Durgen Or, A Plain Satyr upon a Pompous Satyrist. Amicably Inscrib'd, by the Author, to those Worthy and Ingenious Gentlemen misrepresented in a late invective Poem, call'd, The Dunciad [by Edward Ward] |
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 | Durgen |  |
Suppose a Bard superlatively bright,
In Parts superior to the rest that Write,
Great in the wild opinion of the Town,
And flatter'd till much greater in his own,
Puff'd up with vain Applause and Self-conceit,
Those poor deceitful props to human Wit,
Which bear him up, persuant to his aim,
Till lodg'd upon the feeble wings of Fame,
Whence he looks proudly downward for a time,
Despising all the rest that deal in Rhime;
And, as from lofty Elms, the Rook or Crow
Mute on the lesser Birds that perch below,
He squirts down frothy Satyrs with contempt,
As if himself from Scandal was exempt,
Or that no injur'd Mortal durst oppose
The Darts he levels, or the Dirt he throws,
Describing Men like Monsters, tho' compleat
In Stature, Manners, Countenance and Wit;
When if he could but with impartial Eyes,
Behold himself, he would himself despise.
So strange a Figure, and so quaint a Face,
Reflected truly by a Venice Glass,
Mvst make him, Negro-like, the Mirrour break,
And hate the Substance for the Shadow's sake.
But hold, my angry Muse, bear not too hard,
Defects in Nature always shou'd be spar'd,
We know ill Manners merits no applause,
Yet when a cow'rdly Adversary draws
Unlawful Arms, to wound another's Fame,
'Tis lawful, in defence, to use the same.
In Parts superior to the rest that Write,
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And flatter'd till much greater in his own,
Puff'd up with vain Applause and Self-conceit,
Those poor deceitful props to human Wit,
Which bear him up, persuant to his aim,
Till lodg'd upon the feeble wings of Fame,
Whence he looks proudly downward for a time,
Despising all the rest that deal in Rhime;
And, as from lofty Elms, the Rook or Crow
Mute on the lesser Birds that perch below,
He squirts down frothy Satyrs with contempt,
As if himself from Scandal was exempt,
Or that no injur'd Mortal durst oppose
The Darts he levels, or the Dirt he throws,
Describing Men like Monsters, tho' compleat
In Stature, Manners, Countenance and Wit;
When if he could but with impartial Eyes,
Behold himself, he would himself despise.
So strange a Figure, and so quaint a Face,
Reflected truly by a Venice Glass,
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And hate the Substance for the Shadow's sake.
But hold, my angry Muse, bear not too hard,
Defects in Nature always shou'd be spar'd,
We know ill Manners merits no applause,
Yet when a cow'rdly Adversary draws
Unlawful Arms, to wound another's Fame,
'Tis lawful, in defence, to use the same.
| Durgen | |