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 take care, for this may be the Fate
Of first-rate Poets, tho' at present Great;
Therefore, with pauper Friends more gently deal,
None knows the sudden turns of Fortune's Wheel,
The World's applause is nothing more than sound,
Which dies, like Thunder, in its rowling round:
Then value not your own bright Parts too much,
No Man's Perfections are above reproach;
One day's mistake, if publish'd when its pen'd,
May lose more Credit than seven Years have gain'd.
Fame to the Publick does alone belong,
Her brazen Trumpet is the common Tongue,
Which, as directed by the sov'reign Croud,
Proclaims our Merits and our Faults aloud,
Not with that truth we might in justice claim,
But as the vulgar Voice reports the same;
However, by our mighty Lords, the Throng,
We all must stand determin'd, right or wrong;
For none more Reputation can enjoy,
Than what the Publick gives, or may destroy,
That boist'rous Herd, whose Clamours oft affect
The strongest Thrones that Wisdom can erect,
And in their wild convulsive Fevers make,
In spight of Law, the greatest Princes shake,
By gross Mistakes, their good designs deprave,
And ruin what they most desire to save,
Till by the steps they take, and means they use,
The only Jem they struggle for, they lose;
On their own headstrong Ignorance rely,
And do a thousand things, they know not why,
Asperse the worthy, to their Int'rest true,
And misapply their Praise, where Blame is due,
Render what their Superiours do or say,
As black as Midnight, or as bright as Day;
Their wav'ring Voices, govern'd by no Rules,
Oft cry down honest Men for Knaves or Fools;
And, when it sutes their Humour, will again,
Pass Fools for Wise, and Knaves for honest Men:
Then what exalted Genius would be proud
Of common vogue, the varnish of the Croud,
That makes us shine a while, then leaves us in a Cloud.
Of first-rate Poets, tho' at present Great;
Therefore, with pauper Friends more gently deal,
None knows the sudden turns of Fortune's Wheel,
The World's applause is nothing more than sound,
Which dies, like Thunder, in its rowling round:
Then value not your own bright Parts too much,
No Man's Perfections are above reproach;
35
May lose more Credit than seven Years have gain'd.
Fame to the Publick does alone belong,
Her brazen Trumpet is the common Tongue,
Which, as directed by the sov'reign Croud,
Proclaims our Merits and our Faults aloud,
Not with that truth we might in justice claim,
But as the vulgar Voice reports the same;
However, by our mighty Lords, the Throng,
We all must stand determin'd, right or wrong;
For none more Reputation can enjoy,
Than what the Publick gives, or may destroy,
That boist'rous Herd, whose Clamours oft affect
The strongest Thrones that Wisdom can erect,
And in their wild convulsive Fevers make,
In spight of Law, the greatest Princes shake,
By gross Mistakes, their good designs deprave,
And ruin what they most desire to save,
Till by the steps they take, and means they use,
The only Jem they struggle for, they lose;
36
And do a thousand things, they know not why,
Asperse the worthy, to their Int'rest true,
And misapply their Praise, where Blame is due,
Render what their Superiours do or say,
As black as Midnight, or as bright as Day;
Their wav'ring Voices, govern'd by no Rules,
Oft cry down honest Men for Knaves or Fools;
And, when it sutes their Humour, will again,
Pass Fools for Wise, and Knaves for honest Men:
Then what exalted Genius would be proud
Of common vogue, the varnish of the Croud,
That makes us shine a while, then leaves us in a Cloud.
| Durgen | |