong, and the Prodigal.
And to compleat the Curse—
When Age and Poverty comes faster on,
And sad Experience tells thou art undone.
May no kind Country Grammar-School afford
Ten Pounds a Year to pay for Bed and Board;
Till void of any fix'd Employ, and now
Grown useless to the Army and the Plow,
You've no Friend left, but trusting Landlady,
Who stows you on hard Truckle, Garret high,
To dream of Dinner, and curse Poetry.
Sir, Iv'e a Patron, you reply. 'Tis true,
Fortune and Parts you say may get one too:
Why faith e'en try, Write, Flatter, Dedicate,
My Lord's, and his Forefathers Deeds relate:
Yet know he'll wisely strive ten thousand ways,
To shun a needy Poets fulsom Praise;
Nay, to avoid thy Importunity,
Neglect his State, and condescend to be
A Poet, tho' perhaps a worse than Thee.
There was a Time when Otway charm'd the Stage,
Otway the Hope, the Sorrow of our Age;
When the full Pit with pleas'd attention hung,
Wrapt with each accent from Castalio's Tongue.
With what a Laughter was his Soldier read!
How mourn'd they when his Jaffier struck, and Bled!
Yet this best Poet, tho' with so much ease,
He never drew his Pen but sure to please;
Tho' lightning were less lively than his Wit,
And Thunder-claps less loud than those o'th' Pit,
He had of's many Wants much earlier dy'd,
Had not kind Banker Betterton supply'd,
And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play,
Till he could pay himself the next third Day.
Were Shakespear's self to live again, he'd ne'er
Deg'nerate to a Poet from a Player.
Now Carlisle in the new-rais'd Troop we see,
And chattering Mountfort in the Chancery;
Mountfort how fit for Politicks and Law,
That play'd so well Sir Courtly and Jack Daw.
Dance then attendance in slow Mulgrave's Hall,
Read Maps, or court the Sconces till he call;
One Actor's Commendation shall do more
Than Patron now, or Merit heretofore.
Some Poets I confess, the Stage has fed,
Who for Half Crowns are shown, for two Pence read;
But these not envy thou, but imitate,
Much rather starve in Shadwel's silent Fate,
Then new vamp Farces, and be damn'd with Tate.
For now no Sidneys will three hundred give,
That needy Spenser and his Fame may live;
None of our new Nobility will send
To the King's Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend .
Chymists and Whores by Buckingham were fed,
Those by their honest Labours gain'd their Bread;
But he was never so expensive yet,
To keep a Creature meerly for his Wit;
And Cowley from Hall-Clifden scarce could have
One grateful Stone, to shew the World his Grave.
Pembroke lov'd Tragedy and did provide
For Butcher's Dogs, and for the whole Bankside;
The Bear was fed, but Dedicating Lee,
Was thought to have a larger Paunch than he.
More I could say, but care not much to meet
A Crabtree Cudgel in a narrow Street.
Besides, your Yawning prompts me to give o'er:
Your humble Servant, Sir, not one word more.