The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
An Epitome of a Poem truly call'd, A Satire against Wit; done for the undeceiving of some Readers, who have mistaken the Panegyrick in that immortal Work for the Satire, and the Satire for the Panegyrick.
Who can forbear, and tamely silent sit,And see his native Land as void of Wit
As every Piece the City Knight has writ?
How happy were the old unpolish'd Times,
As free from Wit as other modern Crimes,
And what is more from Bl---re's nauseous Rhimes?
As our Forefathers vig'rous were and brave,
So they were virtuous, wise, discreet and grave,
And would have call'd our Quack a fawning Slave.
Clodpate, by Banks, and Stocks, and Projects bit,
Turns up his Whites, and in his pious Fit,
He Cheats and Prays, a certain sign of Cit.
Craper runs madly 'midst the thickest Crowd,
Sometimes says nothing, sometimes talks aloud.
Under the Means he lies, frequents the Stage,
Is very lewd, and does at Learning rage;
And this vile Stuff we find in every Page.
A bant'ring Spirit has our Men possest,
And Wisdom is become a standing Jest,
Which is a burning Shame. I do protest.
Wit does of Virtue sure Destruction make,
Who can produce a VVit, and not a Rake?
A Challenge started ne'er but by a Quack.
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To pull all Virtue and right Reason down,
Then to surprize the Tower, and steal the Crown.
And the lewd Crew affirm, by all that's good,
They'll not disperse till they have Bl**'s Blood,
But they'll ne'er have his Brains, by good King Lud.
For that industrious Bard of late has done
The rarest Piece of Wit that e'er was shown,
And publish'd Doggrel he's asham'd to own.
The skilful T*s*n's Name they dare invade,
And yet they are undone without his Aid;
Did they read thee, I shou'd conclude 'em mad.
T**s**n with base Reproaches they pursue,
Just as his Moor-Fields Patients us'd to do,
Who give to T**s**n what is T**s**n's due.
Wit does enfeeble and debauch the Mind,
Before to Business or to Arts inclin'd;
Then thou wilt never be debauch'd, I find.
Had S**s, H**f, or T**y, who with Awe
We name, been Wits, they ne'er had learnt the Law.
But sure the Compliment's not worth a Straw.
The Law will ne'er support the bant'ring Breed
Tho' Blockheads may, yet Wits can ne'er succeed,
For which Friend Sl**ne, I hope, will break thy Head
R***ff has Wit, and lavishes away
So much in nauseous Northern Brogue each Day,
As would suffice to damn a Smithfield Play.
Wit does our Schools and Colleges invade,
And has of Letters vast Destruction made,
But that it spoils thy Learning, can't be said.
That such a Failure no Man may incense,
Let us erect a Bank for Wit and Sense,
And so set up at other Mens Expence.
Let S---r, D---t, S---ld, M---gue
Lend but their Names, the Project then will do.
What? lend 'em such a Bankrupt Wretch as you!
Duncombs and Claytons of Parnassus all,
Who cannot sink, unless the Hill should fall,
Why then they need but go to Sadlers-Hall,
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No English knows, and therefore is most fit
To oversee the coining of our Wit.
Nor shall M**rs, W***tt, Ch**rl**tt be forgot,
With solid Fr**ke and R***r, and who not?
Then all our Friends the Actions shall cry up,
And all the railing Mouths of Envy stop.
Wou'd we could Padlock thine, eternal Fop.
The Project then will T***tts Test abide,
And with his Mark please all the World beside,
But dare thy Arthurs by this Test be try'd?
Then what will D***n, G***h, or C*ng*ve say,
When all their wicked Mixture's purg'd away?
Thy Metal's baser than their worst Allay.
What will become of S**th**n, W**ch**y,
Who by this Means will grievous Sufferers be?
No matter, they'll ne'er send a Brief to thee.
All these debauch'd by D**n and his Crew,
Turn Bawds to Vice, and wicked Ends pursue,
To hear thee cant, would make even B---ss spue.
For now an honest Man can't peep abroad,
Nor a chaste Muse, but whip they bring a Rod.
E'n Atticus himself these Men would curse,
Should Atticus appear without his Purse,
If this be Praise, what Libel can be worse?
Nay, Darfell too, should he forbear to treat,
These Men that cry him up, their Words would eat,
And say in Scorn, he had no Brains to beat.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |