The Works of Mr. John Oldham Together with his Remains |
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Upon a Printer that exposed him by Printing a Piece of his grosly mangled, and faulty.
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 | The Works of Mr. John Oldham |  |
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Upon a Printer that exposed him by Printing a Piece of his grosly mangled, and faulty.
Dull, and unthinking! hadst thou none but me
To plague, and urge to thine own Infamy?
Had I some tame and sneaking Author been,
Whose Muse to Love, and softness did incline,
Some small Adventurer in Song, that whines
Chloris and Phyllis out in charming lines,
Fit to divert mine Hostess, and mislead
The heart of some poor tawdry Waiting Maid;
Perhaps I might have then forgiven thee,
And thou hadst scap'd from my resentments free.
To plague, and urge to thine own Infamy?
Had I some tame and sneaking Author been,
Whose Muse to Love, and softness did incline,
Some small Adventurer in Song, that whines
Chloris and Phyllis out in charming lines,
Fit to divert mine Hostess, and mislead
The heart of some poor tawdry Waiting Maid;
Perhaps I might have then forgiven thee,
And thou hadst scap'd from my resentments free.
But I whom spleen, and manly rage inspire,
Brook no affront, at each offence take fire:
Born to chastise the Vices of the Age,
Which Pulpits dare not, nor the very Stage:
Sworn to lash Knaves of all degrees, and spare
None of the kind, however great they are:
Satyr's my only Province, and delight,
For whose dear sake alone I've vow'd to write:
For this I seek occasions, court Abuse,
To shew my Parts, and signalize my Muse:
Fond of a Quarrel, as young Bullies are
To make their Mettle, and their Skill appear:
And didst thou think I would a wrong acquit,
That touch'd my tender'st part of Honour, Wit?
No, Villain, may my Sins ne're pardon'd be
By Heav'n it self, if e're I pardon thee.
Brook no affront, at each offence take fire:
Born to chastise the Vices of the Age,
Which Pulpits dare not, nor the very Stage:
Sworn to lash Knaves of all degrees, and spare
None of the kind, however great they are:
Satyr's my only Province, and delight,
For whose dear sake alone I've vow'd to write:
For this I seek occasions, court Abuse,
To shew my Parts, and signalize my Muse:
Fond of a Quarrel, as young Bullies are
To make their Mettle, and their Skill appear:
And didst thou think I would a wrong acquit,
That touch'd my tender'st part of Honour, Wit?
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By Heav'n it self, if e're I pardon thee.
Members from breach of Privilege deter
By threatning Topham and a Messenger:
Scroggs, and the Brothers of the Coif oppose,
By force and dint of Statutes, and the Laws:
Strumpets of Billingsgate redress their wrongs
By the sole noise, and foulness of their Tongues:
And I go always arm'd for my defence,
To punish, and revenge an insolence.
I wear my Pen, as others do their Sword,
To each affronting Sot, I meet, the word
Is Satisfaction: strait to Thrusts I go,
And pointed Satyr runs him through and through.
By threatning Topham and a Messenger:
Scroggs, and the Brothers of the Coif oppose,
By force and dint of Statutes, and the Laws:
Strumpets of Billingsgate redress their wrongs
By the sole noise, and foulness of their Tongues:
And I go always arm'd for my defence,
To punish, and revenge an insolence.
I wear my Pen, as others do their Sword,
To each affronting Sot, I meet, the word
Is Satisfaction: strait to Thrusts I go,
And pointed Satyr runs him through and through.
Perhaps thou hop'dst that thy obscurity
Should be thy safeguard, and secure thee free.
No, wretch, I mean from thence to fetch thee out,
Like sentenc'd Felons, to be drag'd about:
Torn, mangled, and expos'd to scorn, and shame,
I mean to hang, and Gibbet up thy Name.
If thou to live in Satyr so much thirst,
Enjoy thy wish, and Fame, till envy burst,
Renown'd, as he, whom banish'd Ovid curst:
Or he, whom old Archilochus so stung
In Verse, that he for shame, and madness hung:
Deathless in infamy, do thou so live,
And let my Rage, like his, to Halters drive.
Should be thy safeguard, and secure thee free.
No, wretch, I mean from thence to fetch thee out,
Like sentenc'd Felons, to be drag'd about:
Torn, mangled, and expos'd to scorn, and shame,
I mean to hang, and Gibbet up thy Name.
If thou to live in Satyr so much thirst,
Enjoy thy wish, and Fame, till envy burst,
Renown'd, as he, whom banish'd Ovid curst:
Or he, whom old Archilochus so stung
In Verse, that he for shame, and madness hung:
Deathless in infamy, do thou so live,
And let my Rage, like his, to Halters drive.
Thou thoughtst perhaps my Gall was spent and gone,
My Venom drain'd, and I a stingless Drone:
Thou thoughtst I had no Curses lest in store;
But to thy sorrow know, and find I've more,
More, and more dreadful yet, able to scare,
Like Hell, and urge to Daggers, and Despair:
Such thou shalt feel, are still reserv'd by me,
To vex and force thee to thy Destiny:
Since thou hast brav'd my vengeance thus; prepare,
And tremble from my Pen thy Doom to hear.
My Venom drain'd, and I a stingless Drone:
Thou thoughtst I had no Curses lest in store;
But to thy sorrow know, and find I've more,
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Like Hell, and urge to Daggers, and Despair:
Such thou shalt feel, are still reserv'd by me,
To vex and force thee to thy Destiny:
Since thou hast brav'd my vengeance thus; prepare,
And tremble from my Pen thy Doom to hear.
Thou, who with spurious Nonsense durst profane
The genuine issue of a Poets Brain,
May'st thou hereafter never deal in Verse,
But what hoarse Bell-men in their Walks rehearse,
Or Smithfield Audience sung on Crickets hears:
May'st thou print H---, or some duller Ass,
Jordan, or Him, that wrote Dutch Hudibrass:
Or next vile Scribler of the House, whose Play
Will scarce for Candles, and their snuffing pay:
May you each other Curse; thy self undone,
And he the laughing-stock of all the Town.
The genuine issue of a Poets Brain,
May'st thou hereafter never deal in Verse,
But what hoarse Bell-men in their Walks rehearse,
Or Smithfield Audience sung on Crickets hears:
May'st thou print H---, or some duller Ass,
Jordan, or Him, that wrote Dutch Hudibrass:
Or next vile Scribler of the House, whose Play
Will scarce for Candles, and their snuffing pay:
May you each other Curse; thy self undone,
And he the laughing-stock of all the Town.
May'st thou ne're rise to History, but what
Poor Grubstreet Peny Chroniclers relate,
Memoirs of Tyburn, and the mournful State
Of Cut-purses in Holborn Cavalcade,
Till thou thy self be the same subject made.
Compell'd by want, may'st thou Print Popery,
For which be the Carts Arse, and Pillory,
Turnips, and rotten Eggs thy destiny.
Maul'd worse than Reading, Christian, or Cellier,
Till thou daub'd o're with loathsom filth, appear
Like Brat of some vile Drab in Privy found,
Which there has lain three months in Ordure drown'd.
Poor Grubstreet Peny Chroniclers relate,
Memoirs of Tyburn, and the mournful State
Of Cut-purses in Holborn Cavalcade,
Till thou thy self be the same subject made.
Compell'd by want, may'st thou Print Popery,
For which be the Carts Arse, and Pillory,
Turnips, and rotten Eggs thy destiny.
Maul'd worse than Reading, Christian, or Cellier,
Till thou daub'd o're with loathsom filth, appear
Like Brat of some vile Drab in Privy found,
Which there has lain three months in Ordure drown'd.
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The Plague of Poets, Rags, and Poverty,
Debts, Writs, Arrests, and Serjeants light on thee:
For others bound, may'st thou to Durance go,
Condemn'd to Scraps, and begging with a Shoo:
And may'st thou never from the Jail get free,
Till thou swear out thy self by Perjury:
Forlorn, abandon'd, pitiless, and poor,
As a pawn'd Cully, or a mortgag'd Whore,
May'st thou an Halter want for thy Redress,
Forc'd to steal Hemp to end thy miseries,
And damn thy self to balk the Hangmans Fees.
And may no saucy Fool have better Fate
That dares pull down the Vengeance of my Hate.
Debts, Writs, Arrests, and Serjeants light on thee:
For others bound, may'st thou to Durance go,
Condemn'd to Scraps, and begging with a Shoo:
And may'st thou never from the Jail get free,
Till thou swear out thy self by Perjury:
Forlorn, abandon'd, pitiless, and poor,
As a pawn'd Cully, or a mortgag'd Whore,
May'st thou an Halter want for thy Redress,
Forc'd to steal Hemp to end thy miseries,
And damn thy self to balk the Hangmans Fees.
And may no saucy Fool have better Fate
That dares pull down the Vengeance of my Hate.
| The Works of Mr. John Oldham | |