The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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| THE PLAY-HOUSE
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
227
THE PLAY-HOUSE
A SATYR.
1. The First Part.
Since of all things which at this Guilty Time
Have felt the honest Satyrs wholsom Rhime
The Impious Play-House has been most forborn,
(Tho' it of all Things most deserves our Scorn)
We'll do at last what Justice does require;
And strip it bare of all the Gay Attire
Which Women love and Fools so much admire.
Have felt the honest Satyrs wholsom Rhime
The Impious Play-House has been most forborn,
(Tho' it of all Things most deserves our Scorn)
We'll do at last what Justice does require;
And strip it bare of all the Gay Attire
Which Women love and Fools so much admire.
Aid me, Ye Scorpions with Inveterate Spite,
Instruct me how to stab with ev'ry Word I write;
Or if my Pen's too weak this Tyde to stem,
Lend me Your Stings, and I will wound with them:
Each home-set thrust shall pierce the vitious Heart,
And draw the Poison from th'envenom'd Part;
Lash ev'ry Fop and ev'ry Drab expose,
And to the World a hideous Scene disclose:
While the Proud Mimicks who now Lord it so,
Become the Publick hiss where-e'er they go,
Their Trade decay and they unpitied Starve;
A better Fate than most of 'em deserve.
Instruct me how to stab with ev'ry Word I write;
Or if my Pen's too weak this Tyde to stem,
Lend me Your Stings, and I will wound with them:
Each home-set thrust shall pierce the vitious Heart,
And draw the Poison from th'envenom'd Part;
228
And to the World a hideous Scene disclose:
While the Proud Mimicks who now Lord it so,
Become the Publick hiss where-e'er they go,
Their Trade decay and they unpitied Starve;
A better Fate than most of 'em deserve.
The Middle Galle'ry first demands our View;
The filth of Jakes, and stench of ev'ry Stew!
Here reeking Punks like Ev'ning Insects swarm;
The Polecat's Perfume much the Happier Charm.
Their very Scent gives Apoplectick Fits,
And yet they're thought all Civit by the Cits;
Nor can we blame 'em; for the Truth to tell,
The want of Brains may be the want of Smell.
Here ev'ry Night they sit three Hours for Sale;
The Night-rail always cleanlier than the Tayl.
If any Gudgeon bites they have Him sure,
For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore.
Discreet in this, their Faces not to shew;
The Mask the best Complexion of the two.
Their Noses falling and their Eyes sunk in,
A wrinkl'd Forehead and a Parchment Skin:
Their Breath as hot as Ætna's Sulph'rous Fire;
Yet cold as Ice compar'd with their Desire.
The Physick each has singly swallow'd up,
Produc'd again, wou'd stock ev'n Chase's Shop.
Yet such as these our Modern Fops admire;
Perhaps to be Inur'd for hotter Fire.
A Woman's ne'er so Wicked, but she can
Find one as Wicked, or much worse in Man,
To satisfy her Lust, obey her Will,
And at her Nod perform the greatest Ill:
These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid,
And Dog-like, fetch and carry as they're bid;
The filth of Jakes, and stench of ev'ry Stew!
Here reeking Punks like Ev'ning Insects swarm;
The Polecat's Perfume much the Happier Charm.
Their very Scent gives Apoplectick Fits,
And yet they're thought all Civit by the Cits;
Nor can we blame 'em; for the Truth to tell,
The want of Brains may be the want of Smell.
Here ev'ry Night they sit three Hours for Sale;
The Night-rail always cleanlier than the Tayl.
If any Gudgeon bites they have Him sure,
For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore.
Discreet in this, their Faces not to shew;
The Mask the best Complexion of the two.
Their Noses falling and their Eyes sunk in,
A wrinkl'd Forehead and a Parchment Skin:
Their Breath as hot as Ætna's Sulph'rous Fire;
Yet cold as Ice compar'd with their Desire.
The Physick each has singly swallow'd up,
Produc'd again, wou'd stock ev'n Chase's Shop.
Yet such as these our Modern Fops admire;
Perhaps to be Inur'd for hotter Fire.
A Woman's ne'er so Wicked, but she can
Find one as Wicked, or much worse in Man,
To satisfy her Lust, obey her Will,
And at her Nod perform the greatest Ill:
These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid,
And Dog-like, fetch and carry as they're bid;
229
But, naming Dogs, did You yet ever meet
A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the Street?
Shock, Mastiff, Mungrel, Spaniel Blithe and Gay
With Brandish'd Tails, and panting e'er their Prey,
Have You observ'd with what Obsequious Art
They make their Court? So Am'rous at the Heart,
The more their Mistress snarls the less inclin'd to part.
This is an Emblem of our Gall'ry Ware,
The Scene we may see Nightly Acted here
Not but we must give Dog and Bitch their due,
As much the Chaster Creatures of the two;
Their Season past they're cool;—'tis only here
The Commerce holds, Insatiate, all the Year.
About one Jilt a Hundred Apes shall move,
And which is strange, at once all Chatt'ring Love:
So loud the Din, that who the Play wou'd hear
Might be as well Inform'd at Home, as there.
At last they to the Rose direct their Way
(It's Staple Trade such Customers as they)
To end th'Intrigue agreed on at the Play.
Luxurious, there they Gormandize at large,
And all at the Licentious Cully's Charge;
Till drain'd both Purse and Chine he does retire,
And within three Days finds He's all on Fire:
The total, thus, of all Venereal Jobs
Begin in Whore, and Terminate in Hobs.
If he wou'd find the Nymph that caus'd his Moan,
He toils in vain,—the Bird of Night is flown:
Yet not this warning makes the Sot give o'er,
He must repeat the Dang'rous Bliss once more,
But still finds harder Usage than before.
A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the Street?
Shock, Mastiff, Mungrel, Spaniel Blithe and Gay
With Brandish'd Tails, and panting e'er their Prey,
Have You observ'd with what Obsequious Art
They make their Court? So Am'rous at the Heart,
The more their Mistress snarls the less inclin'd to part.
This is an Emblem of our Gall'ry Ware,
The Scene we may see Nightly Acted here
Not but we must give Dog and Bitch their due,
As much the Chaster Creatures of the two;
Their Season past they're cool;—'tis only here
The Commerce holds, Insatiate, all the Year.
About one Jilt a Hundred Apes shall move,
And which is strange, at once all Chatt'ring Love:
So loud the Din, that who the Play wou'd hear
Might be as well Inform'd at Home, as there.
At last they to the Rose direct their Way
(It's Staple Trade such Customers as they)
To end th'Intrigue agreed on at the Play.
Luxurious, there they Gormandize at large,
And all at the Licentious Cully's Charge;
Till drain'd both Purse and Chine he does retire,
And within three Days finds He's all on Fire:
The total, thus, of all Venereal Jobs
Begin in Whore, and Terminate in Hobs.
If he wou'd find the Nymph that caus'd his Moan,
He toils in vain,—the Bird of Night is flown:
Yet not this warning makes the Sot give o'er,
He must repeat the Dang'rous Bliss once more,
But still finds harder Usage than before.
Hence 'tis our Surgeons and our Quacks are grown
To make so great a Figure in the Town;
Heaping up large Estates by our Debauches;
Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches:
Their Consorts so Extravagantly Gay,
You in their Dress behold their Husband's Pay:
But backward look, you'll find it is the Stage
That makes these Locusts swarm upon the Age:
There 'tis the fruitful Bane is plough'd and till'd,
But these have all the Harvest of the Field.
There's many of 'em for their single Share,
Pocket, 'tis said, some Thousands ev'ry Year:
Nor is it strange in such a spreading Crime,
Where half the Town is Fluxing at a Time:
Wide as the Grave to take its Comers in,
Their Gates stand open for the Sons of Sin:
But then the Tales deliver'd out again,
Just as the Parson has his One in Ten:
And they so pale and Meagre, you'd swear
A Ghost were Weightier, tho they're nought but Air.
So craving too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown.
Live ye, or Die, they make the Cash their own.
Expensive Malady! where People give
More to be kill'd than many wou'd to live!
Some get Estates when others drop, but here
The very Dying does undo the Heir.
O that the custom were again Return'd,
That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burn'd
The Pestilential Vapours which the Sun
Sucks from the Ground, and thro' the Air are thrown,
Giving all Catching Plagues and Fevers Birth,
Are only Steams Exhal'd from Pocky Earth:
From whence this Town we may conclude accurst,
For here few Die but are half Rotten first.
To make so great a Figure in the Town;
230
Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches:
Their Consorts so Extravagantly Gay,
You in their Dress behold their Husband's Pay:
But backward look, you'll find it is the Stage
That makes these Locusts swarm upon the Age:
There 'tis the fruitful Bane is plough'd and till'd,
But these have all the Harvest of the Field.
There's many of 'em for their single Share,
Pocket, 'tis said, some Thousands ev'ry Year:
Nor is it strange in such a spreading Crime,
Where half the Town is Fluxing at a Time:
Wide as the Grave to take its Comers in,
Their Gates stand open for the Sons of Sin:
But then the Tales deliver'd out again,
Just as the Parson has his One in Ten:
And they so pale and Meagre, you'd swear
A Ghost were Weightier, tho they're nought but Air.
So craving too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown.
Live ye, or Die, they make the Cash their own.
Expensive Malady! where People give
More to be kill'd than many wou'd to live!
Some get Estates when others drop, but here
The very Dying does undo the Heir.
O that the custom were again Return'd,
That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burn'd
The Pestilential Vapours which the Sun
Sucks from the Ground, and thro' the Air are thrown,
Giving all Catching Plagues and Fevers Birth,
Are only Steams Exhal'd from Pocky Earth:
From whence this Town we may conclude accurst,
For here few Die but are half Rotten first.
Nor is this Middle Gall'ry only found
With Drabs of Common Trading to abound;
But, to the Eternal Scandal of their Race,
Her Honour often, and as oft her Grace
Sail hither, Mask'd and Muffl'd in Disguise;
And with pert Carriage and their smart Replies
Set all the Men agog, who strait agree
They must of course, be Punks of Quality;
So lead 'em off to give their Longings vent,
For 'tis presum'd they came for that Intent:
At least, if not for common Use, t'employ
Some Friend assign'd, and take their Swill of Joy.
How often, Cl---d, hast thou here been found
By a Lascivious Herd encompass'd round?
How often have you hence retir'd, and lain
A Leash of Stallions breathless on the Plain?
Then back return'd; another Leash enjoy'd;
Another after that, when those were cloy'd;
And so elsewhere, and here, has half your Life employ'd.
Till not a Drab appears in History,
So Shameless and Libidinous as Thee.
Scarce does an Ev'ning pass thro' all the Year,
But many of the highest Rank are here:
True, if discover'd, for a blind they'll say,
They only came to take a strict Survey
If Whores cou'd be so bad as some Report;—
And that they might as well have known at Court.
But they're but Flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail,
Since fed the higher 'tis the oftner frail.
With Drabs of Common Trading to abound;
231
Her Honour often, and as oft her Grace
Sail hither, Mask'd and Muffl'd in Disguise;
And with pert Carriage and their smart Replies
Set all the Men agog, who strait agree
They must of course, be Punks of Quality;
So lead 'em off to give their Longings vent,
For 'tis presum'd they came for that Intent:
At least, if not for common Use, t'employ
Some Friend assign'd, and take their Swill of Joy.
How often, Cl---d, hast thou here been found
By a Lascivious Herd encompass'd round?
How often have you hence retir'd, and lain
A Leash of Stallions breathless on the Plain?
Then back return'd; another Leash enjoy'd;
Another after that, when those were cloy'd;
And so elsewhere, and here, has half your Life employ'd.
Till not a Drab appears in History,
So Shameless and Libidinous as Thee.
Scarce does an Ev'ning pass thro' all the Year,
But many of the highest Rank are here:
True, if discover'd, for a blind they'll say,
They only came to take a strict Survey
If Whores cou'd be so bad as some Report;—
And that they might as well have known at Court.
But they're but Flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail,
Since fed the higher 'tis the oftner frail.
Withold, ye Citizens, Your Wives from hence,
If You'd Preserve their Fame and Innocence,
You else are sure to live in Cuckold's Row;
There is not yet one Precedent to show
Our Wives by coming here can Vertuous grow:
That Plays may make 'em Vitious, Truth assures;
Especially, so much Inclin'd as Yours.
The London Cuckolds they all Flock to see,
And Triumph in their Infidelity:
In vain Your Counsel;—Nothing can reclaim
A Wife that once has shaken Hands with Shame.
If e'er they take their Ply th'Adult'rous Way,
The Devil may as soon recant as they:
To sure Destruction wilfully they run;
In View of Hell, and yet go daring on.
If You'd Preserve their Fame and Innocence,
You else are sure to live in Cuckold's Row;
There is not yet one Precedent to show
Our Wives by coming here can Vertuous grow:
That Plays may make 'em Vitious, Truth assures;
Especially, so much Inclin'd as Yours.
232
And Triumph in their Infidelity:
In vain Your Counsel;—Nothing can reclaim
A Wife that once has shaken Hands with Shame.
If e'er they take their Ply th'Adult'rous Way,
The Devil may as soon recant as they:
To sure Destruction wilfully they run;
In View of Hell, and yet go daring on.
Choak't with the stench of Brimstone, 'twill be fit
To Visit next the Boxes and the Pit,
And for the Muse a Nobler Scene prepare,
And let Her breathe awhile in Milder Air.
But such a sudden Glare invades her Eyes,
So vast a Crowd of diffe'rent Vanities,
She knows where not to fix her Rancour first;
So very Wicked all, that all are worst!
Here painted Ladies, aiming at the Heart,
Their Graces Arm, and all their Charms exert:
Dress'd, one and all, with Nice Exactness there,
But Mobb'd like Dowdies at the House of Prayer.
How diffe'rent will the Scene at Night be shown!
When they restore to ev'ry Box it's Own,
When like themselves th'affrighting Things appear,
Divested of their Patches, Gemms and Hair:
This sight th'Obsequious Coxcombs shou'd attend;
Like a Death's Head 'twou'd warn 'em of their End:
But they, alas! for vainer things design'd,
Fix here their Hopes and Nothing Future Mind.
Between the Acts they to the Boxes throng,
With Whining Voices warbling each his Song:
Their Own, You may besure; for none but such
Can write what cou'd Delight that Sex so much.
Some few soft Lines (but such as well express
Their Wit is as much Borrow'd as their Dress)
Does set 'em up for Poets; all their Time
Supinely trifl'd off in Love and Rhime.
These are the Womens Men, their dear Delight;
For just as Ladies Chatter, Coxcombs write.
To Visit next the Boxes and the Pit,
And for the Muse a Nobler Scene prepare,
And let Her breathe awhile in Milder Air.
But such a sudden Glare invades her Eyes,
So vast a Crowd of diffe'rent Vanities,
She knows where not to fix her Rancour first;
So very Wicked all, that all are worst!
Here painted Ladies, aiming at the Heart,
Their Graces Arm, and all their Charms exert:
Dress'd, one and all, with Nice Exactness there,
But Mobb'd like Dowdies at the House of Prayer.
How diffe'rent will the Scene at Night be shown!
When they restore to ev'ry Box it's Own,
When like themselves th'affrighting Things appear,
Divested of their Patches, Gemms and Hair:
This sight th'Obsequious Coxcombs shou'd attend;
Like a Death's Head 'twou'd warn 'em of their End:
But they, alas! for vainer things design'd,
Fix here their Hopes and Nothing Future Mind.
Between the Acts they to the Boxes throng,
With Whining Voices warbling each his Song:
Their Own, You may besure; for none but such
Can write what cou'd Delight that Sex so much.
Some few soft Lines (but such as well express
Their Wit is as much Borrow'd as their Dress)
233
Supinely trifl'd off in Love and Rhime.
These are the Womens Men, their dear Delight;
For just as Ladies Chatter, Coxcombs write.
Not far from hence, another much distress'd,
At once makes Cupid and himself a Jest:
With a low Cringe, Her Vanity to Please,
He Drawls his Passion in such Terms as these.
At once makes Cupid and himself a Jest:
With a low Cringe, Her Vanity to Please,
He Drawls his Passion in such Terms as these.
MADAM! by Heav'n You have an Air so Fine,
It renders the least thing You do—Divine!
We dare not say You were Created here,
But dropt an ANGEL from th'ÆTHEREAL SPHERE!
Ten Thousand CUPIDS on Your FORE-HEAD Sit,
And shoot resistless Darts thro' all the PIT.
Before Your Feet, see! Your Adorers lie,
Live, if You Smile; and if You Frown, they die!
Ev'n I, Your true Predestinated Slave,
Rather than meet Your Hate wou'd meet my Grave:
Ah! Pity then, Bright Nymph the Wound You gave!
It renders the least thing You do—Divine!
We dare not say You were Created here,
But dropt an ANGEL from th'ÆTHEREAL SPHERE!
Ten Thousand CUPIDS on Your FORE-HEAD Sit,
And shoot resistless Darts thro' all the PIT.
Before Your Feet, see! Your Adorers lie,
Live, if You Smile; and if You Frown, they die!
Ev'n I, Your true Predestinated Slave,
Rather than meet Your Hate wou'd meet my Grave:
Ah! Pity then, Bright Nymph the Wound You gave!
Thus sighs the Sot, thus tells his Am'rous Tale,
And thinks his florid Nonsense must prevail;
Bows, and withdraws: And next to prove his Love,
Steals up, and Courts the Fulsome Punks above.
Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks
Big as Wreath'd Poets in the Front of Books;
Surveys the Pit with a Majestick Grace,
To see who falls a Victim to her Face;
Does in her Glass her self with Wonder view,
And fancies all the Coxcomb said was true.
Hence 'tis the Whiffling, Vain, Fantastick Chit
Is the Fair Ladies only Man of Wit.
With Servile Flatt'ry sleeking his Address,
Where e'er he goes, he's certain of Success.
Speak Truth to our fine Women, and you'll find,
Of all things, That the least can make 'em kind:
Nor can we blame 'em; for it calls 'em plain,
Deceitful, Idle, Foolish, Fond and Vain.
Wit in a Lover more than Death they fear;
For only Witty Men can tell what Trash they are.
But a pert, airy, empty, Noisy Ass,
In their Esteem does all his Sex Surpass:
Believ'd a Hero, tho' by Heav'n design'd
The Grin of Wit, and Scandal of his Kind.
Such Giddy Insects here for ever come,
And very little Dare, but much Presume:
Perpetually the Ladies Ears they ply,
And Whisper Slander at the Standers by:
Then laugh aloud; which now is grown a part
Of Play-house Breeding, and of Courtly Art.
The true Sign of Your Modish Beau Garson
Is Chatt'ring like a Ladies lewd Baboon,
Shewing their Teeth to charm some pretty Creature;
For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature.
Nor is this all; they are so oddly dress'd,
As if they'd sworn to be a standing Jest,
Ap'd into Men for Pastime to the Rest.
Observe 'em well, You'll think their Bodies made
T'attend the Empty Motions of the Head;
If that but wags the whole Machine does move,
From top to Toe devoted all to Love.
Their Whigs and Steinkirks to that height refin'd,
They dare not tempt their Enemy—the Wind;
Of the least slender puff each Sot affraid is,
It kills the Curls design'd to kill the Ladies.
So stiff they are, in all Parts ty'd so strait,
'Tis strange to me the Blood shou'd Circulate.
But leaving these Musk-Cats to publick Shame,
I'll turn my Head and seek out other Game.
And thinks his florid Nonsense must prevail;
Bows, and withdraws: And next to prove his Love,
Steals up, and Courts the Fulsome Punks above.
Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks
Big as Wreath'd Poets in the Front of Books;
Surveys the Pit with a Majestick Grace,
To see who falls a Victim to her Face;
Does in her Glass her self with Wonder view,
And fancies all the Coxcomb said was true.
Hence 'tis the Whiffling, Vain, Fantastick Chit
Is the Fair Ladies only Man of Wit.
With Servile Flatt'ry sleeking his Address,
Where e'er he goes, he's certain of Success.
234
Of all things, That the least can make 'em kind:
Nor can we blame 'em; for it calls 'em plain,
Deceitful, Idle, Foolish, Fond and Vain.
Wit in a Lover more than Death they fear;
For only Witty Men can tell what Trash they are.
But a pert, airy, empty, Noisy Ass,
In their Esteem does all his Sex Surpass:
Believ'd a Hero, tho' by Heav'n design'd
The Grin of Wit, and Scandal of his Kind.
Such Giddy Insects here for ever come,
And very little Dare, but much Presume:
Perpetually the Ladies Ears they ply,
And Whisper Slander at the Standers by:
Then laugh aloud; which now is grown a part
Of Play-house Breeding, and of Courtly Art.
The true Sign of Your Modish Beau Garson
Is Chatt'ring like a Ladies lewd Baboon,
Shewing their Teeth to charm some pretty Creature;
For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature.
Nor is this all; they are so oddly dress'd,
As if they'd sworn to be a standing Jest,
Ap'd into Men for Pastime to the Rest.
Observe 'em well, You'll think their Bodies made
T'attend the Empty Motions of the Head;
If that but wags the whole Machine does move,
From top to Toe devoted all to Love.
Their Whigs and Steinkirks to that height refin'd,
They dare not tempt their Enemy—the Wind;
Of the least slender puff each Sot affraid is,
It kills the Curls design'd to kill the Ladies.
So stiff they are, in all Parts ty'd so strait,
'Tis strange to me the Blood shou'd Circulate.
But leaving these Musk-Cats to publick Shame,
I'll turn my Head and seek out other Game.
235
In the Side-Box Moll Hinton You may see,
Or Howard Moll, much wickeder than she;
That is their Throne; for there they best Survey
All the Young Fops that flutter to the Play.
So known, so Courted, in an Hour, or less,
You'll see a Hundred making their Address;
Bow, Cringe and Leer, as supple Poets do,
The Patron's Guineas shining in their View:
While they, Promiscuous, let their Favours fall,
And give the same Incouragement to all.
Harlots of all things shou'd be most abhorr'd,
And in the Play-house nothing's more ador'd:
In that lewd Mart the rankest Trash goes off,
Tho' rotten to the Core, and Death to Cough;
Tho' Ulcers on their Lungs as thick take Place
As Firey Pimples on a Drunkards Face.
Or Howard Moll, much wickeder than she;
That is their Throne; for there they best Survey
All the Young Fops that flutter to the Play.
So known, so Courted, in an Hour, or less,
You'll see a Hundred making their Address;
Bow, Cringe and Leer, as supple Poets do,
The Patron's Guineas shining in their View:
While they, Promiscuous, let their Favours fall,
And give the same Incouragement to all.
Harlots of all things shou'd be most abhorr'd,
And in the Play-house nothing's more ador'd:
In that lewd Mart the rankest Trash goes off,
Tho' rotten to the Core, and Death to Cough;
Tho' Ulcers on their Lungs as thick take Place
As Firey Pimples on a Drunkards Face.
Discharg'd of these, observe another way
The Fops in Scarlet swearing at the Play:
Nor yet unduly they themselves acquit,
For Fustian on the Stage, too, goes for Wit.
A Harmless Jest, or Accidental Blow,
Spilling their Snuff, or touching but the Toe,
With many other things too small to name,
Does blow these Sparks of Honour to a Flame:
For such vile Trifles, or some Viler Drab,
'Tis in an Instant Damn me, and a Stab.
No mild Perswasion can these Brutes reclaim;
'Tis thus to Night, to Morrow 'tis the same.
What a long List might Justice here Produce
Of Blood, of Fighting, Banning and Abuse?
What Weekly Bill, for Number, can compare
To those that have been basely Butcher'd here,
Within the Compass but of Twenty Year?
One Actress has at least, to name no more,
Been her own self the Slaughter of a Score.
Murder's so Rife, with like Concern we hear
Of a Man kill'd, as Baiting of a Bear.
All People now, the Place is grown so ill,
Before they see a Play shou'd make their Will:
For with much more Security, a Man
Might take a three Years Voyage to Japan.
The Fops in Scarlet swearing at the Play:
Nor yet unduly they themselves acquit,
For Fustian on the Stage, too, goes for Wit.
A Harmless Jest, or Accidental Blow,
Spilling their Snuff, or touching but the Toe,
With many other things too small to name,
Does blow these Sparks of Honour to a Flame:
For such vile Trifles, or some Viler Drab,
'Tis in an Instant Damn me, and a Stab.
No mild Perswasion can these Brutes reclaim;
'Tis thus to Night, to Morrow 'tis the same.
What a long List might Justice here Produce
Of Blood, of Fighting, Banning and Abuse?
What Weekly Bill, for Number, can compare
To those that have been basely Butcher'd here,
Within the Compass but of Twenty Year?
One Actress has at least, to name no more,
Been her own self the Slaughter of a Score.
236
Of a Man kill'd, as Baiting of a Bear.
All People now, the Place is grown so ill,
Before they see a Play shou'd make their Will:
For with much more Security, a Man
Might take a three Years Voyage to Japan.
Here others, who no doubt believe they're Witty,
Are hot at Repartee with Orange Betty:
Who, tho' not blest with half a Grain of Sense
To Leven her whole Lump of Impudence,
Aided by that, perpetually's too hard
For the vain Fops, and beats 'em from their Guard:
When fearing the Observing few may carp,
They laughing cry, egad the Jade was Sharp:
Who'd think with Banter she shou'd Us outdo?
Nay more, be found the better Punster too?
When, without Boasting we may safely Swear
We thought w'ad gain'd the Height of what these Arts cou'd bear.
Yet these true Owphs wou'd think it an Offence
More than all Human Wit cou'd Recompence,
Not to be rank't among the Men of Sense.
Were selfish Coxcombs truely what they thought,
They'd first be Gods, and next with Incense sought.
But 'tis a Truth, fixt in Apollo's Rules,
Your Wou'd-be-Wits are but the Van of Fools;
The very same that we in Armies find;
The Apes in Office worse than all behind:
Who tho' they fiercely look and loudly roar,
A Game Cock's Feather wou'd outweigh a score.
Are hot at Repartee with Orange Betty:
Who, tho' not blest with half a Grain of Sense
To Leven her whole Lump of Impudence,
Aided by that, perpetually's too hard
For the vain Fops, and beats 'em from their Guard:
When fearing the Observing few may carp,
They laughing cry, egad the Jade was Sharp:
Who'd think with Banter she shou'd Us outdo?
Nay more, be found the better Punster too?
When, without Boasting we may safely Swear
We thought w'ad gain'd the Height of what these Arts cou'd bear.
Yet these true Owphs wou'd think it an Offence
More than all Human Wit cou'd Recompence,
Not to be rank't among the Men of Sense.
Were selfish Coxcombs truely what they thought,
They'd first be Gods, and next with Incense sought.
But 'tis a Truth, fixt in Apollo's Rules,
Your Wou'd-be-Wits are but the Van of Fools;
The very same that we in Armies find;
The Apes in Office worse than all behind:
Who tho' they fiercely look and loudly roar,
A Game Cock's Feather wou'd outweigh a score.
Another Set together whispering run,
Where they may best Debauch when Farce is done:
Th'Agreement made, out Pander'us whips before
To bespeak Musick, Supper, Wine and Whore:
There they till Midnight Soak, and Cram and Drench,
The Bumper now in Use, and now the Wench.
Top-full at last, away they Scow'ring run,
And leave no Mischief in their Pow'r undone.
The Cries of Martyr'd Watchmen now You'll hear,
As soon, Demolish'd Windows clattering there.
Whose ever Fate it is to walk the Street,
And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet,
They must avoid, or else be sure to feel
Deep in their Lungs some Villains fatal Steel;
Villain, I say, that for a Cause so small
As not t'Uncap, or reeling to the Wall,
And yet much oftner for no Cause at all,
Shall those poor Innocents of Life disarm,
That neither Spoke, Design'd, or wish'd 'em harm.
Like any Hero these will Foam and Fight,
When they're urg'd on by Strumpet or by Spite;
But if their King and Country claim their Aid,
As none cou'd threaten more, there's none so much afraid.
Not One will move, not one his Prowess show,
But stand stock still, when Honour bids 'em go.
Where they may best Debauch when Farce is done:
Th'Agreement made, out Pander'us whips before
To bespeak Musick, Supper, Wine and Whore:
237
The Bumper now in Use, and now the Wench.
Top-full at last, away they Scow'ring run,
And leave no Mischief in their Pow'r undone.
The Cries of Martyr'd Watchmen now You'll hear,
As soon, Demolish'd Windows clattering there.
Whose ever Fate it is to walk the Street,
And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet,
They must avoid, or else be sure to feel
Deep in their Lungs some Villains fatal Steel;
Villain, I say, that for a Cause so small
As not t'Uncap, or reeling to the Wall,
And yet much oftner for no Cause at all,
Shall those poor Innocents of Life disarm,
That neither Spoke, Design'd, or wish'd 'em harm.
Like any Hero these will Foam and Fight,
When they're urg'd on by Strumpet or by Spite;
But if their King and Country claim their Aid,
As none cou'd threaten more, there's none so much afraid.
Not One will move, not one his Prowess show,
But stand stock still, when Honour bids 'em go.
A Hundred Others, had they but their due,
Of such as these, we shou'd expose to view;
But, with what's past, too feelingly perplext,
We'll shew the Crimes of Plays and Players next.
Of such as these, we shou'd expose to view;
But, with what's past, too feelingly perplext,
We'll shew the Crimes of Plays and Players next.
238
2. The Second Part.
No longer in the Streets, my Muse, appear,
But back, a Fury, to the Play-house steer;
We have not yet, done half our Bus'ness there.
A Thousand Crimes, already, we've expos'd,
A Thousand more remain, not yet disclos'd.
On boldly then, nor fear to miss your Aim;
Don't want for Rage, and we can't want for Theme.
But back, a Fury, to the Play-house steer;
We have not yet, done half our Bus'ness there.
A Thousand Crimes, already, we've expos'd,
A Thousand more remain, not yet disclos'd.
On boldly then, nor fear to miss your Aim;
Don't want for Rage, and we can't want for Theme.
Here a Cabal of Criticks you may see,
Discoursing of Dramatick Poesie.
While one, and he the wittiest of the Gang,
(By whom you'll guess how fit they're all to hang)
Shall entertain you with this learn'd Harangue.
Discoursing of Dramatick Poesie.
While one, and he the wittiest of the Gang,
(By whom you'll guess how fit they're all to hang)
Shall entertain you with this learn'd Harangue.
They talk of Ancient Plays, that they are such,
So Good, they ne'er can be admir'd too much:
'Tis all an Error.—In our present Days,
I grant, we've many claim Immortal Praise.
The Cheats of Scapin, One; A Noble Thing;
What a throng'd Audience does it always bring!
The Emp'rour of the Moon, 'twill never tire;
The same Fate has the fam'd Alsatian Squire.
Not Jevon's Learned Piece has more Pretence
Than these, to Fancy, Language and Good Sense.
And here, my Friends, I'd have it understood
The Age is nice; what pleases must be Good.
Again, for Instance, that clean Piece of Wit
The City Heiress, by chast Sappho Writ:
Where the Lewd Widow comes, with Brazen Face,
Just reeking from a Stallion's rank Embrace
T'acquaint the Audience with her Filthy Case.
Where can you find a Scene for juster Praise,
In Shakespear, Johnson, or in Fletcher's Plays?
The Modest Poet always will be Dull;
For what is Desdemona but a Fool?
Our Plays shall tell you, if the Husband's ill,
The more the Wife may prosecute her Will.
If jealous, they must date Revenge from thence,
And make 'em Cuckolds, in their own Defence.
A Hundred others we might quickly name,
Where the Success and the Design's the same;
Writ purposely th'Unwary to entice,
Enervate Goodness, and encourage Vice:
And that the Suffrage of both Sexes wins:
But see! The Curtains rise, the Play begins.
So Good, they ne'er can be admir'd too much:
'Tis all an Error.—In our present Days,
I grant, we've many claim Immortal Praise.
The Cheats of Scapin, One; A Noble Thing;
What a throng'd Audience does it always bring!
The Emp'rour of the Moon, 'twill never tire;
The same Fate has the fam'd Alsatian Squire.
Not Jevon's Learned Piece has more Pretence
Than these, to Fancy, Language and Good Sense.
And here, my Friends, I'd have it understood
The Age is nice; what pleases must be Good.
239
The City Heiress, by chast Sappho Writ:
Where the Lewd Widow comes, with Brazen Face,
Just reeking from a Stallion's rank Embrace
T'acquaint the Audience with her Filthy Case.
Where can you find a Scene for juster Praise,
In Shakespear, Johnson, or in Fletcher's Plays?
The Modest Poet always will be Dull;
For what is Desdemona but a Fool?
Our Plays shall tell you, if the Husband's ill,
The more the Wife may prosecute her Will.
If jealous, they must date Revenge from thence,
And make 'em Cuckolds, in their own Defence.
A Hundred others we might quickly name,
Where the Success and the Design's the same;
Writ purposely th'Unwary to entice,
Enervate Goodness, and encourage Vice:
And that the Suffrage of both Sexes wins:
But see! The Curtains rise, the Play begins.
Thus holds the Ideot forth;—the other Sparks
Applaud, and hug him for his Wise Remarks;
Swear that such things must ev'ry Humour fit,
And Universally be Clap'd for Wit;
But most the Ladies please; who here are taught
That Truth's a Sham and Lewdness not a Fau't;
That Wit, is Infamy on Worth to fix;
And an Unblemish'd Fame, a Coach and Six.
But let the Flatt'rer feed their Endless Pride,
And, if he please, all their Desires beside;
Here let 'em with their Utmost Lustre Shine,
Believ'd by Coxcombs and themselves Divine;
To those that clearly see, and rightly know,
'Tis all Destructive Glare, and hideous show:
The true Renown which all the rest Exceeds,
Is that which is Deriv'd from Vert'ous Deeds.
Applaud, and hug him for his Wise Remarks;
Swear that such things must ev'ry Humour fit,
And Universally be Clap'd for Wit;
But most the Ladies please; who here are taught
That Truth's a Sham and Lewdness not a Fau't;
That Wit, is Infamy on Worth to fix;
And an Unblemish'd Fame, a Coach and Six.
But let the Flatt'rer feed their Endless Pride,
And, if he please, all their Desires beside;
Here let 'em with their Utmost Lustre Shine,
Believ'd by Coxcombs and themselves Divine;
To those that clearly see, and rightly know,
'Tis all Destructive Glare, and hideous show:
The true Renown which all the rest Exceeds,
Is that which is Deriv'd from Vert'ous Deeds.
240
What a fine Set of Criticks all the while
Are these? and what the Audience that can smile
At things so mean, Ridiculous and Vile?
Farce has of late almost o'erwhelm'd the Stage;
But foolish Writers suit a foolish Age:
Our topping Authors oft descend so low,
That Hains and Ho---rd pass for Poets too!
How can Instruction from their Works proceed
Whom 'tis a Mortal Breach of Wit to read?
Not but we grant they yet Admirers gain—
But such as have the Rickets in the Brain;
A weakly Race who only Judge by Rote,
And have no Sense to tast a Beauteous Thought:
Thus heavy Fops the heaviest Authors prize:—
But at the Theatre the fair Disguise
Deceives the Brave, the Witty and the Wise:
Struck with the Presence of so bright a Show,
They like the Punk, tho' they despise the Beau.
'Tis hard for Youth and Beauty to escape
Destruction, dress'd in such a pleasing shape:
It gilds their Ruin with a specious Baite,
Too quckly Swallow'd and observ'd too late;
Too late their Perish'd Vertue to recall—
There is no rising from so sad a Fall!
Their Fate the worst the more they have of Sense,
For Wit does deepliest Rue the loss of Innocence.
Are these? and what the Audience that can smile
At things so mean, Ridiculous and Vile?
Farce has of late almost o'erwhelm'd the Stage;
But foolish Writers suit a foolish Age:
Our topping Authors oft descend so low,
That Hains and Ho---rd pass for Poets too!
How can Instruction from their Works proceed
Whom 'tis a Mortal Breach of Wit to read?
Not but we grant they yet Admirers gain—
But such as have the Rickets in the Brain;
A weakly Race who only Judge by Rote,
And have no Sense to tast a Beauteous Thought:
Thus heavy Fops the heaviest Authors prize:—
But at the Theatre the fair Disguise
Deceives the Brave, the Witty and the Wise:
Struck with the Presence of so bright a Show,
They like the Punk, tho' they despise the Beau.
'Tis hard for Youth and Beauty to escape
Destruction, dress'd in such a pleasing shape:
It gilds their Ruin with a specious Baite,
Too quckly Swallow'd and observ'd too late;
Too late their Perish'd Vertue to recall—
There is no rising from so sad a Fall!
Their Fate the worst the more they have of Sense,
For Wit does deepliest Rue the loss of Innocence.
Nor only Farce; our Plays alike are Writ
With neither Manners, Modesty, or Wit,
Rais'd with their Authors, to the last Excess
Of Irreligion, Smut and Beastliness.
Not that I'd have You think I'm so severe
To damn all Plays; that wou'd absurd appear:
Beside, of Writers, some adorn the Stage,
And Southern is the Credit of his Age:
In short, I court the Good, and loath the Ill,
Let the Presuming Bard be who he will.
Tho' a Lord Write, I'll not at Random Praise,
Or flatter Dr---n tho' he wear the Bays:
Or court fair Sappho in her Wanton fit,
When she'd put Luscious Bawdry off for Wit:
Or pity B---ks in Tatters, when I know
'Twas his bad Poetry that Cloath'd him so:
Or Commend Durf---y to Indulge his Curse;
Fond to write on, yet Scribble worse and worse:
Or Cr---n for blaming Coxcombs, when I see
Sir Courtly's not a vainer Fop than He:
Or think that Ra---ft for Wise can pass,
When Mother Dobson says he is an Ass;
That damn'd, ridiculous, insipid Farce!
Or write a Panegyrick to the Fame
Of Sh---d---l, or of Starving Set---'s Name,
Who have abus'd, unpardonable things,
The best of Governments, and best of Kings.
But Thee, my Otway, from the Grave I'll raise,
And crown thy Mem'ry with Immortal Praise;
At least, Sweet Bard, it shou'd Immortal be,
If I cou'd reach the Clouds, and Charm the Ear like thee!
Thy Orphan and Venetian Piece Sublime
Shall ever stand, and dare the Teeth of Time.
Th'Ammonian Youth and Mithridates, LEE
In spite of thy Unhappy Lunacy,
Shall yield another Deathless Name to thee.
But honest Truth obliges me to tell,
Your other Tragick Plays are not so well;
Not with that ease and that Exactness writ,
With less of Nature too;—and Nature here is Wit:
Not but they may assume a decent Pride
To vye ev'n with our Noblest Plays beside.
The Name of Etheridge next renown'd we see
For easy Stile, and Wit in Comedy,
Tho' not so strong as that of Wycherley:
His Play of Manly (ne'er to be out-writ)
A Prodigy of Satyr, Sense and Wit!
In all the Characters so just and true,
It will be ever fam'd, and ever New!
And justly with the rest our Laureat claims
To take his Place among Immortal Names:
For Oedipus (tho' Sophocles and Lee
Share something of the Praise, but not so much as He)
Our Fear and Pity does advance as high
As ever yet was done in Tragedy.
His All for Love, and most Correct of all,
Of just and vast Applause can never fail,
Never! but when his Limberham I name
I hide my head and blush with Friendly shame,
To think the Author of both these the same:
So thick the Smut is spread in ev'ry Page,
'Twas Actually the Brothel of the Stage.
If (as some Criticks fancy) Witty 'tis,
It shou'd be fluxt for the Obscene Disease:
For as the Pox to ev'ry Part does go,
So that's with Lewdness tainted thro' and thro'.
Not but sometimes He to the Clouds does rise,
And sails at pleasure thro' the Boundless Skies:
Born up on Indefatigable Wings,
He greatly thinks and as Divinely Sings.—
But then his Plays in Rhime (with all their Rules)
Only chime in the Women, and their Fools,
Who see with Joy their Favourite Ebb and Flow,
Now above Reason, and as soon below:
This part they Great, and that they Tender call;
When first to last 'tis, oft, Unnatural all.
His Hero, too, outdoes all Homer's Gods;
For 'tis a turn of State when e'er he Nodds.
Thus tho' in Time and Place they boast their Skill,
For Five good Poets there's Five Hundred Ill.
Fly then the reading Plays so vain as these;
Such Jingling Authors nor Instruct, nor Please.
With neither Manners, Modesty, or Wit,
Rais'd with their Authors, to the last Excess
Of Irreligion, Smut and Beastliness.
Not that I'd have You think I'm so severe
To damn all Plays; that wou'd absurd appear:
Beside, of Writers, some adorn the Stage,
And Southern is the Credit of his Age:
241
Let the Presuming Bard be who he will.
Tho' a Lord Write, I'll not at Random Praise,
Or flatter Dr---n tho' he wear the Bays:
Or court fair Sappho in her Wanton fit,
When she'd put Luscious Bawdry off for Wit:
Or pity B---ks in Tatters, when I know
'Twas his bad Poetry that Cloath'd him so:
Or Commend Durf---y to Indulge his Curse;
Fond to write on, yet Scribble worse and worse:
Or Cr---n for blaming Coxcombs, when I see
Sir Courtly's not a vainer Fop than He:
Or think that Ra---ft for Wise can pass,
When Mother Dobson says he is an Ass;
That damn'd, ridiculous, insipid Farce!
Or write a Panegyrick to the Fame
Of Sh---d---l, or of Starving Set---'s Name,
Who have abus'd, unpardonable things,
The best of Governments, and best of Kings.
But Thee, my Otway, from the Grave I'll raise,
And crown thy Mem'ry with Immortal Praise;
At least, Sweet Bard, it shou'd Immortal be,
If I cou'd reach the Clouds, and Charm the Ear like thee!
Thy Orphan and Venetian Piece Sublime
Shall ever stand, and dare the Teeth of Time.
Th'Ammonian Youth and Mithridates, LEE
In spite of thy Unhappy Lunacy,
Shall yield another Deathless Name to thee.
But honest Truth obliges me to tell,
Your other Tragick Plays are not so well;
Not with that ease and that Exactness writ,
With less of Nature too;—and Nature here is Wit:
Not but they may assume a decent Pride
To vye ev'n with our Noblest Plays beside.
242
For easy Stile, and Wit in Comedy,
Tho' not so strong as that of Wycherley:
His Play of Manly (ne'er to be out-writ)
A Prodigy of Satyr, Sense and Wit!
In all the Characters so just and true,
It will be ever fam'd, and ever New!
And justly with the rest our Laureat claims
To take his Place among Immortal Names:
For Oedipus (tho' Sophocles and Lee
Share something of the Praise, but not so much as He)
Our Fear and Pity does advance as high
As ever yet was done in Tragedy.
His All for Love, and most Correct of all,
Of just and vast Applause can never fail,
Never! but when his Limberham I name
I hide my head and blush with Friendly shame,
To think the Author of both these the same:
So thick the Smut is spread in ev'ry Page,
'Twas Actually the Brothel of the Stage.
If (as some Criticks fancy) Witty 'tis,
It shou'd be fluxt for the Obscene Disease:
For as the Pox to ev'ry Part does go,
So that's with Lewdness tainted thro' and thro'.
Not but sometimes He to the Clouds does rise,
And sails at pleasure thro' the Boundless Skies:
Born up on Indefatigable Wings,
He greatly thinks and as Divinely Sings.—
But then his Plays in Rhime (with all their Rules)
Only chime in the Women, and their Fools,
Who see with Joy their Favourite Ebb and Flow,
Now above Reason, and as soon below:
This part they Great, and that they Tender call;
When first to last 'tis, oft, Unnatural all.
243
For 'tis a turn of State when e'er he Nodds.
Thus tho' in Time and Place they boast their Skill,
For Five good Poets there's Five Hundred Ill.
Fly then the reading Plays so vain as these;
Such Jingling Authors nor Instruct, nor Please.
But if with Profit you wou'd reap Delight,
Lay Shakespear, Ben, and Fletcher in Your sight:
Where Human Actions are with Life express'd,
Vertue advanc'd, and Vice as much depress'd.
There the kind Lovers with such Zeal complain,
You in their Eyes behold their inmost Pain,
And pray such Truth may not be Plac'd in vain.
There Natures secret Springs may all be view'd,
And, when she doubles, how to be pursu'd.
There Art, in all her subtle Shifts display'd,
There ev'ry Humour You may see pourtray'd,
From Legislative Fops down to the Slaves of Trade.
There all the Passions, weak, you'll first espy,
Hate, Envy, Fear, Revenge and Jealousy;
And by what Fewel fed to flame at last so high.
While Wit attending You'll for ever see,
Faithful amidst this vast Variety;
Like Proteus, but affording Nobler Game,
She ev'ry Shape assumes, and yet Remains the same.
In short, none ever Wrote or will again
So useful things in such a Heav'nly strain!
Lay Shakespear, Ben, and Fletcher in Your sight:
Where Human Actions are with Life express'd,
Vertue advanc'd, and Vice as much depress'd.
There the kind Lovers with such Zeal complain,
You in their Eyes behold their inmost Pain,
And pray such Truth may not be Plac'd in vain.
There Natures secret Springs may all be view'd,
And, when she doubles, how to be pursu'd.
There Art, in all her subtle Shifts display'd,
There ev'ry Humour You may see pourtray'd,
From Legislative Fops down to the Slaves of Trade.
There all the Passions, weak, you'll first espy,
Hate, Envy, Fear, Revenge and Jealousy;
And by what Fewel fed to flame at last so high.
While Wit attending You'll for ever see,
Faithful amidst this vast Variety;
Like Proteus, but affording Nobler Game,
She ev'ry Shape assumes, and yet Remains the same.
In short, none ever Wrote or will again
So useful things in such a Heav'nly strain!
When e'er I Hamlet or Othello read,
My Hair starts up, and my Nerves shrink with dread!
Pity and Terrour raise my Wonder high'r,
'Till betwixt both I'm ready to expire!
When curs'd Iago cruelly I see
Work up the Noble Moor to Jealousy,
How cunningly the Villain weaves his Sin,
And how the other takes the Poison in;
Or when I hear his Godlike Romans rage,
And by what just degrees He does Asswage
Their Angry Mood, and by a Secret Art
Return the mutual Union back to either Heart;
When these and other such like Scenes I scan,
'Tis then, Great Soul, I think thee more than Man!
Homer was Blind, yet cou'd all Nature see;
THOU wert unlearn'd, yet knew as much as He!
In Timon, Lear, the Tempest, we may find
Vast Images of thy Unbounded Mind:
These have been alter'd by our Poets now,
And with Success, too, that we must allow:
Third Days they get when Part of THEE is shown,
Which they but Seldom do when All's their own.
My Hair starts up, and my Nerves shrink with dread!
Pity and Terrour raise my Wonder high'r,
'Till betwixt both I'm ready to expire!
When curs'd Iago cruelly I see
Work up the Noble Moor to Jealousy,
244
And how the other takes the Poison in;
Or when I hear his Godlike Romans rage,
And by what just degrees He does Asswage
Their Angry Mood, and by a Secret Art
Return the mutual Union back to either Heart;
When these and other such like Scenes I scan,
'Tis then, Great Soul, I think thee more than Man!
Homer was Blind, yet cou'd all Nature see;
THOU wert unlearn'd, yet knew as much as He!
In Timon, Lear, the Tempest, we may find
Vast Images of thy Unbounded Mind:
These have been alter'd by our Poets now,
And with Success, too, that we must allow:
Third Days they get when Part of THEE is shown,
Which they but Seldom do when All's their own.
Nor shall Philaster, The Maids Tragedy,
Thy King and no King, Fletcher, ever dye,
But reach, with like Applause, to late Posterity.
'Tis true, they're Censur'd by a Modern Wit;
But he shou'd not have blam'd, or not have Writ:
For after all his Scandal on 'em thrown,
'Tis certain they're Superiour to his Own.
We grant he has the Languages at Will;
But some have Blessings, and they use 'em ill:
The Usurer's Poor in spite of all his Pence,
And so your Linguists may be lean of Sense.
Let then this Maxim never be forgot,
An Arrant Scholar is an Arrant Sot.
Thy King and no King, Fletcher, ever dye,
But reach, with like Applause, to late Posterity.
'Tis true, they're Censur'd by a Modern Wit;
But he shou'd not have blam'd, or not have Writ:
For after all his Scandal on 'em thrown,
'Tis certain they're Superiour to his Own.
We grant he has the Languages at Will;
But some have Blessings, and they use 'em ill:
The Usurer's Poor in spite of all his Pence,
And so your Linguists may be lean of Sense.
Let then this Maxim never be forgot,
An Arrant Scholar is an Arrant Sot.
Thee, Mighty Ben, we ever shall affect,
Thee ever Mention with profound Respect,
Thou most Judicious Poet! most Correct!
I know not on what single Piece to fall,
Sublimely Writ, and admirable all.
Yet we must give Thee but thy just Desert;
Y'ad less of Nature, tho' much more of Art:
The Springs that move our Souls thou did'st not touch:
But then thy Judgement, Care and Pains were such,
We never yet did any Author see
(Nor shall, perhaps, thro' all Futurity)
That wrote so many Perfect Plays as Thee.
Not one vain Humour thy strict view escapes,
Or Folly, in their Thousand Various shapes:
The Lines You drew did ev'ry Blemish hit,
Your Dresses ev'ry Knave and Coxcomb fit;
So vast the unbounded Ward-robe of Your WIT!
Thee ever Mention with profound Respect,
Thou most Judicious Poet! most Correct!
I know not on what single Piece to fall,
Sublimely Writ, and admirable all.
245
Y'ad less of Nature, tho' much more of Art:
The Springs that move our Souls thou did'st not touch:
But then thy Judgement, Care and Pains were such,
We never yet did any Author see
(Nor shall, perhaps, thro' all Futurity)
That wrote so many Perfect Plays as Thee.
Not one vain Humour thy strict view escapes,
Or Folly, in their Thousand Various shapes:
The Lines You drew did ev'ry Blemish hit,
Your Dresses ev'ry Knave and Coxcomb fit;
So vast the unbounded Ward-robe of Your WIT!
Hail Sacred Bards! Hail ye Immortal Three!
The British Muses Great Triumviri!
Secure of Fame, You on the Stage will live
Whilst we have Wits to hear, and they have Praise to give.
'Tis some where said our Courtiers speak more Wit
In Conversation than these Poets Writ:
Unjust Detraction! like it's Author, base;
And it shall here stand Branded with Disgrace.
Not but they had their Failings too;—but then
They were such Faults as only spoke 'em Men;
Errors which Human Frailty must admit,
The Wanton Rovings of Luxurious Wit.
To the Judicious plainly it appears,
Their Slips were more the Ages Fault than theirs:
Scarce had they ever struck upon the Shelves,
If not oblig'd to stoop beneath themselves:
Where Fletcher's loose, 'twas Writ to serve the Stage;
And Shakespear play'd with Words to please a Quibbling Age.
The British Muses Great Triumviri!
Secure of Fame, You on the Stage will live
Whilst we have Wits to hear, and they have Praise to give.
'Tis some where said our Courtiers speak more Wit
In Conversation than these Poets Writ:
Unjust Detraction! like it's Author, base;
And it shall here stand Branded with Disgrace.
Not but they had their Failings too;—but then
They were such Faults as only spoke 'em Men;
Errors which Human Frailty must admit,
The Wanton Rovings of Luxurious Wit.
To the Judicious plainly it appears,
Their Slips were more the Ages Fault than theirs:
Scarce had they ever struck upon the Shelves,
If not oblig'd to stoop beneath themselves:
Where Fletcher's loose, 'twas Writ to serve the Stage;
And Shakespear play'd with Words to please a Quibbling Age.
If Plays you love let these Your thoughts employ;
When Wit is read by Wit 'twill never cloy,
No other Poets so sublimely tell
The useful, happy Art of Living Well:
All strew'd with Morals, thick in ev'ry Page
Alike Instructive both to Youth and Age.
'Tis certain on a Mistress and a Friend
The chiefest Blessings of our Lives depend;
And by their Draughts we may exactly find
If that be Faithful, or if this be kind.
There You may breath the Air of ev'ry Clime
And make Remarks on Custom, Place and Time.
Thro' ev'ry Stage of Life You there may View
What Ills t'avoid, what Vertues to pursue;
And so with Pleasure reap Advantage too.
Unlike the Authors that have lately writ,
Who in their Plays such Characters admit,
So Lewd and Impious, they shou'd Punish'd be
Almost as much as Oates for Perjury:
With equal Scandal both supply the Age;
He has disgrac'd the Gown, and they the Stage.
When Wit is read by Wit 'twill never cloy,
246
The useful, happy Art of Living Well:
All strew'd with Morals, thick in ev'ry Page
Alike Instructive both to Youth and Age.
'Tis certain on a Mistress and a Friend
The chiefest Blessings of our Lives depend;
And by their Draughts we may exactly find
If that be Faithful, or if this be kind.
There You may breath the Air of ev'ry Clime
And make Remarks on Custom, Place and Time.
Thro' ev'ry Stage of Life You there may View
What Ills t'avoid, what Vertues to pursue;
And so with Pleasure reap Advantage too.
Unlike the Authors that have lately writ,
Who in their Plays such Characters admit,
So Lewd and Impious, they shou'd Punish'd be
Almost as much as Oates for Perjury:
With equal Scandal both supply the Age;
He has disgrac'd the Gown, and they the Stage.
Think, Ye vain Scribling Tribe, of Shirley's Fate,
You that Write Farce, and You that Farce Translate;
Shirley! the Scandal of the Ancient Stage,
Shirley! the very Drf---y of his Age:
Think how he lies in Duck-lane Shops forlorn,
And never mention'd but with utmost Scorn.
Think that the End of all your boasted Skill,
As I presume to Prophesy it will,
Justly—for many of You Write as ill.
Change then Your Bias and Write Satyr all;
Convert the little Wit You have to Gall.
Care not to what a Bulk Your Labours swell;
The Fame in which the Happy Few excell
Lies not in Writing Much, but Writing Well.
This Point obtain'd, attack the Impious Stage,
Which You have made the Nusance of the Age;
Nor fear but in th'Attempt Applause You'll get;
Their Cause is Infamy, and ours is Wit.
Lash the Lewd Actors—but first stop Your Nose
The Stench is strong; and much wou'd discompose
All but Your Selves—almost as bad as those.
This Thought shou'd raise You to th'Extremest Pitch.
Their Laughing at the Want that makes 'em Rich:
Not more You Labour to increase their Store,
Than they, Inhumanly, to keep You Poor;
Making You dance Attendance, Cap in Hand,
That once, like Spaniels, were at Your Command;
Wou'd cringe and fawn, and who so kind as They?
Exalted with the Promise of Your Play.
But since Hart dy'd, and the two Houses join'd,
What get ye? what Incouragment d'ye find?
Yet still You Write, and Sacrifice your Ease,
And for no other Gain—but what they please;
Expell'd the House, unless you give 'em way
To bilk You of Two Thirds in ev'ry Play.
Let nothing then Your sense of Wrong asswage;
The Muses Foes shou'd feel the Muses Rage:
But then be just to Truth; for only that
Is what th'Impartial Satyr levels at:
Go not beyond; all base Aspersion shun;
Let Justice and not Malice lead You on.
To please, for once I'll give You an Essay,
And in so good a Cause am proud to lead the Way.
You that Write Farce, and You that Farce Translate;
Shirley! the Scandal of the Ancient Stage,
Shirley! the very Drf---y of his Age:
Think how he lies in Duck-lane Shops forlorn,
And never mention'd but with utmost Scorn.
Think that the End of all your boasted Skill,
As I presume to Prophesy it will,
Justly—for many of You Write as ill.
Change then Your Bias and Write Satyr all;
Convert the little Wit You have to Gall.
Care not to what a Bulk Your Labours swell;
The Fame in which the Happy Few excell
Lies not in Writing Much, but Writing Well.
This Point obtain'd, attack the Impious Stage,
Which You have made the Nusance of the Age;
247
Their Cause is Infamy, and ours is Wit.
Lash the Lewd Actors—but first stop Your Nose
The Stench is strong; and much wou'd discompose
All but Your Selves—almost as bad as those.
This Thought shou'd raise You to th'Extremest Pitch.
Their Laughing at the Want that makes 'em Rich:
Not more You Labour to increase their Store,
Than they, Inhumanly, to keep You Poor;
Making You dance Attendance, Cap in Hand,
That once, like Spaniels, were at Your Command;
Wou'd cringe and fawn, and who so kind as They?
Exalted with the Promise of Your Play.
But since Hart dy'd, and the two Houses join'd,
What get ye? what Incouragment d'ye find?
Yet still You Write, and Sacrifice your Ease,
And for no other Gain—but what they please;
Expell'd the House, unless you give 'em way
To bilk You of Two Thirds in ev'ry Play.
Let nothing then Your sense of Wrong asswage;
The Muses Foes shou'd feel the Muses Rage:
But then be just to Truth; for only that
Is what th'Impartial Satyr levels at:
Go not beyond; all base Aspersion shun;
Let Justice and not Malice lead You on.
To please, for once I'll give You an Essay,
And in so good a Cause am proud to lead the Way.
Prepare we then to go behind the Scenes,
There to Survey the Copper Kings and Queens,
Strutting in State, tho' Slaves by Nature meant,
As they were truely those they Represent:
But most the Women are Audacious seen,
All Paint their Out-sides and all Pox within.
Here 'tis our Quality are fond of such,
Which ev'n their Wiser Footmen scorn to Touch:
Divested of the Robes in which they're Cas'd,
A Goat's as sweet, and Monkey's are as Chast.
Not that they want, when they their Looks wou'd Arm,
The Art to make, or keep their Cullies warm.
With faint Denyals they inflame Desire,
Till the hot Youth burns in his Am'rous Fire,
Then wantonly into their Shifts retire:
Spurr'd on by Lust the Dunce pursues the Dame,
Careless of Health, and thoughtless of his Fame:
Their Nightly She Majestically rules;
Like Gallick Princes, all her Subjects, Fools.—
But talking of their Shifts I mourn, my Friend,
I mourn thy sudden, and disast'rous End:
Here 'twas You did Resign Your Worthy Breath,
And fell the Victim of a Cruel Death:
The Shame, the Guilt, the Horror and Disgrace,
Light on the Punk, the Murderer, and the Place.
What Satyr can enough the Villains Sting
That fight and stab for so abhor'd a Thing?
A ten times cast off Drab, a Hackny Whore,
Who when Sh'has ply'd the Stews and tir'd a Score,
Insatiate as a Charnell, yawns for more.
Her ev'ry Act in the Vene'real Wars
Who e'er wou'd count, as well may count the Stars.
So Insolent! there never was a Dowd
So very basely born so very Proud:
Yet Covetous; She'll Prostitute with any,
Rather than wave the Getting of a Penny:
For the whole Harvest of her Youthful Crimes
Most frugally she hoards for Future Times,
That then her Life may be with Lux'ury led,
The hatter'd Carcase with Abundance fed;
So damns the Soul to get the Body Bread.
Yet in her Morals this is thought the best,
And it is only Hell can Match the rest.
There to Survey the Copper Kings and Queens,
Strutting in State, tho' Slaves by Nature meant,
As they were truely those they Represent:
But most the Women are Audacious seen,
All Paint their Out-sides and all Pox within.
248
Which ev'n their Wiser Footmen scorn to Touch:
Divested of the Robes in which they're Cas'd,
A Goat's as sweet, and Monkey's are as Chast.
Not that they want, when they their Looks wou'd Arm,
The Art to make, or keep their Cullies warm.
With faint Denyals they inflame Desire,
Till the hot Youth burns in his Am'rous Fire,
Then wantonly into their Shifts retire:
Spurr'd on by Lust the Dunce pursues the Dame,
Careless of Health, and thoughtless of his Fame:
Their Nightly She Majestically rules;
Like Gallick Princes, all her Subjects, Fools.—
But talking of their Shifts I mourn, my Friend,
I mourn thy sudden, and disast'rous End:
Here 'twas You did Resign Your Worthy Breath,
And fell the Victim of a Cruel Death:
The Shame, the Guilt, the Horror and Disgrace,
Light on the Punk, the Murderer, and the Place.
What Satyr can enough the Villains Sting
That fight and stab for so abhor'd a Thing?
A ten times cast off Drab, a Hackny Whore,
Who when Sh'has ply'd the Stews and tir'd a Score,
Insatiate as a Charnell, yawns for more.
Her ev'ry Act in the Vene'real Wars
Who e'er wou'd count, as well may count the Stars.
So Insolent! there never was a Dowd
So very basely born so very Proud:
Yet Covetous; She'll Prostitute with any,
Rather than wave the Getting of a Penny:
For the whole Harvest of her Youthful Crimes
Most frugally she hoards for Future Times,
That then her Life may be with Lux'ury led,
The hatter'd Carcase with Abundance fed;
So damns the Soul to get the Body Bread.
249
And it is only Hell can Match the rest.
An Actress now so fine a thing is thought,
A Place at Court less eagerly is sought:
As soon as in that Roll the Punks engross'd.
Some Reverend Bawd does thus the Drab accost,
Now is the Time You may Your Fortune raise,
And meet at once with Pleasure, Wealth and Praise;
'Tis now, like Nell you may Immortal grow,
Fam'd for Your Impudence, and Issue too;
Posterity, if well You Play Your Part,
Will call You Prudent, and Your Rise, Desert.—
But the true Sense is this:—'Tis now your time
(For only Vertu'ous Fools neglect their Prime)
With open Blandishments and secret Art
To glide into some Keeping Coxcomb's Heart,
Who neither Sense or Manhood understands;
And Jilt Him of his Patrimonial Lands:
Others this Way have reach'd the top Extreams;
Think of Ned Bush—then think of Mistress James:
Some such like Cully to Your Share will fall;
The Knight has nothing and the Punk has All:
Twas by this Conduct B---y grew so Rich;
Preferment You can't miss and be a B---.
Th'Advice is took; and she hurries on,
Fond to be kept, and in her Chariot shown;
While Vulgar Drabs must meanly Trapes the Town.
Against the Consequence she shuts her Eyes,
For none at once were ever lewd and Wise:
Thoughtless (like merry Andrew in his Pride)
The higher Mounted we the more deride.
In short the Stage (as Dorset-Court assures)
Is but a Hot-Bed rais'd to force up Whores:
Nor can the Soil so fast their Growth supply,
As City, Camp and Country crowd to buy.
How great a Beast is Man!—A Vertu'ous Dame,
Unblemish'd in her Fortune and her Fame,
They fly, as if she were the worst of Harms,
And think a thrice Fluxt Actress has more Charms.
Yet tho' so much they slight the Chast and Fair,
No other Curses may they ever share,
But only to Continue—what they Are.
A Place at Court less eagerly is sought:
As soon as in that Roll the Punks engross'd.
Some Reverend Bawd does thus the Drab accost,
Now is the Time You may Your Fortune raise,
And meet at once with Pleasure, Wealth and Praise;
'Tis now, like Nell you may Immortal grow,
Fam'd for Your Impudence, and Issue too;
Posterity, if well You Play Your Part,
Will call You Prudent, and Your Rise, Desert.—
But the true Sense is this:—'Tis now your time
(For only Vertu'ous Fools neglect their Prime)
With open Blandishments and secret Art
To glide into some Keeping Coxcomb's Heart,
Who neither Sense or Manhood understands;
And Jilt Him of his Patrimonial Lands:
Others this Way have reach'd the top Extreams;
Think of Ned Bush—then think of Mistress James:
Some such like Cully to Your Share will fall;
The Knight has nothing and the Punk has All:
Twas by this Conduct B---y grew so Rich;
Preferment You can't miss and be a B---.
Th'Advice is took; and she hurries on,
Fond to be kept, and in her Chariot shown;
While Vulgar Drabs must meanly Trapes the Town.
Against the Consequence she shuts her Eyes,
For none at once were ever lewd and Wise:
Thoughtless (like merry Andrew in his Pride)
The higher Mounted we the more deride.
In short the Stage (as Dorset-Court assures)
Is but a Hot-Bed rais'd to force up Whores:
Nor can the Soil so fast their Growth supply,
As City, Camp and Country crowd to buy.
250
Unblemish'd in her Fortune and her Fame,
They fly, as if she were the worst of Harms,
And think a thrice Fluxt Actress has more Charms.
Yet tho' so much they slight the Chast and Fair,
No other Curses may they ever share,
But only to Continue—what they Are.
Now for the Men; whom we alike shall find
As Loose, as Vile, and Brutal in their Kind:
Here one who lately, as an Author notes,
Hawk'd thro' the Town, and cry'd Gazettes and Votes,
Is grown a Man of such Accomplish'd Parts,
He thinks all Praise beneath his just Deserts:
Rich as a Jew, yet tho' so wealthy known,
He rasps the Under-Actors to the Bone.
Not Lewis more Tyrannically Rules,
Than He among this Herd of Knaves and Fools.
Among his other Vertues, ne'er was Elf
So very much Enamor'd of Himself;
But let Him if he pleases think the best
Upon that Head; and we'll Supply the rest.
What if some Scribblers to his Sense submit?
He is not therefore only Judge of Wit:
Approving such, betrays a Vitious Tast:
For few can tell what will for ever last,
If all cou'd Judge of Wit that think they can,
The Vilest Ass wou'd be the Wittiest Man.
In Company, with either Youth or Age,
H'has all the Gum and Stiffness of the Stage:
Dotard! and thinks his haughty Movements there,
A Rule for his Behaviour ev'ry where.
To this we'll add his Lucre, Lust and Pride,
And Knav'ry, which in vain He strives to hide,
For thro' the thin Disguise the Canker'd Heart is spy'd.
'Tis true, his Action Merits just Applause;
But lies the Fame most in th'Effect or Cause?
If from good Iustruments fine Musick springs,
The Credit's chiefly his that tun'd the Strings:
Thus, tho' they Speak, they speak Another's Thought;
As Monkey's Grin, and Parrots learn by Rote.
As Loose, as Vile, and Brutal in their Kind:
Here one who lately, as an Author notes,
Hawk'd thro' the Town, and cry'd Gazettes and Votes,
Is grown a Man of such Accomplish'd Parts,
He thinks all Praise beneath his just Deserts:
Rich as a Jew, yet tho' so wealthy known,
He rasps the Under-Actors to the Bone.
Not Lewis more Tyrannically Rules,
Than He among this Herd of Knaves and Fools.
Among his other Vertues, ne'er was Elf
So very much Enamor'd of Himself;
But let Him if he pleases think the best
Upon that Head; and we'll Supply the rest.
What if some Scribblers to his Sense submit?
He is not therefore only Judge of Wit:
Approving such, betrays a Vitious Tast:
For few can tell what will for ever last,
If all cou'd Judge of Wit that think they can,
The Vilest Ass wou'd be the Wittiest Man.
In Company, with either Youth or Age,
H'has all the Gum and Stiffness of the Stage:
Dotard! and thinks his haughty Movements there,
A Rule for his Behaviour ev'ry where.
To this we'll add his Lucre, Lust and Pride,
And Knav'ry, which in vain He strives to hide,
For thro' the thin Disguise the Canker'd Heart is spy'd.
251
But lies the Fame most in th'Effect or Cause?
If from good Iustruments fine Musick springs,
The Credit's chiefly his that tun'd the Strings:
Thus, tho' they Speak, they speak Another's Thought;
As Monkey's Grin, and Parrots learn by Rote.
Another You may see, a Comick Spark,
That wou'd be Lacy, but ne'r hits the Mark,
Not but his Making Sport must be confess'd,
For where the Author fails, he is Himself the Jest.
To be well laught at is his whole Delight,
And there, indeed, we do the Coxcomb Right.
Tho' the Comedian makes the Audience roar,
When off the Stage, the Booby tickles more:
When such are born some easy Planet rules,
And Nature, dozing, makes a Run of Fools.
That wou'd be Lacy, but ne'r hits the Mark,
Not but his Making Sport must be confess'd,
For where the Author fails, he is Himself the Jest.
To be well laught at is his whole Delight,
And there, indeed, we do the Coxcomb Right.
Tho' the Comedian makes the Audience roar,
When off the Stage, the Booby tickles more:
When such are born some easy Planet rules,
And Nature, dozing, makes a Run of Fools.
A Third, a punning, drolling, bant'ring Ass,
Cocks up, and fain wou'd for an Author pass.
His Face for Farce Nature at first design'd,
And match it, too, with as Burlesque a Mind:
Made him, as vilely born, so careless bred,
And gave Him Heels of Cork, but Brains of Lead.
Cocks up, and fain wou'd for an Author pass.
His Face for Farce Nature at first design'd,
And match it, too, with as Burlesque a Mind:
Made him, as vilely born, so careless bred,
And gave Him Heels of Cork, but Brains of Lead.
To speak 'em all were tedious to discuss;
But if You'll Lump 'em, they're exactly thus:
A Pimping, Spunging, Idle, Impious Race,
The Shame of Vertue, and Despair of Grace:
A Nest of Leachers worse than Sodom bore,
And justly Merit to be Punish'd more,
Diseas'd, in Debt, and ev'ry Moment dun'd;
By all Good Christians loath'd, and their own Kindred shun'd.
To say more of 'em wou'd be wasting Time;
For it with Justice may be thought a Crime
To let such Rubbish have a Place in Rhime.
But if You'll Lump 'em, they're exactly thus:
A Pimping, Spunging, Idle, Impious Race,
The Shame of Vertue, and Despair of Grace:
A Nest of Leachers worse than Sodom bore,
And justly Merit to be Punish'd more,
Diseas'd, in Debt, and ev'ry Moment dun'd;
By all Good Christians loath'd, and their own Kindred shun'd.
To say more of 'em wou'd be wasting Time;
For it with Justice may be thought a Crime
To let such Rubbish have a Place in Rhime.
252
Now hear a Wonder and 'twill well declare
How resolutely lewd some Women are;
For while these Men we thus severely use,
Our Ladies differ hugely from the Muse;
Supply their wants, and raise 'em from Distress,
Advanc'd ev'n for their very Wickedness.
Goodman himself, an Infidel profess'd,
With Plays reads Cl---d nightly to her Rest:
Nay in Her Coach she whirls Him up and down,
And Publishes her Passion to the Town,
As if 'twere her Delight to make it known:
And known it shall be, in my Pointed Rhimes
Stand Infamous to all succeeding Times.
How resolutely lewd some Women are;
For while these Men we thus severely use,
Our Ladies differ hugely from the Muse;
Supply their wants, and raise 'em from Distress,
Advanc'd ev'n for their very Wickedness.
Goodman himself, an Infidel profess'd,
With Plays reads Cl---d nightly to her Rest:
Nay in Her Coach she whirls Him up and down,
And Publishes her Passion to the Town,
As if 'twere her Delight to make it known:
And known it shall be, in my Pointed Rhimes
Stand Infamous to all succeeding Times.
'Twere Endless Work, describing ev'ry Vice
That from the Play-house takes Immediate Rise,
The Devil has on Earth no Magazin
That opens to us such an Impious Scene,
Or where, for Store, he lays more Lewdness in.
Not in the Inns of Court we hardly see,
At once, a Vaster Reach of Villany;
Tho' with the Lawyer the Belief does reign—
No Hell but Poverty, nor God but Gain.
Here Murder, Lust and Blasphemy are found,
And all the Crimes with which the Times abound,
To wheel in Circles an Eternal Round.
As the New-River does from Islington,
Thro' several Pipes, serve half the Spacious Town,
So the Luxurious Lewdness of the Stage,
Drain'd off, feeds half the Brothels of the Age.
In short (nor will it bear the least Debate)
Unless these Vices we cou'd Regulate,
The Play-house is the Scandal of the State.
That from the Play-house takes Immediate Rise,
The Devil has on Earth no Magazin
That opens to us such an Impious Scene,
Or where, for Store, he lays more Lewdness in.
Not in the Inns of Court we hardly see,
At once, a Vaster Reach of Villany;
Tho' with the Lawyer the Belief does reign—
No Hell but Poverty, nor God but Gain.
Here Murder, Lust and Blasphemy are found,
And all the Crimes with which the Times abound,
To wheel in Circles an Eternal Round.
As the New-River does from Islington,
Thro' several Pipes, serve half the Spacious Town,
So the Luxurious Lewdness of the Stage,
Drain'd off, feeds half the Brothels of the Age.
In short (nor will it bear the least Debate)
Unless these Vices we cou'd Regulate,
The Play-house is the Scandal of the State.
But here it was (with drowsy Fumes oppress'd)
I dropt my Pen, and nodded into Rest;
When Fancy, willing to Improve my Spleen,
Set in my View this Visionary Scene.
I dropt my Pen, and nodded into Rest;
When Fancy, willing to Improve my Spleen,
Set in my View this Visionary Scene.
253
3. The Third Part.
On a Sweet Verdant Plain methought I stood,
Just by a Hill crown'd with a Spacious Wood:
One lonely Path (which now I'd enter'd in)
Led from the Lawn up thro' the Silvan Scene.
On Pleas'd I went directly to the Grove,
The Silent kind Retreat of Rural Love.
The Rising Sun had now its Entrance made
Ten thousand ways, and Chequer'd all the Shade.
Thick lay the Dew, and, just like Diamonds Bright,
Sent thro' the leafy Arch reflected Light;
High on the Boughs were pearch'd the Feather'd Choir,
Their more Ambitious Notes ascending higher:
Each Emulating each, and plac'd apart,
Try'd all the sweet Contentions of their Art:
Now I observ'd the Tuneful Challenge here
Then how in Heav'nly Strains 'twas Answer'd there;
Neither the best, yet both above Compare.
Mean while, as with Design, a Balmy Breeze,
Rising and falling Gently by degrees,
Fann'd all the Sweets of Flora thro' the Trees.
Nothing there wanted but the Fruit of Gold
To vye with the Hesperian Grove of old.
Ah! Heav'n, I cry'd, what Happiness there dwells
In Humble Huts and unfrequented Cells!
In some low Cottage by this Copses side,
How safely does the Country Swain reside!
How undisturb'd when down to Rest he lies!
How Joyful when the Glorious Sun does rise!
This Musick in his Ears, this Scene before his Eyes!
Ah! might I once so blest a Fortune know,
How Gladly I'd the Chase of Fame forgo?
No more I wou'd the Stingy Great rehearse,
And sing their Names in Panegyrick Verse:
No more I wou'd attempt the Tragick Strain,
When (after all th'Expence of Time and Pain)
One Female Player's Breath makes all my Labours vain.
Just by a Hill crown'd with a Spacious Wood:
One lonely Path (which now I'd enter'd in)
Led from the Lawn up thro' the Silvan Scene.
On Pleas'd I went directly to the Grove,
The Silent kind Retreat of Rural Love.
The Rising Sun had now its Entrance made
Ten thousand ways, and Chequer'd all the Shade.
Thick lay the Dew, and, just like Diamonds Bright,
Sent thro' the leafy Arch reflected Light;
High on the Boughs were pearch'd the Feather'd Choir,
Their more Ambitious Notes ascending higher:
Each Emulating each, and plac'd apart,
Try'd all the sweet Contentions of their Art:
Now I observ'd the Tuneful Challenge here
Then how in Heav'nly Strains 'twas Answer'd there;
Neither the best, yet both above Compare.
Mean while, as with Design, a Balmy Breeze,
Rising and falling Gently by degrees,
Fann'd all the Sweets of Flora thro' the Trees.
Nothing there wanted but the Fruit of Gold
To vye with the Hesperian Grove of old.
Ah! Heav'n, I cry'd, what Happiness there dwells
In Humble Huts and unfrequented Cells!
254
How safely does the Country Swain reside!
How undisturb'd when down to Rest he lies!
How Joyful when the Glorious Sun does rise!
This Musick in his Ears, this Scene before his Eyes!
Ah! might I once so blest a Fortune know,
How Gladly I'd the Chase of Fame forgo?
No more I wou'd the Stingy Great rehearse,
And sing their Names in Panegyrick Verse:
No more I wou'd attempt the Tragick Strain,
When (after all th'Expence of Time and Pain)
One Female Player's Breath makes all my Labours vain.
With Contemplations such as these I pass'd
Thro' the Steep Glade, and reach'd the Top at last;
Then, looking down, beheld below a Scene
Of Booths and People stragg'ling on the Green;
A various Mixture of each Sex intent
I drinking saw, and wonder'd what it meant.
Advancing nearer, soon the Cause appear'd
That drew together the Promiscuous Herd;
'Twas Water, Dullwych Waters, which they quaff'd
As Porters do their Belch—a Pint a Draught:
Till gorg'd at length, in Squadrons they withdraw
T'emit their Grief,—nor Decency a Law:
So thick they under ev'ry Bush appear,
You'd verily believe the Town was clear,
And all it's filthy Rabble Purging here.
Such Min'eral Fountains other Bards may sing;
To me they're all beneath a Common Spring.
If Instinct never for the worse does chuse,
Why shou'd we drink what Birds and Beasts refuse?
With Crudities th'Internal Parts they fill,
And the bleak Poison thro' the Blood instill,
Weaken the Sick, and make the Healthy Ill;
For, after all, we must new Methods find
To purge away the Dreggs they leave behind.
The Doctors say, indeed they'll wonders do;—
But Mountebanks commend their Ratsbane too.
In short the Waters to Physicians are
The same as Rogue-Attorneys to the Bar;
These work for Law, and those for Physick raise,
And so will do to all Succeeding Days,
While there the Client, here the Patient Pays.
But grant the Doctor all he'd have, and more;
Why must those Suit the Rich and these the Poor,
When Nature, in the Structure of our Frame,
Has of one Flesh made all Mankind the same?
The Cits are bid to Epsom to Resort,
And Tunbridge is Prescrib'd for those at Court;
While Dullwych only serves for those Degrees
That cannot rise to be Destroy'd for Fees:
For grosser Allum, being less Genteel,
Must not pretend to vye with those of Steel:
To ease the Rich, thus, Urine is the Rule,
And Poverty must be Reliev'd by Stool.
O Dotage! which no Age but ours cou'd be
So fond of, as distinctly not to see;
For whatsoe'er the Water-Mongers think
The Vertues are of this their Mine'ral Drink,
If heedfully the true Effects they'd mind
Of being at the Wells, they'd quickly find
The Ease they feel, and all the Health they share,
Is only due (while they continue there)
To Temperance, Exercise, and Country Air.
Thro' the Steep Glade, and reach'd the Top at last;
Then, looking down, beheld below a Scene
Of Booths and People stragg'ling on the Green;
A various Mixture of each Sex intent
I drinking saw, and wonder'd what it meant.
Advancing nearer, soon the Cause appear'd
That drew together the Promiscuous Herd;
'Twas Water, Dullwych Waters, which they quaff'd
As Porters do their Belch—a Pint a Draught:
Till gorg'd at length, in Squadrons they withdraw
T'emit their Grief,—nor Decency a Law:
So thick they under ev'ry Bush appear,
You'd verily believe the Town was clear,
And all it's filthy Rabble Purging here.
Such Min'eral Fountains other Bards may sing;
To me they're all beneath a Common Spring.
If Instinct never for the worse does chuse,
Why shou'd we drink what Birds and Beasts refuse?
With Crudities th'Internal Parts they fill,
And the bleak Poison thro' the Blood instill,
Weaken the Sick, and make the Healthy Ill;
255
To purge away the Dreggs they leave behind.
The Doctors say, indeed they'll wonders do;—
But Mountebanks commend their Ratsbane too.
In short the Waters to Physicians are
The same as Rogue-Attorneys to the Bar;
These work for Law, and those for Physick raise,
And so will do to all Succeeding Days,
While there the Client, here the Patient Pays.
But grant the Doctor all he'd have, and more;
Why must those Suit the Rich and these the Poor,
When Nature, in the Structure of our Frame,
Has of one Flesh made all Mankind the same?
The Cits are bid to Epsom to Resort,
And Tunbridge is Prescrib'd for those at Court;
While Dullwych only serves for those Degrees
That cannot rise to be Destroy'd for Fees:
For grosser Allum, being less Genteel,
Must not pretend to vye with those of Steel:
To ease the Rich, thus, Urine is the Rule,
And Poverty must be Reliev'd by Stool.
O Dotage! which no Age but ours cou'd be
So fond of, as distinctly not to see;
For whatsoe'er the Water-Mongers think
The Vertues are of this their Mine'ral Drink,
If heedfully the true Effects they'd mind
Of being at the Wells, they'd quickly find
The Ease they feel, and all the Health they share,
Is only due (while they continue there)
To Temperance, Exercise, and Country Air.
Turning my Head, and eager to be gone,
Who shou'd I see methought, but Hains alone?
And all alone poor Joseph well might be
Who, (bating those of his Fraternity,)
Cou'd not on Earth find Company to suit
A Name so Vile, and Life so Dissolute.
I date thee Fool, cry'd I, this very Hour,
Of all Mankind what need hast thou to Scow'r?
Nor Sup't last Night, nor broke thy Fast to Day
What is there in thee left to Purge away?
But why on Sunday Morning dost thou come?
The Day that all thy Brethren stay at home.
Cou'd on thy Friendly care not one Prevail
To fetch him Physick, and to warm him Ale?
The Church they leave to those it more does please,
Their Souls of less concern than their Disease.
In short, what all the Week they Whore and Swill,
They Rectify to Day with Peter's Pill.
Who shou'd I see methought, but Hains alone?
And all alone poor Joseph well might be
Who, (bating those of his Fraternity,)
256
A Name so Vile, and Life so Dissolute.
I date thee Fool, cry'd I, this very Hour,
Of all Mankind what need hast thou to Scow'r?
Nor Sup't last Night, nor broke thy Fast to Day
What is there in thee left to Purge away?
But why on Sunday Morning dost thou come?
The Day that all thy Brethren stay at home.
Cou'd on thy Friendly care not one Prevail
To fetch him Physick, and to warm him Ale?
The Church they leave to those it more does please,
Their Souls of less concern than their Disease.
In short, what all the Week they Whore and Swill,
They Rectify to Day with Peter's Pill.
Faith 'tis a just Remark, quoth Honest Joe;
A Jest has 'twice the odds for being true.
But if you will your Luggs this way incline,
I'll let You know this Morning's whole Design.
Our Converse with our selves, I freely own,
To be, perhaps, the worst the World has known;
The Themes we Relish with the truest Gust
Is Guile, Aspersion, Blasphemy and Lust:
If such a thing on Earth as Hell there be,
The Stage is Tophet—and it's Fiends are we.
First then, in Truth, I hither did Repair
To Bleach my Brimstone off in wholsome Air.
Next I'd some Gallery Tickets to dispose,
And in this Place I ne'er my Labour lose:
Here fifeeen Pence I've always down and down,
For what wou'd yield me but a Hog in Town.
And last in my Return I seldom fail
To get my Swill of Dullwych College Ale.
These little Shifts, grown useless for the Stage,
I'm forc'd to follow to sustain my Age.
Our Sharers, now so insolent are they,
We Under-Actors must like Slaves obey;
And toil and drudge, while they divide the Pay.
Not Busby more Tyrannically Rules,
Than Bet---n among his Knaves and Fools:
But most to me is his ill Nature shown,
Because my Voice is with my Palate gone:
Not that I faster than the rest decline;
Both Men and Women in my Failing joyn,
And B---y's Breath is grown as rank as mine.
A Jest has 'twice the odds for being true.
But if you will your Luggs this way incline,
I'll let You know this Morning's whole Design.
Our Converse with our selves, I freely own,
To be, perhaps, the worst the World has known;
The Themes we Relish with the truest Gust
Is Guile, Aspersion, Blasphemy and Lust:
If such a thing on Earth as Hell there be,
The Stage is Tophet—and it's Fiends are we.
First then, in Truth, I hither did Repair
To Bleach my Brimstone off in wholsome Air.
Next I'd some Gallery Tickets to dispose,
And in this Place I ne'er my Labour lose:
Here fifeeen Pence I've always down and down,
For what wou'd yield me but a Hog in Town.
And last in my Return I seldom fail
To get my Swill of Dullwych College Ale.
These little Shifts, grown useless for the Stage,
I'm forc'd to follow to sustain my Age.
257
We Under-Actors must like Slaves obey;
And toil and drudge, while they divide the Pay.
Not Busby more Tyrannically Rules,
Than Bet---n among his Knaves and Fools:
But most to me is his ill Nature shown,
Because my Voice is with my Palate gone:
Not that I faster than the rest decline;
Both Men and Women in my Failing joyn,
And B---y's Breath is grown as rank as mine.
Uneasy with my Company, I here
Wou'd have took leave, and gave a Civil Leer.
No hold, quoth Joe, my Tickets all are gone,
And if you please, Ill wait on you to Town:
Or if you'll take a Sermon by the Way,
(For at the College 'tis their Preaching Day)
I shall be much Oblig'd by such a Stay.
With all my Heart, cry'd I; I'm glad your Mind
Has took that Bent;—and keep it so inclin'd:
You'll find more Comfort in one Hour of Pray'r
Than all the Clappings of the Theatre,
Tho' you should yet enjoy 'em Twenty Year.
So on I pass'd, now first, and now behind,
Still giving him the Lee-ward of the Wind;
Avoiding so the Breathings of his Ghest,
Which he so frankly own'd were not the best.
At last, quoth Joe, you by and by shall see
The Gift of one of our Society:
Nor Greece nor Rome it's Equal ever show'd,
So Nobly is it built, so Lib'rally endow'd.
The Poet may Instruct and Please the Sense,
And worthy Schemes may be deduc'd from thence,
But 'tis a Barren Good that costs him no Expence:
Our Allen did a nobler Pattern set,
But not one Bard has imitated yet.
Wou'd have took leave, and gave a Civil Leer.
No hold, quoth Joe, my Tickets all are gone,
And if you please, Ill wait on you to Town:
Or if you'll take a Sermon by the Way,
(For at the College 'tis their Preaching Day)
I shall be much Oblig'd by such a Stay.
With all my Heart, cry'd I; I'm glad your Mind
Has took that Bent;—and keep it so inclin'd:
You'll find more Comfort in one Hour of Pray'r
Than all the Clappings of the Theatre,
Tho' you should yet enjoy 'em Twenty Year.
So on I pass'd, now first, and now behind,
Still giving him the Lee-ward of the Wind;
Avoiding so the Breathings of his Ghest,
Which he so frankly own'd were not the best.
At last, quoth Joe, you by and by shall see
The Gift of one of our Society:
Nor Greece nor Rome it's Equal ever show'd,
So Nobly is it built, so Lib'rally endow'd.
The Poet may Instruct and Please the Sense,
And worthy Schemes may be deduc'd from thence,
But 'tis a Barren Good that costs him no Expence:
Our Allen did a nobler Pattern set,
But not one Bard has imitated yet.
258
His Name, said I, we to the Clouds shou'd raise
The least it merits's Everlasting Praise:
But most unjustly on the Bards you fall:
Rich tho' he was, from them he rais'd it all.
Not to disgrace his Vertue, or his Wit,
What had he got, had Shakespear never writ?
As to our selves, had we the Players Gains,
(And more our Right it is, as more our Pains)
We had exceeded all that he has done,
And gave the World an Instance,—more than one:
Not, but 'tis Nobler yet, to form the Mind
To Vertue,—and to keep it so inclin'd,
(The Work for which we solely were design'd)
Than 'tis the Loftiest Edifice to build,
Or to Endow;—and Nobler Fruit 'twill yield.
His Charity, which justly we extol,
Does but Respect the Body;—Ours the Soul:
Twit us not then that we no Fabricks raise,
When from a better Claim we hold our Praise;
Nor think the Bard that does Exhaust his Sense,
At least that culls the richest Precepts thence,
To teach Mankind, can write without Expence:
Cou'd we our Purses wide as Allen strain,
'Tis nobler yet to spend upon the Brain.
In Contemplation rapt above the Skies,
We look on Yellow Dirt with heedless Eyes:
What truly Christian Bard would Gold adore,
When he may teach Contentment to the Poor.
And shew the World the Rich have no Excuse
That put not Money to its Genuine Use?
Like Him w'ave mention'd, who employ'd his Store
To breed up Friendless Youth and feed the Aged Poor.
But least of all you on the Muse shou'd throw
Your Scurril Jests, that keep her Sons so low:
How can our Suffering Tribe but chuse to be
The Sons of Hardship and Necessity?
When, let our Plays be acted half an Age,
W'ave but a third Days Gleaning of the Stage?
The rest is yours:—and hence your Sharers rise,
And once above us, all our Aid despise:
Hence has your Osmin drawn his Wealthy Lot,
And hence has Zara all her Thousands got:
Zara! that Proud, Opprobrious, Shameless Jilt,
Who like a Devil justifies her Guilt,
And feels no least Remorse for all the Blood sh'has spilt
But prithee Joe, since so she boasts her Blood,
And few have yet her Lineage understood,
Tell me, in short, the Harlot's true Descent,
'Twill be a Favour that you shan't repent.
The least it merits's Everlasting Praise:
But most unjustly on the Bards you fall:
Rich tho' he was, from them he rais'd it all.
Not to disgrace his Vertue, or his Wit,
What had he got, had Shakespear never writ?
As to our selves, had we the Players Gains,
(And more our Right it is, as more our Pains)
We had exceeded all that he has done,
And gave the World an Instance,—more than one:
Not, but 'tis Nobler yet, to form the Mind
To Vertue,—and to keep it so inclin'd,
(The Work for which we solely were design'd)
Than 'tis the Loftiest Edifice to build,
Or to Endow;—and Nobler Fruit 'twill yield.
His Charity, which justly we extol,
Does but Respect the Body;—Ours the Soul:
Twit us not then that we no Fabricks raise,
When from a better Claim we hold our Praise;
Nor think the Bard that does Exhaust his Sense,
At least that culls the richest Precepts thence,
To teach Mankind, can write without Expence:
Cou'd we our Purses wide as Allen strain,
'Tis nobler yet to spend upon the Brain.
In Contemplation rapt above the Skies,
We look on Yellow Dirt with heedless Eyes:
What truly Christian Bard would Gold adore,
When he may teach Contentment to the Poor.
And shew the World the Rich have no Excuse
That put not Money to its Genuine Use?
Like Him w'ave mention'd, who employ'd his Store
To breed up Friendless Youth and feed the Aged Poor.
But least of all you on the Muse shou'd throw
Your Scurril Jests, that keep her Sons so low:
How can our Suffering Tribe but chuse to be
The Sons of Hardship and Necessity?
259
W'ave but a third Days Gleaning of the Stage?
The rest is yours:—and hence your Sharers rise,
And once above us, all our Aid despise:
Hence has your Osmin drawn his Wealthy Lot,
And hence has Zara all her Thousands got:
Zara! that Proud, Opprobrious, Shameless Jilt,
Who like a Devil justifies her Guilt,
And feels no least Remorse for all the Blood sh'has spilt
But prithee Joe, since so she boasts her Blood,
And few have yet her Lineage understood,
Tell me, in short, the Harlot's true Descent,
'Twill be a Favour that you shan't repent.
Truly said Joe, as now the Matter goes,
What I shall speak must be beneath the Rose.
Her Mother was a common Strumpet known,
Her Father half the Rabble of the Town.
Begot by Casual and Promiscuous Lust,
She still retains the same Promiscuous Gust.
For Birth, into a Suburb Cellar hurl'd,
The Strumpet came up Stairs into the World.
At Twelve she'd freely in Coition join,
And far surpass'd the Honours of her Line.
As her Conception was a Complication,
So its Produce, alike, did serve the Nation;
Till by a Black, Successive Course of Ills,
She reach'd the Noble Post which now she fills;
Where, Messalina like, she treads the Stage,
And all Enjoys, but nothing can Asswage!
What I shall speak must be beneath the Rose.
Her Mother was a common Strumpet known,
Her Father half the Rabble of the Town.
Begot by Casual and Promiscuous Lust,
She still retains the same Promiscuous Gust.
For Birth, into a Suburb Cellar hurl'd,
The Strumpet came up Stairs into the World.
At Twelve she'd freely in Coition join,
And far surpass'd the Honours of her Line.
As her Conception was a Complication,
So its Produce, alike, did serve the Nation;
Till by a Black, Successive Course of Ills,
She reach'd the Noble Post which now she fills;
Where, Messalina like, she treads the Stage,
And all Enjoys, but nothing can Asswage!
Thus towards the College we went jogging on:
Arriv'd, we found the Service just begun:—
Step in quoth Joe;—I'll come to you anon:
The Cook and Butler I must visit first;
For Hunger one, and t'other for my Thirst.
Let not your Corps, said I, be yet your Care;
Your better Part shou'd first be treated here:
If lasting Ease you'd to the Body find,
Let there be nothing wanting to the Mind.
My Paunch, said he, knows not what Doctrine means;—
You take the Stage;—I'll go behind the Scenes.
Arriv'd, we found the Service just begun:—
Step in quoth Joe;—I'll come to you anon:
The Cook and Butler I must visit first;
For Hunger one, and t'other for my Thirst.
260
Your better Part shou'd first be treated here:
If lasting Ease you'd to the Body find,
Let there be nothing wanting to the Mind.
My Paunch, said he, knows not what Doctrine means;—
You take the Stage;—I'll go behind the Scenes.
Sighing I enter'd;—when a kind Surprise:
Did entertain at once my Ears and Eyes:
The Organs Solemn Musick sounding there,
The Singing Boys Responding Voices here,
The Master and the Wardens grave Deport,
The Strict Devoutness of the meaner Sort,
The Management of all did soon inspire
My Soul with Joy! when joining with the Quire,
In Pray'r and Praises I perform'd my Part;
Nor less, I hope, my Ardor at the Heart.
But now the Service and the Sermon done,
(Whilst I to render Thanks was kneeling down)
Methought they of a sudden all were gone:
Surpris'd at the Event, I gaz'd about;
Saw none within, nor saw no Passage out.
'Tis well, said I,—and blest! O blest be they,
That in this Sacred Court delight to stay!
O Time! how smoothly then thou glid'st away!
When nothing Anxious in the Soul is found,
But Faith and Practice take their Equal Round;
When ev'ry Word a Pious Rapture fires,
And makes it self a Heav'n, while it to Heav'n aspires!
Thus walking up and down, to thought Resign'd,
At last the founder came into my Mind;
Nor cou'd I my Conceptions then contain,
(Tho' something for the Sacred Place too vain,)
But broke out loud in this Extatick Strain.
Did entertain at once my Ears and Eyes:
The Organs Solemn Musick sounding there,
The Singing Boys Responding Voices here,
The Master and the Wardens grave Deport,
The Strict Devoutness of the meaner Sort,
The Management of all did soon inspire
My Soul with Joy! when joining with the Quire,
In Pray'r and Praises I perform'd my Part;
Nor less, I hope, my Ardor at the Heart.
But now the Service and the Sermon done,
(Whilst I to render Thanks was kneeling down)
Methought they of a sudden all were gone:
Surpris'd at the Event, I gaz'd about;
Saw none within, nor saw no Passage out.
'Tis well, said I,—and blest! O blest be they,
That in this Sacred Court delight to stay!
O Time! how smoothly then thou glid'st away!
When nothing Anxious in the Soul is found,
But Faith and Practice take their Equal Round;
When ev'ry Word a Pious Rapture fires,
And makes it self a Heav'n, while it to Heav'n aspires!
Thus walking up and down, to thought Resign'd,
At last the founder came into my Mind;
Nor cou'd I my Conceptions then contain,
(Tho' something for the Sacred Place too vain,)
But broke out loud in this Extatick Strain.
261
O happy! happy and Instructive Age
When Shakespear Writ, and Allen trod the Stage!
To Emulation fir'd, 'twas hard to tell
Which of the famous two did most Excel.
But O thou Darling Poet of our Isle,
And thou th'Erecter of this Sacred Pile,
How wou'd you Blush were you but now to see,
Both Plays and Players black Impiety!
And wish y'ad never rais'd the Infant Stage,
Since grown so black and Sinful in her Age:
With Vice she wou'd Instruct, with Vice Delight;
And all she does Pervert, that hear, that Act, that Write.
When Shakespear Writ, and Allen trod the Stage!
To Emulation fir'd, 'twas hard to tell
Which of the famous two did most Excel.
But O thou Darling Poet of our Isle,
And thou th'Erecter of this Sacred Pile,
How wou'd you Blush were you but now to see,
Both Plays and Players black Impiety!
And wish y'ad never rais'd the Infant Stage,
Since grown so black and Sinful in her Age:
With Vice she wou'd Instruct, with Vice Delight;
And all she does Pervert, that hear, that Act, that Write.
'Twas here, methought, an Awful Form appear'd
In a long Gown, and Venerable Beard.
And who art Thou, he cry'd, that thus dost Praise
The Bards and Actors of the former Days?
And what are now their Follies and their Crimes,
With which they so infest the Present Times?
In a long Gown, and Venerable Beard.
And who art Thou, he cry'd, that thus dost Praise
The Bards and Actors of the former Days?
And what are now their Follies and their Crimes,
With which they so infest the Present Times?
I am, said I, Apollo's meanest Son,
Who yet the Vices of his Greatest shun;
One, that with other Bards this Good design,
Plays to reform and make the Stage Divine:
No Vitious Plots we'd on the Age obtrude,
On Morals built, they shou'd be so pursu'd:
To Truth and Sense the Audience we'd Conduct,
And first we'd Please, that we might next Instruct;
That Centre where the Drama still shou'd tend,
As first 'twas purpos'd for no other End.
But w'are oppos'd by such an impious Train
Of Players, as make all our Studies vain;
Nothing they'll Act, and nothing they esteem
That does not Vertue shame, and God Blaspheme.
Instead of such as did this Fabrick build,
The Stage does now a Set of Monsters yield;
So openly Debauch'd, So flaming Ill,
As scarce, perhaps, are to be match'd in Hell!
Nor does this Censure only touch the Young,
But does alike to those of Years belong;
Who, rich as Jews, no other Pious Use
Make of their Wealth, but Vertue to Seduce:
Not Allen more did on this Pile bestow
Than they on Strumpets, or to make 'em so;
Witness Mill-Bank, where Osmin keeps his Trulls
With what, by sharing, he exacts from Fools.
Who yet the Vices of his Greatest shun;
One, that with other Bards this Good design,
Plays to reform and make the Stage Divine:
No Vitious Plots we'd on the Age obtrude,
On Morals built, they shou'd be so pursu'd:
To Truth and Sense the Audience we'd Conduct,
And first we'd Please, that we might next Instruct;
That Centre where the Drama still shou'd tend,
As first 'twas purpos'd for no other End.
But w'are oppos'd by such an impious Train
Of Players, as make all our Studies vain;
Nothing they'll Act, and nothing they esteem
That does not Vertue shame, and God Blaspheme.
262
The Stage does now a Set of Monsters yield;
So openly Debauch'd, So flaming Ill,
As scarce, perhaps, are to be match'd in Hell!
Nor does this Censure only touch the Young,
But does alike to those of Years belong;
Who, rich as Jews, no other Pious Use
Make of their Wealth, but Vertue to Seduce:
Not Allen more did on this Pile bestow
Than they on Strumpets, or to make 'em so;
Witness Mill-Bank, where Osmin keeps his Trulls
With what, by sharing, he exacts from Fools.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |