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 |  |
'Tis strange a Bard of such exalted Wit,
For sacred Hymns and heav'nly Anthems fit,
Should in his anger lavishly bestow
A Style so lofty on a Theme so low;
As if his Numbers, which so smoothly glide,
Like Streams unruffl'd by the Wind or Tide,
Were meant as Balsam to relieve or heal
The Blows he gives us and the Smart we feel:
But from soft Words small benefit we reap,
His Balm's too mollient and his Stabs too deep,
Does only thro' the mangl'd Cutis flow,
Just skins the Wound, but heals it not below.
With laud, sometimes, his Satyr he allays,
But still his Scandal's greater than his Praise;
Some Wits, perhaps, he'll sparingly approve,
Yet crown with Malice his dissembl'd Love,
Speak smoothly first in favour, but at last,
Will all their virtues with their crimes o'ercast,
And seldom does one fawning line impart,
But when some Mischief's broiling in his Heart.
Thus, as the skilful Fisherman, for sport,
Tickles the very Trout he means to hurt;
Or, as the crafty Boxer, when he's vext,
Shakes Hands one Moment, and assaults the next.
So proud inviduous Poets, that delight
In snarling Satyr, to exert their spight,
Like Bears, oft hug their foes before they bite.
For sacred Hymns and heav'nly Anthems fit,
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A Style so lofty on a Theme so low;
As if his Numbers, which so smoothly glide,
Like Streams unruffl'd by the Wind or Tide,
Were meant as Balsam to relieve or heal
The Blows he gives us and the Smart we feel:
But from soft Words small benefit we reap,
His Balm's too mollient and his Stabs too deep,
Does only thro' the mangl'd Cutis flow,
Just skins the Wound, but heals it not below.
With laud, sometimes, his Satyr he allays,
But still his Scandal's greater than his Praise;
Some Wits, perhaps, he'll sparingly approve,
Yet crown with Malice his dissembl'd Love,
Speak smoothly first in favour, but at last,
Will all their virtues with their crimes o'ercast,
And seldom does one fawning line impart,
But when some Mischief's broiling in his Heart.
Thus, as the skilful Fisherman, for sport,
Tickles the very Trout he means to hurt;
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Shakes Hands one Moment, and assaults the next.
So proud inviduous Poets, that delight
In snarling Satyr, to exert their spight,
Like Bears, oft hug their foes before they bite.
| Durgen | |