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 |  |
Unhappy Dryden, tho' superiour far,
To all that ever wrong'd his Character,
By one ill-tim'd unlucky Poem lost
More Fame than any Rival Bard could boast,
Was forc'd from Honour, loaded with Disgrace,
And to inferiour Wit resign'd his Place.
O Durgen! may thy proud, but peevish Muse,
Fond of her strength, and forward to abuse,
Escape the like, or worse, impending Fate,
Than crush'd the Prince of Poets, once so great;
For he, bless'd Worthy, only stood accus'd
Of flatt'ring Pow'rs that you have ev'ly us'd,
Which, if resented, and your Dunciad Stars
Be constru'd by the Bench-Astrologers,
They, by your angry Planets, may foresee
You're near some unsuspected Destinie,
By which your Honour may be more defil'd
Than his, you so maliciously revil'd,
A Label o'er your Head may spread your fame,
And what the Hens now lay, compleat your shame.
Then, surely, will your own dejected state,
Incline you to repent, when 'tis too late,
The publick Rage your malice strove to draw
On those beneath the censure of the Law;
A Crime so odious in a Man of Thought,
That in one Satyr, with resentment wrote,
It may be twice chastis'd and not be deem'd a fau't.
To all that ever wrong'd his Character,
By one ill-tim'd unlucky Poem lost
More Fame than any Rival Bard could boast,
38
And to inferiour Wit resign'd his Place.
O Durgen! may thy proud, but peevish Muse,
Fond of her strength, and forward to abuse,
Escape the like, or worse, impending Fate,
Than crush'd the Prince of Poets, once so great;
For he, bless'd Worthy, only stood accus'd
Of flatt'ring Pow'rs that you have ev'ly us'd,
Which, if resented, and your Dunciad Stars
Be constru'd by the Bench-Astrologers,
They, by your angry Planets, may foresee
You're near some unsuspected Destinie,
By which your Honour may be more defil'd
Than his, you so maliciously revil'd,
A Label o'er your Head may spread your fame,
And what the Hens now lay, compleat your shame.
Then, surely, will your own dejected state,
Incline you to repent, when 'tis too late,
The publick Rage your malice strove to draw
On those beneath the censure of the Law;
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That in one Satyr, with resentment wrote,
It may be twice chastis'd and not be deem'd a fau't.
| Durgen | |