The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
 | 1. |
|
|
| 2. |
|
| I. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| 3. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 4. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Commendatory Verses on the Author of the two
Arthurs, and the Satyr against Wit. By several
Hands, and collected by Mr. Brown.
|
|
 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
Commendatory Verses on the Author of the two Arthurs, and the Satyr against Wit. By several Hands, and collected by Mr. Brown.
A short and true History of the Author of the Satyr against Wit.
By Col. Codrington.
By Nature meant, by Want a Pedant made,
Bl---re at first profess'd the Whipping-trade;
Grown fond of Buttocks, he would lash no more,
But kindly cur'd the A---he gall'd before.
So Quack commenc'd; then fierce with Pride, he swore,
That Tooth-ach, Gripes, and Corns should be no more.
76
His Boys grew Blockheads, and his Patients dy'd.
Next, he turn'd Bard, and mounted on a Cart,
Whose hideous Rumbling made Apollo start;
Burlesqu'd the bravest, wisest Son of Mars,
In Ballad-Rhimes, and all the Pomp of Farce.
Still he chang'd Callings, and at length has hit
On Bus'ness for his matchless Talent fit,
To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit.
Upon the Author of the Satyr against Wit.
By Sir Charles Sidley.
A grave Physician us'd to write for Fees,
And spoil no Paper, but with Recipes,
Is now turn'd Poet, rails against all Wit,
Except that little found among the Great?
As if he thought true Wit and Sense were ty'd
To Men in Place, like Avarice or Pride.
But in their Praise so like a Quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box.
With Mangl'd Names, old Stories he pollutes,
And to the present Time, past Actions suits.
Amaz'd we find, in ev'ry Page he writes,
Members of Parliament, with Arthur's Knights.
It is a common Pastime to write ill;
And Doctor, with the rest, e'en take thy fill.
Thy Satyr's harmless; 'tis thy Prose that kills,
When thou prescrib'st thy Potions, and thy Pills.
77
To that incomparable Panegyrist, the Author of the Satyr upon Wit.
By Coll. Bl---.
Henceforth no more in thy Poetick Rage,
Burlesque the God-like Heroes of the Age;
No more King Arthurs be with Labour writ,
But follow Nature, and still rail at Wit,
For this thy mighty Genius was design'd;
In this thy Cares a due Success may find.
Opinions we more easily receive
From Guides, that practise by those Rules they give.
So Dullness thou may'st write into Esteem;
Thy great Example, as it is thy Theme.
Hope not to join (like G***rth's immortal Lays)
The keenest Satyr with the best of Praise.
Thy Satyrs bite not, but like Æsop's Ass,
Thou kick'st the Darling whom thou would'st caress.
Would'st thou our Youth from Poetry afright,
'Tis wisely done, thy self in Verse to write.
So drunken Slaves the Spartans did design
Should fright their Children from the Love of Wine,
Go on, and rail as thou hast done before.
Thus Lovers use, when picqu'd in an Amour;
The Nymph they can't enjoy, they call a Whore.
The Quack corrected; or, Advice to the Knight of the Ill favour'd Muse.
By the Right Honourable the Earl of ---
Let
Bl****re still, in good King Arthur's Vein,
To Fleckno's Empire his just Right maintain.
78
With Praise and Slander, maul both Friends and Foes;
Let him great Dr---d---n's awful Name prophane,
And learned G---rth with envious Pride disdain;
Codron's bright Genious with vile Puns lampoon,
And run a Muck at all the Wits in Town;
Let the Quack scribble any Thing but Bills,
His Satyr wounds not, but his Physick kills.
To the merry Poet after at Sadler's-Hall in Cheapside.
By Dr. ---
Unweildy Pedant, let thy awkward Muse
With Censures praise, with Flatteries abuse.
To lash, and not be felt, in thee's an Art;
Thou ne'er mad'st any, but thy School-boys smart.
Then be advis'd, and scribble not agen;
Thou'rt fashion'd for a Flail, and not a Pen.
If B---l's immortal Wit thou would'st decry,
Pretend 'tis he that writ thy Poetry.
Thy feeble Satyr ne'er can do him Wrong,
Thy Poems and thy Patients live not long.
An equal Match; or, a drawn Battle.
By Col. Codrington.
A monument of Dullness to erect,
B---y should write, and Bl---re correct,
Like which, no other Piece can e'er be wrought,
For Decency of Stile, and Life of Thought;
But that where B---y shall in Judgment sit,
To pare Excrescencies from Bl---re's Wit.
79
To the Mirrour of British Knighthood, the worthy Author of the Satyr against Wit: Occasion'd by the Hemistick, Pag. 8.
By Richard Steel, Esq;
—Heav'ns guard poor A***n.
Must I then passive stand? and can I hear
The Man I love, abus'd, and yet forbear?
Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend,
'Twas some Remorse thou did'st not him commend.
Thou do'st not all my Indignation raise;
For I prefer thy Pity, to thy Praise.
In vain thou would'st thy Name, dull Pedant hide;
There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside.
If Cæsar's Bounty for your Trash you've shar'd,
You are not the first Assassine he has spar'd.
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight,
Which P*rt*r may demand with equal Right.
The Man I love, abus'd, and yet forbear?
Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend,
'Twas some Remorse thou did'st not him commend.
Thou do'st not all my Indignation raise;
For I prefer thy Pity, to thy Praise.
In vain thou would'st thy Name, dull Pedant hide;
There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside.
If Cæsar's Bounty for your Trash you've shar'd,
You are not the first Assassine he has spar'd.
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight,
Which P*rt*r may demand with equal Right.
Well may'st thou think an useless Talent Wit;
Thou, who without it, ha'st three Poems writ:
Impenitrably dull, secure thou'rt found,
And can'st receive no more, than give a Wound:
Then scorn'd by all, to some dark Corner fly,
And in Lethargick Trance, expiring lie,
'Till thou from injur'd G**rth thy Cure receive,
And S**d only Absolution give.
Thou, who without it, ha'st three Poems writ:
Impenitrably dull, secure thou'rt found,
And can'st receive no more, than give a Wound:
Then scorn'd by all, to some dark Corner fly,
And in Lethargick Trance, expiring lie,
'Till thou from injur'd G**rth thy Cure receive,
And S**d only Absolution give.
To the Cheapside Kt. on his Satyr against Wit.
By Mr. William Burnaby.
Some scribling Fops so little value Fame,
They sometimes hit, because they never aim.
80
And, aiming, art inviolably dull.
Thy muddy Stream, no lucid Drop supplies,
But Puns like Bubbles on the Surface rise,
All that for Wit you could, you've kindly done;
You cannot write, but can be writ upon.
And a like Fate does either side befit,
Immortal Dulness, or immortal Wit.
In just Extreams an equal Merit lies,
And B---le and G***rth with thee must share the Prize,
Since thou can'st sink, as much as they can rise.
To the indefatigable Rhimer.
By Dr. Smith.
O! S***rs, T***t, D***ett, M***gue,
G***y, S***ld, C***sh, P***ke, V***n, you,
Who suffer Bl***re to insult your Taste,
And tamely hear him bluster in Bombast,
Bid him, before he dare to write agen,
Resign his own, and take some other Pen.
D***n shall Numbers, C***ve Wit inspire,
Dr***ke nicest Rules, but B***le and Codron Fire.
Then G***rth shall teach him, and his witless Tribe,
First to write Sense, and after to prescribe.
The unlearn'd Pedant thus may please the Town,
But his own nauseous Trash will ne'er go down;
For naught can equal what the Bard has writ,
But R***ff's Scholarship, and G***n's Wit.
81
A modest Request to the Poetical Knight.
By Col. Codrington.
Since
B***y's Nonsense to out-do, you strive,
Vain to be thought the dullest Wretch alive,
And such in imitable Strains have writ,
That the most famous Blockheads must submit;
Long may you Reign, and long unenvy'd live,
And none invade your great Prerogative.
But in Return, your Poetry give o'er,
And persecute poor Job, and us no more.
Wholesome Advice to a City Knight, over-run with Rhimes and Hypocrisie: Occasion'd by his Satyr against Wit.
By the Right Honourable the Earl of Anglisea.
We bid thee not give o'er the Killing-Trade:
Whilst Fees come in, 'tis fruitless to disswade.
Religion is a Trick you've practis'd long,
To bring in Pence, and gull the gaping Throng.
But all thy Patients now perceive thy Aim,
They find thy Morals and thy skill the same.
Then, if thou would'st thy Ignorance redress,
Prithee mind Physick more, and Rhiming less.
82
To a thrice illustrious Quack, Pedant, and Bard, on his incomparable Poem, call'd, A Satyr against Wit.
By the Right Hon. the Countess of Sandwich.
Thou Fund of Nonsense, was it not enough,
That Cits and pious Ladies lik'd thy Stuff,
That as thou copy'dst Virgil, all might see,
Judicious Bell-men imitated thee:
That to thy Cadence, Sextons set their Chimes,
And Nurses, skimming Possets hum'd thy Rhimes.
But thou must needs fall foul on Men of Sense,
With Dulness equal to thy Impudence.
Are D**n, C*dr**n, G**th, V**k, B*le,
Those Names of Wonder, that adorn our Isle,
Fit Subjects for thy vile pedantick Pen?
Hence sawcy Usher, to thy Desk again.
Construe Dutch Notes, and pore upon Boys A---es,
But, prithee write no more heroick Farces.
Teach blooming Blockheads by thy own try'd Rules,
To give us Demonstration that they're Fools.
Let 'em by N---'s Sermon-Stile refine
Their English Prose, their Poetry by thine.
Let W*sl**y's Rhimes their Emulation raise,
And Ar**wk**r, instruct 'em how to praise.
That, when all Ages in this Truth agree,
They're finish'd Dunces, they may rival thee;
Thou only Strain to mighty William's Sword!
Old Jemmy never knighted such a T---d.
For the most nauseous Mixture God can make,
Is a dull Pedant, and a busie Quack.
83
To Sir R**** Bl****re, on the two Arthurs being condemn'd to be hang'd.
Once more take Pen in Hand, obsequious Knight,For here's a Theme thou can'st not underwrite,
Unless the Devil owes thy Muse a Spite.
To Prince and King thy Dullness Life did give;
Let then these Arthurs too in Dogg'rel live.
A Tale.
By Col. Codrington.
Poems and Prose of diff'rent Force lay Claim,
With the same Confidence to Tully's Name;
And shallow Criticks were content to say,
Prose was his Bus'ness, Poetry his Play.
Thus Cæsar thought, thus Brutus and the rest.
Who knew the Man, and knew his Talent best.
With the same Confidence to Tully's Name;
And shallow Criticks were content to say,
Prose was his Bus'ness, Poetry his Play.
Thus Cæsar thought, thus Brutus and the rest.
Who knew the Man, and knew his Talent best.
Maurus arose, sworn Foe to Health and Wit,
Who Folio Bills and Folio Ballads writ;
Who bustl'd much for Bread, and for Renown,
By Lies and Poison scatter'd through the Town.
To Roman Wives with Veneration known,
For Roman Wives were very like our own.
And Husbands then we find in Latin Song,
Would love too little, and would live too long.
Tully, says he, 'tis plain to Friends and Foes,
Writes his own Verse, but borrows all his Prose,
He fearless was, because he was not brave;
A noble Roman would not beat a Slave.
The Counsel smiling, said, Judicious Friend,
Thy shining Genious shall thy Works defend,
Inimitable Strokes defend thy Fame;
Thy Beauties and thy Force are still the same:
And I must yield, with the consenting Town,
Thy Ballads and thy Bills are all thy own.
Who Folio Bills and Folio Ballads writ;
Who bustl'd much for Bread, and for Renown,
By Lies and Poison scatter'd through the Town.
To Roman Wives with Veneration known,
For Roman Wives were very like our own.
And Husbands then we find in Latin Song,
Would love too little, and would live too long.
Tully, says he, 'tis plain to Friends and Foes,
Writes his own Verse, but borrows all his Prose,
He fearless was, because he was not brave;
A noble Roman would not beat a Slave.
The Counsel smiling, said, Judicious Friend,
Thy shining Genious shall thy Works defend,
Inimitable Strokes defend thy Fame;
Thy Beauties and thy Force are still the same:
84
Thy Ballads and thy Bills are all thy own.
Upon the Character of Codron, as 'tis drawn by the bungling Knight, in his Satyr against Wit.
By Col. Codrington.
How kind is Malice manag'd by a Sot,
Where no Design directs the Embryo Thought,
And Praise and Satyr stumble out by Lot.
The mortal Thrust to Codron's Heart design'd,
Proves a soft wanton Touch to charm his Mind.
Can M***nt***gue or D**rs***t higher soar?
Or can immortal Sh***ff***ld wish for more?
Brightness, Force, Justness, Delicacy, Ease,
Must form that Wit, that can the Ladies please.
No false affected Rules debauch their Taste,
No fruitless Toils their gen'rous Spirits waste,
Which wear a Wit into a Dunce at last.
No lumber Learning gives an awkward Pride,
False Maxims cramp not, nor false Lights misguide.
Voiture and W***lsh their easie Hours employ,
Voiture and W***lsh, oft read will never cloy.
With Care they guard the Musick of their Stile,
They fly from B***ly, and converse with B***le:
They steal no Terms, no Notions from the Schools,
The Pedant's Pleasure, and the Pride of Fools;
With native Charms their matchless Thoughts surprize,
Soft as their Souls, and beauteous as their Eyes:
Gay as the Light, and unconfin'd as Air,
Chast and sublime, all worthy of the Fair.
How then can a rough artless Indian Wit
The faultless Palates of the Ladies fit?
Codron will never stand so nice a Test,
Nor is't with Praise, fair Mouths oblige him best.
85
Whilst Codron aims not at Applause, but Hearts.
Secure him those, and thou shalt name the rest,
Thy Spite shall chuse the worst, thy Taste the best.
He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign,
He will with Buxtorf and with B---ly shine,
And be a Wit in any Way but thine,
An Epigram on Job, travested by the City Bard.
By Col. Codrington.
Poor
Job lost all the Comforts of his Life,
And hardly sav'd a Potsherd, and a Wife:
Yet Job blest God, and Job again was blest,
His Virtue was essay'd, and bore the Test.
But had Heav'ns Wrath pour'd out its fiercest Vial,
Had he been then burlesqu'd, without Denial,
The patient Man had yielded to that Tryal.
His pious Spouse, with Bl---re on her Side,
Must have prevail'd, and Job had curs'd, and dy'd.
To the Adventurous Knight of Cheapside, upon his Satyr against Wit.
By Mr. Manning.
What Frenzy has possess'd thy desp'rate Brain,
To rail at Wit in this unhallow'd Strain?
Reproach of thy own kind! to slander Sense,
The nobl'st Gift bestow'd by Providence!
Was it Revenge provok'd thee thus to write,
Because thou'rt curs'd to such a dearth of Wit?
Or was it eager Passion for a Name,
To be inroll'd among the Fools of Fame?
86
Would fire a Church to make his Name secure?
Or was it thy Despair at length to find
Thy loads of Chaff the Sport of ev'ry Wind?
To see thy hasty Muse, that loves to roam,
Promise such Journeys, but come founder'd Home?
Just fate of Sots, who think in their vain Breast,
Their Coffee-Rhimes shall stand the publick Test:
Seiz'd with prolifick Dulness, 'tis thy Curse
To write still on, and still too for the worse.
Who hates not Wes***y, may thy Works esteem,
Both alike able to disgrace their Theme.
But thou, through wild Conceit, aspiring still,
Claim'st, in thy ravings, Esculapian-skill.
Quack, thou art sure in both, and curs'd is he,
Who guided by his adverse Stars to thee,
Employs thy deadly Potions to reclaim
His feeble Health, thy Pen to spread his Fame.
To the canting Author of the Satyr against Wit.
By --- Mildmay, Esq;
The Preacher Maurus cries, All Wit is vain,
Unless 'tis like his Godliness, for Gain.
Of most vain Things he may the Folly own;
But Wit's a Vanity he has not known.
Friendly Advice to Dr. Bl---
By the Right Honourable the Lord ---
Knighthood to Heroes only once was due,
Now's the Reward of stupid praise in you.
Why should a Quack be dubb'd, unless it be
That Pois'ning is an Act of Chivalry?
Thus we must own, you have your Thousands slain
With direful strokes of your resistless Pen.
By whipping the Boys, your Cruelty began,
And grew, by bolder Steps, to killing Man.
Just the reverse of Dionysius Fate,
Who fell to flogging Bums, from murdering the State.
For both these Trades your Genius far unfit,
At length with sawcy Pride aspires to Wit.
Which by pretending to, you more disgrace,
Than toasting Beaus, our ancient British Race.
I'th' Mountebank the Ass had lain conceal'd,
But his loud braying has the Brute reveal'd.
Such vile Heroicks, such unhallow'd Strains,
Were never spawn'd before from Irish Brains;
Nor drowsy Mum, nor dozing Usquebaugh,
Could e'er suggest such Lines to Sir John Daw,
You weakly skirmish with the Sins o'th' Age,
And are the errant Scavenger o'th' Stage.
Why Vertue makes no progress now is plain,
Because such Knights as you its Cause maintain.
If you'd a Friend to Sense and Virtue be,
And to Mankind, for once be rul'd by me,
Leave Moralizing, Drugs and Poetry.
Now's the Reward of stupid praise in you.
87
That Pois'ning is an Act of Chivalry?
Thus we must own, you have your Thousands slain
With direful strokes of your resistless Pen.
By whipping the Boys, your Cruelty began,
And grew, by bolder Steps, to killing Man.
Just the reverse of Dionysius Fate,
Who fell to flogging Bums, from murdering the State.
For both these Trades your Genius far unfit,
At length with sawcy Pride aspires to Wit.
Which by pretending to, you more disgrace,
Than toasting Beaus, our ancient British Race.
I'th' Mountebank the Ass had lain conceal'd,
But his loud braying has the Brute reveal'd.
Such vile Heroicks, such unhallow'd Strains,
Were never spawn'd before from Irish Brains;
Nor drowsy Mum, nor dozing Usquebaugh,
Could e'er suggest such Lines to Sir John Daw,
You weakly skirmish with the Sins o'th' Age,
And are the errant Scavenger o'th' Stage.
Why Vertue makes no progress now is plain,
Because such Knights as you its Cause maintain.
If you'd a Friend to Sense and Virtue be,
And to Mankind, for once be rul'd by me,
Leave Moralizing, Drugs and Poetry.
To Dr. Garth, on the fourth Edition of his Incomparable Poem, The Dispensary; occasion'd by some Lines in the Satyr against Wit.
By Dr. James Drake.
Bold thy Attempts, in these hard Times, to raise
In our unfriendly Clime, the tender Bays,
While Northern Blasts drive from the neighb'ring Flood,
And nip the springing Lawrel in the Bud.
On such bleak Paths our present Poets tread,
The very Garland withers on each Head.
In vain the Criticks strive to purge the Soil,
Fertile in Weeds, it mocks their busie Toil.
Spontaneous Crops of Jobs and Arthurs rise,
Whose tow'ring Nonsense braves the very Skies.
Like Paper-kites, the empty Volumes fly,
And by mere force of Wind are rais'd on high.
In our unfriendly Clime, the tender Bays,
While Northern Blasts drive from the neighb'ring Flood,
And nip the springing Lawrel in the Bud.
88
The very Garland withers on each Head.
In vain the Criticks strive to purge the Soil,
Fertile in Weeds, it mocks their busie Toil.
Spontaneous Crops of Jobs and Arthurs rise,
Whose tow'ring Nonsense braves the very Skies.
Like Paper-kites, the empty Volumes fly,
And by mere force of Wind are rais'd on high.
While we did these with stupid Patience spare,
And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care,
The Muses Garden did small Product yield,
But Hemp and Hemlock over-ran the Field;
'Till skilful Garth, with salutary Hand,
Taught us to weed, and cure poetick Land;
Grubb'd up the Brakes and Thistles which he found,
And sow'd with Verse and Wit the sacred Ground.
But now the Riches of that Soil appear,
Which four fair Harvests yields in half a Year.
And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care,
The Muses Garden did small Product yield,
But Hemp and Hemlock over-ran the Field;
'Till skilful Garth, with salutary Hand,
Taught us to weed, and cure poetick Land;
Grubb'd up the Brakes and Thistles which he found,
And sow'd with Verse and Wit the sacred Ground.
But now the Riches of that Soil appear,
Which four fair Harvests yields in half a Year.
No more let Criticks of the want complain
Of Mantuan Verse, or the Mæonian Strain;
Above them Garth does on their Shoulders rise,
And, what our Language wants, his Wit supplies,
Fam'd Poets after him shall strain their Throats,
And unfledg'd Muses chirp their infant Notes.
Of Mantuan Verse, or the Mæonian Strain;
Above them Garth does on their Shoulders rise,
And, what our Language wants, his Wit supplies,
Fam'd Poets after him shall strain their Throats,
And unfledg'd Muses chirp their infant Notes.
Yes, Garth, thy Enemies confess thy Store,
They burst with Envy, yet they long for more:
Ev'n we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindness call,
To see thy Stock so large, and Gift so small.
But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid,
And richest Wines in litle Casks convey'd.
They burst with Envy, yet they long for more:
Ev'n we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindness call,
To see thy Stock so large, and Gift so small.
But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid,
And richest Wines in litle Casks convey'd.
Let lumpish Bl---re his dull Hackney freight,
And break his Back with heavy Folio's Weight;
His Pegasus is of the Flanders Breed,
And limb'd for Draught or Burthen, not for Speed.
With Cart horse trot, he sweats beneath the Pack
Of rhiming Prose and Knighthood on his Back.
Made for a Drudge, e'en let him beat the Road,
And tug of senseless Reams th'Heroick load;
'Till o'er-strain'd, the Jade is set, and tires,
And sinking in the Mud, with Groans expires.
And break his Back with heavy Folio's Weight;
His Pegasus is of the Flanders Breed,
And limb'd for Draught or Burthen, not for Speed.
With Cart horse trot, he sweats beneath the Pack
Of rhiming Prose and Knighthood on his Back.
Made for a Drudge, e'en let him beat the Road,
And tug of senseless Reams th'Heroick load;
'Till o'er-strain'd, the Jade is set, and tires,
And sinking in the Mud, with Groans expires.
89
Then Bl---re shall this Favour owe to thee,
That thou perpetuat'st his Memory.
Bavius and Mævius so their Works survive,
And in one single Line of Virgil's live.
That thou perpetuat'st his Memory.
Bavius and Mævius so their Works survive,
And in one single Line of Virgil's live.
To a Famous Doctor and Poet at Sadlers-hall.
If Wit (as we are told) be a Disease,And if Physicians cure by Contraries;
Bl---re alone the healing Secret knows,
'Tis from his Pen the grand Elixir flows.
To the Cheapside Quack; occasion'd by this Verse in the Satyr against Wit.
‘Who with more ease can cure, than C**ch kill.
By a Gentleman whom Dr. C***lb***ch had cur'd of the Gout.
How durst thy railing Muse, vain Wretch, pretend
In base Lampoons thus to abuse my Friend!
Whose sacred Art has freed me from my Pains,
And broke a haughty Tyrant's stubborn Chains?
Keep off, for if thou com'st within my Clutches,
I'll baste thy Knighthood with my quondam Crutches,
The gen'rous Wine that does my Sorrows drown,
The charming Cælia that my Nights does crown,
The manly pleasures of the sporting Fields,
The gay delights the pompous Drama yields;
All this, and more, to his great Skill I owe,
Such Blessings can thy boasted Helps bestow?
The Snuff of Life, perhaps thy feeble Art
May fondly lengthen to thy Patients smart;
But Health no more 'tis in thy Pow'r to give,
Than thy dull Muse can make her Heroes live.
In base Lampoons thus to abuse my Friend!
Whose sacred Art has freed me from my Pains,
And broke a haughty Tyrant's stubborn Chains?
Keep off, for if thou com'st within my Clutches,
I'll baste thy Knighthood with my quondam Crutches,
The gen'rous Wine that does my Sorrows drown,
The charming Cælia that my Nights does crown,
The manly pleasures of the sporting Fields,
The gay delights the pompous Drama yields;
All this, and more, to his great Skill I owe,
Such Blessings can thy boasted Helps bestow?
The Snuff of Life, perhaps thy feeble Art
May fondly lengthen to thy Patients smart;
90
Than thy dull Muse can make her Heroes live.
Ev'n War and Plague of killing to arraign
In thee, is most nonsensical and vain:
Thee, who a branded Killer art declar'd
In both Capacities of Quack and Bard.
Whatever Sots to thy Prescriptions fly,
For their vain Confidence, are sure to die;
And whate'er Argument thy Muse employs,
Her awkward, stupid Management destroys.
Death with sure Steps thy Doses still attends,
And Death too follows, whom thy Muse commends,
What can escape thy all-destroying Quill
When ev'n thy Cordials, and thy Praises kill?
Thy Mother, sure, when in Despair and Pain
She brought thee forth, thought of the Murd'rer Cain.
In thee, is most nonsensical and vain:
Thee, who a branded Killer art declar'd
In both Capacities of Quack and Bard.
Whatever Sots to thy Prescriptions fly,
For their vain Confidence, are sure to die;
And whate'er Argument thy Muse employs,
Her awkward, stupid Management destroys.
Death with sure Steps thy Doses still attends,
And Death too follows, whom thy Muse commends,
What can escape thy all-destroying Quill
When ev'n thy Cordials, and thy Praises kill?
Thy Mother, sure, when in Despair and Pain
She brought thee forth, thought of the Murd'rer Cain.
To that most incomparable Bard and Quack, the Author of the Satyr against Wit.
By Tho. Cheek, Esq;
I charge thee, Knight, in Great Apollo's Name,
If thou'rt not dead to all Reproof and Shame,
Either thy Rhimes or Clysters to disclaim.
Both are too much, one feeble Brain to rack,
Besides, the Bard will soon undo the Quack.
Such Shoals of Readers thy damn'd Fustian kills,
Thou'lt scarce leave one alive to take thy Pills.
A merry Ballad on the City Bard.
By the Honourable Richard Norton, Esq;
In
London City, near Cheap-side,
A wond'rous Bard does dwell
Whose Epicks (if they're not bely'd)
Do Virgil's far excel.
91
Both Poet and Physician;
Artist as famous in his Kind,
For ought I know, as Titian.
In Coffee-houses purest Air,
His soggy Lines he writes,
In Fields of Dust and Spittle there
This British' Hero fights.
By sudden Motion then o'erta'en,
The Privy-house he chuses;
Great are his Thoughts, and great his Pain,
And yet no Time he loses.
Grip'd in his Guts and Muse, he there indites,
And praises Arthur most, when most he sh---
92
On the Treatment of the Modern Drama. By Mr. Kn*** of Magd. Coll.
Once Bear and Champion did engage
In mortal fray on Roman Stage:
Our Moderns have reviv'd the matter,
The former Age renew'd in latter,
And made Bear-garden of Theatre.
Here Beau, the only Modish Brute,
With honest Authors does dispute:
And as on Roman Stage predicted,
Fell Wound on Champion was inflicted,
When stout Bruino kept his Station,
Invoking Brother Constellation
To assist him in the Disputation:
To curry poor Heroic Hide well,
And harrow Carcass, Back and Side well;
But tho' he got a bloody Rump on't,
His Honour still came off Triumphant.
So tho' the Pit Grimalkins, that maul
With wicked Serenade of Catcall,
Oft rout a poor Dramatic Hero,
(As Teague was once by lero, lero.)
A well-writ Play, like Russians treat,
Confound the Scene, and Blot defeat,
In spite of all the Dammee Chorus,
Th'immortal Wit is still victorious.
In mortal fray on Roman Stage:
Our Moderns have reviv'd the matter,
The former Age renew'd in latter,
And made Bear-garden of Theatre.
Here Beau, the only Modish Brute,
With honest Authors does dispute:
And as on Roman Stage predicted,
Fell Wound on Champion was inflicted,
When stout Bruino kept his Station,
Invoking Brother Constellation
To assist him in the Disputation:
To curry poor Heroic Hide well,
And harrow Carcass, Back and Side well;
But tho' he got a bloody Rump on't,
His Honour still came off Triumphant.
So tho' the Pit Grimalkins, that maul
With wicked Serenade of Catcall,
Oft rout a poor Dramatic Hero,
(As Teague was once by lero, lero.)
A well-writ Play, like Russians treat,
Confound the Scene, and Blot defeat,
In spite of all the Dammee Chorus,
Th'immortal Wit is still victorious.
I then in person of an Author,
Since good Dramatics have no growth here,
Like pious Felons doom'd to be
Made Pendulum for Gallow-tree;
That gives advice, lest sinful Mortal,
Like him his days in Hemp should curtail,
Advise you all to leave off Writing,
The mortal Sin of well enditing,
But if no Counsel can be used
By riming Wretch when once be-mused,
(For Crown and Bum there's such a curse in,
They're ne'er at ease, but when untrussing)
Since wholsom Salt of Author season'd,
To taste of Nation is unpleasant,
(When busie Noddle's next in labour,
And has a need to purge on Paper)
Invoke the bastard Race of Phæbus,
Skill'd in Acrostic, Pun, and Rebus,
With spirit of late Marriage-hater,
T'assist to make Lampoon on Nature,
And ev'n on Farce it self a Satyr;
For that alone gives titillation,
And saves poor Poet from damnation.
Since good Dramatics have no growth here,
Like pious Felons doom'd to be
Made Pendulum for Gallow-tree;
That gives advice, lest sinful Mortal,
Like him his days in Hemp should curtail,
Advise you all to leave off Writing,
The mortal Sin of well enditing,
But if no Counsel can be used
By riming Wretch when once be-mused,
93
They're ne'er at ease, but when untrussing)
Since wholsom Salt of Author season'd,
To taste of Nation is unpleasant,
(When busie Noddle's next in labour,
And has a need to purge on Paper)
Invoke the bastard Race of Phæbus,
Skill'd in Acrostic, Pun, and Rebus,
With spirit of late Marriage-hater,
T'assist to make Lampoon on Nature,
And ev'n on Farce it self a Satyr;
For that alone gives titillation,
And saves poor Poet from damnation.
On Dr. Lower, who was observed to be grown good-natur'd a little before his Death. By another hand.
Had not good humour o'er the ill prevail'd,Death in attempting Dr. Lower had fail'd;
For he, alas, good Man, in Health declin'd,
By changing the bad Manners of his Mind:
And's very Understanding got a Cough,
By leaving an old Habit too soon off.
For had he kept his Humour most austere,
He might have yet liv'd with us many a Year,
Preserv'd in his own Pickle, Vinegar:
But when the Alkali had kill'd the sow'r,
His Blood being sweeten'd, off troopt Dr. Lower.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |