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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| 2. | The Second Part. |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
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.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |