To Poet Bavius occasion'd by his Satyr He Writ in his Verses to the King, upon the Queens being Deliver'd of a Son [by Aphra Behn] |
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 | To Poet Bavius |  |
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UPON THE POET BAVIUS.
A labouring
Muse, that full Nine Months had been
In Painful thro' s Pregnant at last became.
Nine Months a Loyal Zeal had Fir'd my Breast,
Which for Nine Muses cou'd not be at rest.
Tell me, vain hard'ned Scribler, what Pretence
Have those two Lines, to Kindred, or to Sense?
The Luckey gingle of the Nine and Nine,
Produc'd 'em without Thinking or Design.
The first thy Loyalties short date Rehearses:
The next, how Damnably thou Pump'st for Verses.
But Duty did my desperate Ray Controule:
'Tis False, thy Muse was Tame, as is thy Soul:
Thou hast no Rage, no Fire, no Spirit or Power,
But Feeble Rancor, for the Happy Hour.
Some could not Bridle their Officious Rhime,
But must bestow an Heir before the Time.
While thou dull Faithless Scribling Infidel,
Cou'd not Believe till thou cou'dst See, and Feel:
We like the Joyful Patriarchs of Old,
Believ'd the good to Come, when but Fore told.
But thou, as scanted in thy Faith as Sense,
Wanted the Courage to Trust Providence.
It was enough, we saw a Pregnant Queen!
To Inspire our Muse, tho' we no more had seen.
Where each well-wisher Honestly intends,
Good will for Paltry Lines must make amends:
And why so sharp Squire Bavius on your Friends?
Thou who hast been this Fifteen Years at least,
Thro' all the Town the most Notorious Jest;
E're (to Increase thy Foppery) thou hadst Writ:
The Scorne o'th' Boxes, Laughter of the Pit.
Famous in Julians Song, till Vile Lampoon
Discarded thee for a too dull Buffoon.
But once a Poet, our Diversion fail'd;
Thou fellest below, even being Redicul'd:
And had not thy Unlucky Rhiming Spirit,
Writ Satyr now, instead of Panygerick:
Vile Pointless Satyr, thou might'st still have been
A poor forgotten Drone without a Sting:
And without notice follow'd still the King.
His Couchees, and his Levies, wait, and get
As much, as by thy ever failing Wit.
In Painful thro' s Pregnant at last became.
Nine Months a Loyal Zeal had Fir'd my Breast,
Which for Nine Muses cou'd not be at rest.
Tell me, vain hard'ned Scribler, what Pretence
Have those two Lines, to Kindred, or to Sense?
The Luckey gingle of the Nine and Nine,
Produc'd 'em without Thinking or Design.
The first thy Loyalties short date Rehearses:
The next, how Damnably thou Pump'st for Verses.
But Duty did my desperate Ray Controule:
'Tis False, thy Muse was Tame, as is thy Soul:
Thou hast no Rage, no Fire, no Spirit or Power,
But Feeble Rancor, for the Happy Hour.
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But must bestow an Heir before the Time.
While thou dull Faithless Scribling Infidel,
Cou'd not Believe till thou cou'dst See, and Feel:
We like the Joyful Patriarchs of Old,
Believ'd the good to Come, when but Fore told.
But thou, as scanted in thy Faith as Sense,
Wanted the Courage to Trust Providence.
It was enough, we saw a Pregnant Queen!
To Inspire our Muse, tho' we no more had seen.
Where each well-wisher Honestly intends,
Good will for Paltry Lines must make amends:
And why so sharp Squire Bavius on your Friends?
Thou who hast been this Fifteen Years at least,
Thro' all the Town the most Notorious Jest;
E're (to Increase thy Foppery) thou hadst Writ:
The Scorne o'th' Boxes, Laughter of the Pit.
Famous in Julians Song, till Vile Lampoon
Discarded thee for a too dull Buffoon.
5
Thou fellest below, even being Redicul'd:
And had not thy Unlucky Rhiming Spirit,
Writ Satyr now, instead of Panygerick:
Vile Pointless Satyr, thou might'st still have been
A poor forgotten Drone without a Sting:
And without notice follow'd still the King.
His Couchees, and his Levies, wait, and get
As much, as by thy ever failing Wit.
VVhile with Abortive Lines the Land you fill,
And make the Consort hear your Nonsense still.
Such Sawcy Puns, with an Irreverend, She—
And World of Do's makes up thy Poetry:
Below thy Native Dulness sinks thy Rhimes,
And are a Woful Libel on the Times.
Maces and Furrs, their Princes Favour gone,
Neglected, look like Roses after June:
Or, like Fop Bavius Verse, quite out of Tune.
Why does the Trading City look so Blew?
Unless by Trusting Sharping Bavius like you.
And why, a Body that no Soul can Boast,
Or why have they their Princes Favour lost?
The King no Thanks will give your Misplac'd Zeal,
To judge his Sentiments t'th' Commonweal.
And make the Consort hear your Nonsense still.
Such Sawcy Puns, with an Irreverend, She—
And World of Do's makes up thy Poetry:
Below thy Native Dulness sinks thy Rhimes,
And are a Woful Libel on the Times.
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Neglected, look like Roses after June:
Or, like Fop Bavius Verse, quite out of Tune.
Why does the Trading City look so Blew?
Unless by Trusting Sharping Bavius like you.
And why, a Body that no Soul can Boast,
Or why have they their Princes Favour lost?
The King no Thanks will give your Misplac'd Zeal,
To judge his Sentiments t'th' Commonweal.
If Roses after June; are Roses still;
Retain their Colour, Beauty, and their Smell:
The Novelty begets 'em more Esteem,
Than if they Bloom'd the common Month of June.
So while the City keeps her Loyalty,
She's still in Favour; and deserves to be,
Inspight of all thy ill-tim'd Poetry.
And who, but Rhiming Bavius, could suppose
Maces, and Furrs, so very like a Rose.
Or think, because the Judges Chaines is gone,
The gaudy Triffle lost, the Man's undone:
Dull Fool, that ne're to Merit gave its due,
But thinks all Vertue to consist of Show:
As if the Man, once Worth his Prince's Grace,
Must with his short-liv'd Frown become an Ass.
A Prince's Favour, then, by the same Rule,
Shou'd make him Lov'd, or VVise that is a Fool.
Retain their Colour, Beauty, and their Smell:
The Novelty begets 'em more Esteem,
Than if they Bloom'd the common Month of June.
So while the City keeps her Loyalty,
She's still in Favour; and deserves to be,
Inspight of all thy ill-tim'd Poetry.
And who, but Rhiming Bavius, could suppose
Maces, and Furrs, so very like a Rose.
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The gaudy Triffle lost, the Man's undone:
Dull Fool, that ne're to Merit gave its due,
But thinks all Vertue to consist of Show:
As if the Man, once Worth his Prince's Grace,
Must with his short-liv'd Frown become an Ass.
A Prince's Favour, then, by the same Rule,
Shou'd make him Lov'd, or VVise that is a Fool.
But now the bitter Robe; the Reverend Gown,
Doom'd by his Nations Scandal, must go down:
First tell us, that thou art a Renigade,
E're to thy Mother thou turn Retrograde:
If of the Primitive Roman Church thou be,
(Heaven guard her from so great an Infamie:)
Stick to that Point, and then we Pardon Thee.
But thou who still the Establish'd Faith Profest,
Like an Ungrateful Bird, Bewrayst thy Nest:
Or like the Amphibious Batt, that shuns the Light,
VVith Beast canst walk, and with the Fowles take flight.
Doom'd by his Nations Scandal, must go down:
First tell us, that thou art a Renigade,
E're to thy Mother thou turn Retrograde:
If of the Primitive Roman Church thou be,
(Heaven guard her from so great an Infamie:)
Stick to that Point, and then we Pardon Thee.
But thou who still the Establish'd Faith Profest,
Like an Ungrateful Bird, Bewrayst thy Nest:
Or like the Amphibious Batt, that shuns the Light,
VVith Beast canst walk, and with the Fowles take flight.
8
The next high Jest, is the Discarded stuff;
Now Bavius hand is in, he claws it off.
And like Almanzor when Inrag'd he grows,
Promiscuously he falls on Friends and Foes.
Tho' with Substantial Limbs, and brisk in Walking,
Without your Staff you are but Lame and Halting.
Oh Luckey hit! what strange Prodigious skill
Thou hast in Clinching, Quibling, Doggeril,
Now Bavius hand is in, he claws it off.
And like Almanzor when Inrag'd he grows,
Promiscuously he falls on Friends and Foes.
Tho' with Substantial Limbs, and brisk in Walking,
Without your Staff you are but Lame and Halting.
Oh Luckey hit! what strange Prodigious skill
Thou hast in Clinching, Quibling, Doggeril,
The Colonels next; but by unhappy Chance,
No Puns the value of these Lines Advance:
But Dids, and Does, and a quant Simely,
VVhich must the Place of smarter Clinch supply.
He tells you here, That loss of a Commission,
Is very much like a Death-Bed Contrition:
Nay, what is worse, so wretched is their Fate,
No Galloon-Coats their Levires now must wait;
In Bavius Sense, VVit, Honour, Vertue lyes
In the Lac'd-Coat and Gay-Embroaderies.
Nor is the Garter from his Rage exempt,
Turn'd off, he adds the weight of his Contempt:
Unhappy Peers, when once you're in Disgrace;
Your Ribban's Dirty, and your Stars are Brass:
VVorse than Beau Bavius Belt all set with Glass.
The Suck-Blood Vermin of the Robe alone,
Can Smile to see Men every day undone.
No Puns the value of these Lines Advance:
But Dids, and Does, and a quant Simely,
VVhich must the Place of smarter Clinch supply.
He tells you here, That loss of a Commission,
Is very much like a Death-Bed Contrition:
Nay, what is worse, so wretched is their Fate,
No Galloon-Coats their Levires now must wait;
In Bavius Sense, VVit, Honour, Vertue lyes
In the Lac'd-Coat and Gay-Embroaderies.
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Turn'd off, he adds the weight of his Contempt:
Unhappy Peers, when once you're in Disgrace;
Your Ribban's Dirty, and your Stars are Brass:
VVorse than Beau Bavius Belt all set with Glass.
The Suck-Blood Vermin of the Robe alone,
Can Smile to see Men every day undone.
If by Permissu Superiorum, this
Dull, Sawcy Libel, thro' the Town must pass:
VVhere Reverend Bishops, Ravenous Wolves are deem'd;
And all the Judges, Bloody Knaves esteem'd:
White Staves, Blew Garters, all within his reach;
His Evidence Muse, must of some Crime Impeach.
Then farewell all good Manners, Sense, and VVit,
If Superiorums will such Stuff admit.
But this was slyly meant, like all the rest;
Upon the Reverend Fathers for a Jest.
No Order, Honour, or High Place, can be
From his Immortal Nonsense Satyr free.
Dull, Sawcy Libel, thro' the Town must pass:
VVhere Reverend Bishops, Ravenous Wolves are deem'd;
And all the Judges, Bloody Knaves esteem'd:
White Staves, Blew Garters, all within his reach;
His Evidence Muse, must of some Crime Impeach.
Then farewell all good Manners, Sense, and VVit,
If Superiorums will such Stuff admit.
But this was slyly meant, like all the rest;
Upon the Reverend Fathers for a Jest.
No Order, Honour, or High Place, can be
From his Immortal Nonsense Satyr free.
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Hadst thou not better in a few dull Lines,
Plain Honest Meeter—tag'd with gingling Rhimes;
In thy Coronation Stile, and usual Sense,
Hamer'd some Hearty welcome to the Prince:
Kept to thy Theam, and his just Praises Sung;
And not have took this time for publick wrong
Lybel, this great Occasion, cou'd not bear;
All Love, and Softness, was the Business here:
Malice shou'd here be banish'd from thy Quill,
Then we'd excus'd thy barely writing ill;
And for bad Lines have taken thy good Will.
VVe are content thou shouldst in Scoundrel Verse,
Put into French the Famous Hudebras;
Or Nobler Boileau into English turn,
And move at once our Laughter and our Scorn.
Plain Honest Meeter—tag'd with gingling Rhimes;
In thy Coronation Stile, and usual Sense,
Hamer'd some Hearty welcome to the Prince:
Kept to thy Theam, and his just Praises Sung;
And not have took this time for publick wrong
Lybel, this great Occasion, cou'd not bear;
All Love, and Softness, was the Business here:
Malice shou'd here be banish'd from thy Quill,
Then we'd excus'd thy barely writing ill;
And for bad Lines have taken thy good Will.
VVe are content thou shouldst in Scoundrel Verse,
Put into French the Famous Hudebras;
Or Nobler Boileau into English turn,
And move at once our Laughter and our Scorn.
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Thy dull Advice too, we with Patience Read,
VVhich tells us, how Young Monarchs shou'd be Bred;
('Tis pitty but thou wert a Tutor made.)
And who that see the Politiques that shine,
Thro' all the Nonsense of each strugling Line:
Thy exact Grammar, and Coherence views,
VVith the good Nature of thy Railing Muse:
Thy VVit, thy Parts, thy Conduct, Mien and Grace,
Thy Presence, Cringes, and thy Court Grimarce;
But Swears Heaven meant thee for a perfect—As—
VVhich tells us, how Young Monarchs shou'd be Bred;
('Tis pitty but thou wert a Tutor made.)
And who that see the Politiques that shine,
Thro' all the Nonsense of each strugling Line:
Thy exact Grammar, and Coherence views,
VVith the good Nature of thy Railing Muse:
Thy VVit, thy Parts, thy Conduct, Mien and Grace,
Thy Presence, Cringes, and thy Court Grimarce;
But Swears Heaven meant thee for a perfect—As—
FINIS.
| To Poet Bavius | |