 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
Rochester's Ghost addressing it self to the Secretary of the Muses.
From the deep-vaulted Den of endless Night,
I've through the Center forc'd my way to Light,
To sing my old Associates vain Designs,
And scourge 'em into Knowledg of their Crimes;
Which I my self by fatal proof may tell,
If justly scan'd, as justly merit Hell.
I've through the Center forc'd my way to Light,
To sing my old Associates vain Designs,
And scourge 'em into Knowledg of their Crimes;
Which I my self by fatal proof may tell,
If justly scan'd, as justly merit Hell.
Thou Julian, who through all thy Life has shown
A love to Scandal equal to my own,
That mutual Friendship to thy mind recal,
And what I tell thee tell again to all.
A Peer shall grace the Van, and so 'tis fit,
The first in Lewdness tho not first in Wit;
Through all the Ills that wait on Man he'as run,
As if like me he long'd to be undone.
There's not a day but like some snarling Antick,
It proves him either peevish, dull or frantick.
Then vainly for to boast of Conquest won,
What Mothers he'as betray'd, what Maids undone,
Is but a snare that draws more mischief on,
'Tis strange that he who has been us'd so ill,
Shou'd spite of Claps continue Cully still,
Or fondly with ill Women keep a pother,
First marrying one, now jilted by another.
A love to Scandal equal to my own,
That mutual Friendship to thy mind recal,
And what I tell thee tell again to all.
A Peer shall grace the Van, and so 'tis fit,
The first in Lewdness tho not first in Wit;
Through all the Ills that wait on Man he'as run,
As if like me he long'd to be undone.
There's not a day but like some snarling Antick,
It proves him either peevish, dull or frantick.
Then vainly for to boast of Conquest won,
What Mothers he'as betray'd, what Maids undone,
Is but a snare that draws more mischief on,
'Tis strange that he who has been us'd so ill,
Shou'd spite of Claps continue Cully still,
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First marrying one, now jilted by another.
Nor shall his Buffoon Followers scape my Rage,
Those fam'd Supporters of a Vicious Age,
Lewd in their Lives, unlimited in Nonsense,
Two Beasts that never make an use of Conscience.
Pimping and Scandal are their chief delight,
And yet they never get a Farthing by't.
How often have I laugh'd to hear the Brutes,
Engag'd in hot fantastical disputes;
While all that cou'd be learn'd from the Contest,
When e'er they came to earnest 'twas a jest?
If they have Wit, 'tis neither more nor less
Than Merry Andrew does in Fairs express,
As being cloth'd in the same Clownish dress.
Those fam'd Supporters of a Vicious Age,
Lewd in their Lives, unlimited in Nonsense,
Two Beasts that never make an use of Conscience.
Pimping and Scandal are their chief delight,
And yet they never get a Farthing by't.
How often have I laugh'd to hear the Brutes,
Engag'd in hot fantastical disputes;
While all that cou'd be learn'd from the Contest,
When e'er they came to earnest 'twas a jest?
If they have Wit, 'tis neither more nor less
Than Merry Andrew does in Fairs express,
As being cloth'd in the same Clownish dress.
But now 'tis time I shou'd a fourth display,
Much such another Animal as they;
Vain in his Garb, and vicious in his Nature,
All his whole Life's but one continued Satyr
Upon himself: then for his Wit, 'tis such,
He thinks too little, and he prates too much;
Never was such a Flux of words pour'd forth,
Mixt with so little Profit, Grace or Worth.
But as an Apple, tho 'twas sound before,
When once a Maggot seizes on the Core,
Strait the whole Mass insensibly decays,
Just like our Author since he writ his Plays:
Who by the rage of Pox, and Impotence,
Is crampt both in his Judgment, and his Sense;
And forc'd for refuge to a pitch so common,
Of making Songs to please the Fools and Women.
Much such another Animal as they;
Vain in his Garb, and vicious in his Nature,
All his whole Life's but one continued Satyr
Upon himself: then for his Wit, 'tis such,
He thinks too little, and he prates too much;
Never was such a Flux of words pour'd forth,
Mixt with so little Profit, Grace or Worth.
But as an Apple, tho 'twas sound before,
When once a Maggot seizes on the Core,
Strait the whole Mass insensibly decays,
Just like our Author since he writ his Plays:
Who by the rage of Pox, and Impotence,
Is crampt both in his Judgment, and his Sense;
And forc'd for refuge to a pitch so common,
Of making Songs to please the Fools and Women.
Another wou'd with these in all things sute,
Only in all things he's of less repute;
Baser of Soul than Form, and yet Dame Nature
Ne'er before him made such an aukward Creature.
True, he has Sense they say; but credit me,
True Sense does not consist in Blasphemy:
For 'tis the Prophets unsuspected Rule,
That he that owns no God must be a Fool.
Yet were this not of force to make him so,
There's one undoubted proof that needs must do,
And that's the Matrimonial Badg he wears;
For what but such would e'er embrace the Cares
Of wilful Bondage in his waining Years?
Some say the Nuptial Knor was ty'd, t'unty
The Mortgages which on his Land did lie;
But my opinion is, they're in the wrong,
He can't be just wh'as been a Knave so long:
'Tis like expecting Fish to live in Air,
Or thee to leave the Juice of Grapes for Beer.
O Marquis, why didst match thy Blood so ill?
Hadst thou in all things shew'd such want of Skill,
Thou mightest e'en have stuck at Savil still.
Only in all things he's of less repute;
Baser of Soul than Form, and yet Dame Nature
Ne'er before him made such an aukward Creature.
True, he has Sense they say; but credit me,
True Sense does not consist in Blasphemy:
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That he that owns no God must be a Fool.
Yet were this not of force to make him so,
There's one undoubted proof that needs must do,
And that's the Matrimonial Badg he wears;
For what but such would e'er embrace the Cares
Of wilful Bondage in his waining Years?
Some say the Nuptial Knor was ty'd, t'unty
The Mortgages which on his Land did lie;
But my opinion is, they're in the wrong,
He can't be just wh'as been a Knave so long:
'Tis like expecting Fish to live in Air,
Or thee to leave the Juice of Grapes for Beer.
O Marquis, why didst match thy Blood so ill?
Hadst thou in all things shew'd such want of Skill,
Thou mightest e'en have stuck at Savil still.
A Sixth there is, in all that's ill so nice,
He ever strove t'improve himself in Vice;
It has been long his chief Delight and Care
First to get Bastards, and then make them Heirs,
The only Fruit which her rank Soil will bear,
Or such a Fire deserve; I need not tell,
She's nauseous to the Sight as to the Smell;
I mean to ev'ry Smell but to his own,
For he (happy in nothing else) has none.
E'en Cox's Cully is before him priz'd,
And where's the Man that can be more despis'd?
If these are Wits, or e'er deserv'd that Name,
Let me unpitied go from whence I came,
Plung'd to the bottom of the rolling Flame.
He ever strove t'improve himself in Vice;
It has been long his chief Delight and Care
First to get Bastards, and then make them Heirs,
The only Fruit which her rank Soil will bear,
Or such a Fire deserve; I need not tell,
She's nauseous to the Sight as to the Smell;
I mean to ev'ry Smell but to his own,
For he (happy in nothing else) has none.
E'en Cox's Cully is before him priz'd,
And where's the Man that can be more despis'd?
If these are Wits, or e'er deserv'd that Name,
Let me unpitied go from whence I came,
Plung'd to the bottom of the rolling Flame.
'Tis true, your Laureat well deserves the Bays,
Witness the Genius that adorns his Plays;
But chiefly those he writ in former Days.
Yet if in Death I may at least be free,
As in my Lifetime he has been to me;
To lay the Slave down flat upon his Face,
I use his words, because the Subject's base.
So that the Monarch may in Pomp appear;
If not an Ass, you'l read a Villain there;
For 'tis the gen'ral Vote from King to Slave,
Altho the Poet's good, the Man's a Knave.
Witness the Genius that adorns his Plays;
But chiefly those he writ in former Days.
Yet if in Death I may at least be free,
As in my Lifetime he has been to me;
To lay the Slave down flat upon his Face,
I use his words, because the Subject's base.
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If not an Ass, you'l read a Villain there;
For 'tis the gen'ral Vote from King to Slave,
Altho the Poet's good, the Man's a Knave.
But let him pass, for here comes stalking on
The awful Majesty of stiff King John;
With Nose cock't up, and Visage like a Fury,
Or Foreman of an Ignoramus Jury.
I'll speak not of his slouching Looby Mien,
Altho it is the worst that e'er was seen,
Because of late his whole Design and Trade is
With those Accomplishments to gain the Ladies;
To whom his Laurel'd Wit has op'd the way,
Witness the late unparallel'd Essay,
A Work which all admire, and well they may.
For what insipid Sot can e'er write ill,
When Waller, Lee, and Dryden guide the Quill?
Faulk---d, and Ell---d, Henningh--- and Wharton,
M---ant, and H---w, all dull as Scotch Dunbarton,
Are such a Medley of conceited Chits,
I wonder who the Devil dub'd 'em Wits;
Their Skill in Poetry we may best discover,
Where their fowl Quills threw dirt at one another.
And here would time permit me, I could tell,
Of Cleveland, Portsmouth, Crofts, and Arundel,
Mol. Howard, Su---x, Lady Grey, and Nell,
Strangers to Good, but bosom Friends to Ill,
As boundless in their Lusts as in their Will.
But see! the Morning breaks, I must away;
The awful Majesty of stiff King John;
With Nose cock't up, and Visage like a Fury,
Or Foreman of an Ignoramus Jury.
I'll speak not of his slouching Looby Mien,
Altho it is the worst that e'er was seen,
Because of late his whole Design and Trade is
With those Accomplishments to gain the Ladies;
To whom his Laurel'd Wit has op'd the way,
Witness the late unparallel'd Essay,
A Work which all admire, and well they may.
For what insipid Sot can e'er write ill,
When Waller, Lee, and Dryden guide the Quill?
Faulk---d, and Ell---d, Henningh--- and Wharton,
M---ant, and H---w, all dull as Scotch Dunbarton,
Are such a Medley of conceited Chits,
I wonder who the Devil dub'd 'em Wits;
Their Skill in Poetry we may best discover,
Where their fowl Quills threw dirt at one another.
And here would time permit me, I could tell,
Of Cleveland, Portsmouth, Crofts, and Arundel,
Mol. Howard, Su---x, Lady Grey, and Nell,
Strangers to Good, but bosom Friends to Ill,
As boundless in their Lusts as in their Will.
Souls damn'd to Night must never see the Day.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |