University of Virginia Library

DURGEN.

A SATYR, &c.

From sultry Regions, in the road to Hell,
Where Parrots talk, and Apes and Monkeys dwell,
Where Blacks and Whites in scorching Valleys sweat
Between stupendious Mountains cleft with heat;
By help of restless Winds and rowling Seas,
My Muse arriv'd in London, numb'd with ease,
After sh'ad long been lazily confin'd
'Twixt floating Planks by Art together join'd,
Which, like a Cradle, rocking on the deep,
Quite dull'd her Genius with immod'rate sleep,
And lull'd her hourly into frightful dreams
Of Storms, Sea-monsters, and a thousand Whims,
Besides the real Dangers, which her Eyes
Beheld around her, to her great surprise;
Bacchus, 'tis true, sometimes would make her shine,
But, Morpheus still prevail'd, in spight of Wine,
With leaden Hands depriv'd her of her sight,
And made her often change the Day to Night,
Pent in a Cabbin of a Coffin size,
Till Thirst or Hunger forc'd her to arise:
And thus, my Muse, returning from afar,
Her Jacket, like John Taylor's, stunk of Tar;
To air her Weeds, from which offensive scent,
A Boat she call'd, and up the Thames she went,
Where briskly did her Slaves their Oars imploy,
And, as they row'd, cry'd Twick'nham, Twick'nham, hoy;
My Muse, delighted with the flowing Tyde,
And Osiers bowing from the River side,
Her old neglected Harp anew she strung,
And, as the Boat danc'd forward, thus she sung.
Durgen, thy proud ill-natur'd Muse restrain,
Reform thy Genius and correct thy Pen,
Forbear to pass, with such unguarded heat,
Heroick Scandal on the World for Wit,
No more with epick Satyrs teaze the Town,
And in false Characters betray thy own;
What Bard, but you, could think it worth his while,
To dress Lampoon in such a lofty style?
As if good language would your Malice drown,
And make the gilded Pill go glibly down;
Tho' the choice Words you lavishly bestow,
Are too sonif'rous for a Theme so low,
Like Kettle-drums and Trumpets to a Puppit-show.
But 'tis a common fate, if not a fau't,
For little Mortals to be great in Thought,
Till strength of fancy, blended with their Wit,
Make 'em tall Gyants, in their own conceit,
Then, like our Bedlam Kings, they rant and rave,
Treat e'ery Man they speak of as a Slave,
Look big beneath imaginary Crowns,
And think to awe the World with nods and frowns,
Thus wild, the pigmy Bard in triumph sits,
Enthron'd, as King of Poets and of Wits,
To ease his Spleen, at e'ery Author growls,
And deems his wiser Brethren Frogs and Owls,
Strikes at 'em all with an audacious Hand,
And strives to humble those he can't command.
So, the fierce Cat, with Teeth and Tallons arm'd,
When by some gen'rous Mastiff she's alarm'd,
Mounts up her Back and cocks her swelling Tail,
Spits out her Venom, does her Foe assail,
Forgetful of her weakness, till, at length,
She's Mouth'd and Worry'd by superior strength.
This, Durgen, we foresee will be thy fate,
Thou'st err'd too soon, and will repent too late;
Pride, the sure Comrade of ill-natur'd Wit,
Will still persist, 'tis Penance to submit;
For Self-conceit makes weak Offenders strong,
And buoys up proud Aggressors in the wrong;
Supports a vile callumniating Crew,
And prompts Lampooners to report, like you,
Injurious Falshoods, scandalously base,
Too mean to gain Applause or fix Disgrace.
So envious Neighbours labour to collect
The trifling Faults of those they disaffect,
And vainly hope, by publishing the same,
Not only to asperse another's Name;
But to revive their own declining Fame.
We know, imperious Bard, thou'rt bold and warm,
Like a rash Sailor in a dang'rous Storm;
What, tho' a Tempest in thy Teeth blows hard,
Thy self-Opinion will be still thy guard;
And, like a Cork or Bladder to each side,
Buoy up thy Cock-boat against Wind and Tide;
But yet be cautious, lest you drive a-ground,
Or sink from the Sublime, to the Profound;
Forsake the silver Thames, for slimy Bogs,
And reign not King of Poets, but of Frogs.
For Wits and Scholars, famous for their Parts,
More skill'd, than thou, in the politest Arts,
Have sunk, e'er now, below their just deserts.
Therefore, no longer on Applause depend,
For common Vogue is but a faithless Friend,
Gain'd by small Merit, eas'ly won or lost,
Yet fails us oft, when we deserve it most;
Like Musick's Sound, it sooths our list'ning Ears,
And is no sooner heard but it expires:
Then curb your swelling Pride, be not so vain,
But, with more mildness treat Apollo's Train;
Whose Pens first made you famous in the Town,
And those that rais'd you up, can pull you down;
Poets, like Statesmen, should be calmly wise,
And cautious how they taunt or tyrannize:
For publick Favour, tho' its eas'ly gain'd,
Is hard to be preserv'd, or re-obtain'd;
If therefore, they incur the Peoples spight,
One cannot safely Act, nor t'other Write;
Like thine, their best endeavours will be crost,
No Conduct will recover Fame when lost;
Or, if it does, we by Experience find,
Like Wounds when cur'd, the Scars are left behind.
So beauteous Women, if they're once debauch'd,
Tho' they turn Saints, will always be reproach'd.
Nor will the utmost Arts your Wit can use,
Redeem the Credit of your sinking Muse;
The vile Reflections you've unjustly cast,
Will surely prove your overthrow at last;
And make you glad to revel, skip, and bound,
Among the croaking Frogs in your Profund.
For Scandal, tho' it titilates the Town,
Like a Ball tost against a Wall of Stone,
Reverb'rates on the Wretch by whom the Dirt is thrown.
Too long hast thou usurp'd the Throne of Wit,
By fath'ring what your trusty Friends have writ;
Their kind Assistance won you early Praise,
And warm'd your Courage to attempt the Bays;
Till your own rashness did untimely blast,
The blooming Fame of all your Labours past,
And forc'd your injur'd Friends to reassume
Their own, and strip their Howlet of his Plume.
So fares the servile Lass in borrow'd Clothes,
Rig'd out by some Old Bawd, to cheat the Beaus,
Till p---d, and too well known to e'ery Rake,
Then gives her costly Silks and Sattens back,
Puts on her broken Hoop, her tatter'd Gown,
And so turns common to the vicious Town.
Take care your epick Muse, so bold of late,
Falls not beneath as scandalous a fate,
And, punish'd with contempt, be forc'd to hide
In lofty Mansion, to the Clouds alli'd,
There, in dull Scandal, gratify her Spleen,
And drudge for pay, unheard of and unseen.
Satyr, if justly handled, is of use,
But real Names turn Satyr to abuse;
Lash Folly in the sharpest terms you can,
Condemn the Vice, but not expose the Man;
For if the injur'd Person cannot draw
A Pen, or seek due remedy at Law,
When with resentment warm'd, he need not want
A Crab-tree Cudgel, or an Oaken Plant:
Tough answers, we confess, but sometimes fit
To tame the wildness of ill-natur'd Wit,
Which often, unprovok'd, gives mortal Wounds,
And would, without Correction, know no Bounds.
Some Poets blend their parts with so much spight,
That if they did not rail, they could not write;
And never think themselves so highly blest,
As when they're squirting Libels at the rest:
Thus, as implacable as Gnats and Fleas,
They're always biting, and a constant tease;
With groundless Scandal do their Brains debauch,
And know no other Wit, than to reproach;
In Dunghills rake, where Mens past Follies lie,
And spightfully revive what ought to die;
Improve bad Actions, pretermit the good,
And on the World false Characters obtrude;
Varnish o'er great Mens Faults, for little Gains,
And wound the Worthy with their pois'nous Pens,
To please, for slender pay, some angry Foe,
A cast-off Mistress, or disgusted Beau,
Perhaps a flatt'ring Minion, out of date,
That wants the Courage to revenge his hate,
And, therefore, fearing to unsheath his Sword,
Deludes some hungry Rhimer for Reward,
To ease the rancour, boiling in his Brain,
By stabing some great Rival with his Pen:
Thus, do lampooning Wits delight to Sport,
Like, thriving Swine, in Nastiness and Dirt,
And suck from other's Filth a scandalous Support.
Nor is the T---m Bard intirely free
From mercenary throws of Obloquie;
The Lust of Mammon led him once astray,
And made him tag scurrility for pay;
If false, than let him clear up the mistake,
And to the following Queries answer make.
Who, for the lucre of a golden Fee,
Broke thro' the Bounds of Christian Charity,
To animate the Rabble, to abuse
A Worthy, far above so vile a Muse?
Tho', all in vain, for merit kept him free
From your intended base severity:
What envious Lady brib'd thee to express
Her Fury, in the Days of his distress?
And caus'd thy Muse to excreate so poor
A Libel on so brave a Sufferer?
What Power, but Gold, could stupify thy Brain,
And make thee act so far below a Man,
As with inglorious Scandal to pursue
A gallant Pris'ner, when expos'd to view?
A cruel Insult, at so wrong a Time,
That should by Law be punish'd as a Crime:
'Tis strange, so wise a Bard should lay aside
His Senses, and be led by female Pride
Into a fault, so permanent and great,
That Man can scarce forgive, or Time forget:
But Gold and Beauty make the wisest Fools,
For these, the pious Christian breaks his Rules,
And Poets, for the same, we find, turn Womens Fools.
Nor will initial Types, or Hyphens, skreen
A Man, at whom an Author darts his spleen,
Without a Name, the Character alone
Will speak the Person, if its truly drawn:
Then how much more is he that writes to blame,
If to false Scandal he applies a Name?
Or, by a Capital before a dash,
Points out the Object he's about to lash?
What, if in his defence the Poet says,
Initials may be constru'd several ways,
And that a thousand Names, as well as one,
May with the same Great-letter be begun.
If that's a Plea sufficient, then, I hope,
A P may stand for Puppit or for P*pe,
Or C that with a dash may pass for Churl,
Be meant as well for Coxcomb or for C***l:
Poor shifts, t'evade the Law, and only fit
To show the Author's Fear, instead of Wit.
But should our Satyrist presume to vent
Dark or ambiguous Flirts at Government,
No Asterisks would palliate the offence,
Or Hyphens favour his bifarious Sense,
But Inuendo's would at large explain
The daring Strokes of his unguarded Pen,
And make him feel the justice of an injur'd Reign.
Suppose a Bard superlatively bright,
In Parts superior to the rest that Write,
Great in the wild opinion of the Town,
And flatter'd till much greater in his own,
Puff'd up with vain Applause and Self-conceit,
Those poor deceitful props to human Wit,
Which bear him up, persuant to his aim,
Till lodg'd upon the feeble wings of Fame,
Whence he looks proudly downward for a time,
Despising all the rest that deal in Rhime;
And, as from lofty Elms, the Rook or Crow
Mute on the lesser Birds that perch below,
He squirts down frothy Satyrs with contempt,
As if himself from Scandal was exempt,
Or that no injur'd Mortal durst oppose
The Darts he levels, or the Dirt he throws,
Describing Men like Monsters, tho' compleat
In Stature, Manners, Countenance and Wit;
When if he could but with impartial Eyes,
Behold himself, he would himself despise.
So strange a Figure, and so quaint a Face,
Reflected truly by a Venice Glass,
Mvst make him, Negro-like, the Mirrour break,
And hate the Substance for the Shadow's sake.
But hold, my angry Muse, bear not too hard,
Defects in Nature always shou'd be spar'd,
We know ill Manners merits no applause,
Yet when a cow'rdly Adversary draws
Unlawful Arms, to wound another's Fame,
'Tis lawful, in defence, to use the same.
Suppose the Author of the Dunciad bless'd
With all the Gifts that ever Bard possess'd,
'Twas still ignoble to exert his Skill
Against the weaker Brethren of the Quill:
The artful Fencer never cares to fight
A Bungler, lest he loses credit by't:
Besides, in Quarrels, 'tis against the Law,
For Masters of the Science first to draw;
'Tis like a Bully to unsheath a Sword
Upon a peaceful Friend we think a Cow'rd,
Or to provoke, with an ill Pen or Tongue,
A Man too patient to revenge the Wrong.
Scarce would the meanest of the scribling Crew
Abuse his Friends, to please he knows not who:
Or, prompt by Envy and the hopes of Praise,
Forfeit at once all title to the Baies,
By rudely making Men of Sense his Sport,
And pointing ill-bred Satyr at the Court.
If these are Faults against all moral Rules,
That should, from Men of Sense, distinguish Fools,
And render those that glory in the Shame
Of others, liable to equal blame;
Then 'twas a Failing, sure, if not a Crime,
In our grand Master of the sweet Sublime,
To low'r his gyant Muse, and draw his Pen
Against the Starvlings of Apollo's Train;
Poor pensive Mortals, who affect their ease,
And study not to vex, but how to please,
Some, whom his pointed Vengeance might have spar'd
Poets, who much esteem'd the mighty Bard,
And scorn'd to write the least ill-natur'd Scroll,
That could offend his great majestick Soul,
Which, tho' its cramm'd into a little room,
Yet like Gunpowder ramn'd into a Bomb,
When fir'd, will thro' its narrow confines break,
Destructive liberty at random take,
And thunder out its Pow'r for mischief's sake.
Well, Durgen, may thy Dunciad shine so bright,
Since Stars in numbers crowd to give it light;
But, had thy hidden sense supply'd their place,
Damn'd had thy Satyr been, and black thy case;
But as it is, the learned World may see,
By thy own Stars, thy future destinie;
None can mistake the malice they've display'd,
Thy Constellations are so eas'ly read,
And Jupiter, who in the upper House,
Now reigns ascendant with his injur'd 'Spouse,
May with one Blast of Light'ning strike thee down,
And scorch thy Bays into a wither'd Crown,
Perplex thy angry Muse with cares and fears,
And stigmatize thy Head with Phrygian Ears;
Punish the insults of thy daring Pen,
And teach thee how to sport with mighty Men;
For so the Roman Poet fell, long since,
Beneath the frowns of his offended Prince:
Be careful, therefore, how you touch the State,
Affront the Worthy, Satyrize the Great,
Lest your presumptuous Muse should merit Ovid's fate.
Some, skill'd in soothing Flattery and Praise,
Have by their Panegyricks won the Baies,
And clim'd to Honours by their fawning Wit,
But Scandal never rais'd a Poet yet;
At great Men's faults th'aspiring Bard should wink,
Courts must be flatter'd, or his int'rest sink.
Satyr, 'tis true, may artfully be Pen'd,
And the bold Author justify the end,
But awful Pow'r, whose Word is a Command,
Will bear no lash from an inferior Hand:
What sturdy Soldier durst, in Publick, make
Reflexions on his General's mistake;
Or, what bold Clerk, tho' skillful in the Laws,
Arraign the partial Judge that tries the Cause;
Not, that the wisest Magistrate can steer
Thro' e'ery gulph of State, from error clear,
But ruling Pow'rs this privilege will claim,
(Lest envious Writers should eclipse their Fame)
To be exempt from Satyr, tho' not free from Blame.
Some, charm'd by Beauty, have confin'd their Parts
To Love, to Past'rals, and the softest Arts,
Such as may best obtain their am'rous Ends,
And make the Fair their Advocates and Friends,
Whose Smiles are all sufficient to inspire
Our brightest Muses with celestial Fire,
To please that Sex, the source of our delights,
Should be the care of e'ery Bard that writes:
He that of their Perfections has no taste,
Must prove but a dull rhiming Dunce at best:
Italian Songsters have been gelt, we know it,
But, sure, no Eunuch ever made a Poet.
Some, in Heroicks, have their Wits imploy'd,
Till with puff-paste they've many thousands cloy'd,
And craftily supply'd their present need,
By falsly rend'ring what they scarce could read;
These are the Bards that did old Homer wrong,
And made him lamely speak the English Tongue;
Blind as he was, he now more blindly Walks,
Stumbles at Straws, and Stammers as he Talks;
And as his Int'rest daily grows more weak,
Our Booksellers once more may see him seek
His Bread in English, as he did in Greek.
Some, in Dramatick Whimsies, take delight,
And court the Town to flatter what they write;
Try various Scenes and Humours, to engage
Th'uncertain Audience to attend the Stage,
Where Poets, like poor Players, right or wrong,
Must stand, or fall, by the licentious Throng,
Who are too proud and positive to wave
Their antient Privilege to damn or save;
Yet, heedless of true Wit, will judge amiss,
Clap at dull Nonsense, at good Speeches hiss,
Cry down just Merit, falsly give Applause,
As if they made each Play a party Cause.
Well may the Poet suffer, that depends
On such weak Judges, or deceitful Friends;
And ancient Works, reviv'd with pains and cost,
Be spightfully discountenanc'd and lost,
Since one ill-temper'd Momus rules the roast.
Others there are, who prostitute their Brains
In Doggrel Rhimes and Hudibrastick Strains,
Endeav'ring to exhil'rate and delight
The Town, by blending Humour with their Wit:
These are a Merry Het'rogeneous Race,
Who, as they plead no Merit, seek no Baies;
Diff'rent from all the swelling Bards, that aim
At laurel Chaplets and immortal Fame;
But leave Apollo's darling Sons to climb
In Buskins, to the Epick and Sublime,
Whose Fancy, Learning, and superiour Sense,
Give'em, to publick Praise, some small pretence,
Till, craz'd with Selfconceit, they strain their Wits,
In coining new prepost'rous Epithets,
And monstrous Metaphors, with no design
To elevate the Sense, but swell the Line;
Some of which litter I shall here recite,
To show what giddy Fools extol for bright.
In Verse, how lofty is a curling Spire?
Yet all must own the frighted Sky much high'r.
A Silver Soumd, tho' not, perhaps, uncouth,
Is common, and in e'ery Fidler's Mouth.
An awkward Grace, is something very rare,
Like a fine Cursey from a dancing Bear.
A nectar'd Urn, may signify a Bowl
Of Punch, or of some richer Liquor full,
Such as our Durgen drinks, to reinspire
His lab'ring Muse, when she begins to tire.
But as for Adamantine Lungs, ads death,
A Man would wonder how they draw their Breath.
Apollo's Sons, must own, these Diamond Lights
Deserve to be esteem'd the Flight of Flights.
Next, a Vermilian Prore we must allow,
Sounds better far, than a red painted Prow;
Tho' such a Term as Prore was never heard
On board of Ship, or in a Builder's Yard.
What then, in Epick-Verse it may be good,
And pass admir'd, because not understood.
A self-mov'd Tripod, is a wond'rous piece
Of Art, unknown to either Rome or Greece,
But, English Poets, who in fancy climb
Thro' fleeting Clouds, in quest of the Sublime,
May cause, assisted by the heav'nly Pow'rs,
A threefoot Stool to crawl upon all-fours.
But his Ambrosial Curl, is still more new,
And puzzles all the Peruke-making Crew;
They cannot find, tho' skill'd in crooked Hairs,
What sort of Curls the Gods Ambrosia bears:
Would our great Bard this secret but disclose,
Our Barbers would contrive new Wigs for Beaus;
Rats-tails and Bobs no longer should be worn,
But fine ambrosial Curls their Heads adorn.
A triple Dog, barks noble in the line.
A dancing Cork too, is extremely fine.
The mottled Girl, his Many colour'd Maid,
May pass for once upon an oozy Bed;
A branching Deer, meet with his feather'd Fate,
And winged Wonder stand amaz'd thereat.
But how can any pensive Steed complain,
When gently Gallup'd o'er a velvet Plain?
Much better than to bear a galling Load,
In Winter weather, thro' a liquid Road;
But if he meets brown Horror in the way,
Or at blue Languish starts and runs away,
Should a Rouge's Pistol Bullet stop his Breath,
He may be said to dye a leaden Death,
And spight of all our Criticks, be allow'd
To fall down dead beneath a living Cloud,
And so become a Prodigy, I mean,
A quiv'ring shade or a sequester'd Scene.
What Reader, charm'd with Metaphors like these,
Can wonder that our lofty Bards should please,
In such an Age, when Folly takes its range,
And Vice and Virtue do their Names exchange,
Whilst Poets write, to countenance the Cheat,
Plays without Plots, and Poems without Wit;
If quaint the Diction, or span-new the Thought,
No matter whether understood or not;
Full swelling Words a barren Theme may grace,
And, void of meaning, with some Judges pass,
But, if examin'd truly, will be found,
By Men of sense, no more than empty sound;
Yet, by the Author, lectur'd o'er in form,
The windy Lines may his admirers charm,
And cause 'em, at first hearing, to commend
The tuneful Nonsense, better read than pen'd.
So in dull rants well mouth'd upon the Stage,
The Player's accents grace the Hero's rage,
And, when repeated thus with art and care,
The cheated Audience lend a patient Ear
And often praise the wild Impertinence they hear.
Some Readers do too much good Nature shew,
In being pleas'd with e'ery whim that's new;
Tho' forc'd the Language, monstrous the Designe
If 'tis but recent, still it must be fine;
With such, the very Author's Name's enough,
And oft gives sanction to indiff'rent stuff,
Vogue prepossesses half the reading Croud,
They know 'tis Durgen's and it must be good;
With eager Eyes they on the Title look,
And, without reading, recommend the Book,
Purchas'd by numbers, for no other cause,
Than that its just in fashion with the Beaus;
To whose wise Judgment, Poets must submit,
And by their Touchstone try the truth of Wit;
Works with their stamp pass current thro' the Town,
And what they disapprove the rest cry down;
Nor will the Fair vouchsafe a pleasing glance,
Or one kind commendation, to advance
What their admiring Friends discountenance.
Who then, that's furnish'd with commanding sense
Would to his best Promoters give offence,
And with repudious Dirt and groundless Spight,
Defile their fame, to make his own less bright?
What pert Offender, to indulge his Pride,
Would vex the Bench by whom he must be try'd,
And at those very Persons vent his Gall,
By whose sole Judgment he must stand or fall.
For tho' the little Great imperial Bard,
So fond of his own Works, may think it hard,
That such a Race of Mortals should presume
To crush his Muse with so severe a doom,
That neither Poet, Player, Beau nor Bel,
Henceforward shall allow her to excel;
But of foul Calumny must stand accus'd,
Till level with those Wits she has abus'd,
Then shall our Bard quit Isis for a Bog,
Transform his shape into a Dunciad Frog,
And with those Vermin cry, God save King Log.
The Fame of Poets, whilst alive, depends
Not on their Wit alone, but on their Friends,
The partial World, if they approve the Man,
His Works, tho' trifling, they with favour scan;
But, if a Bard incurrs their disesteem,
By sporting with some bold ingrateful Theme,
They'll blame his Conduct, his Efforts deride,
And all he Writes, tho' well, shall be decry'd:
What Mortal then that seeks a Laurel Crown,
And worthy to be deem'd Apollo's Son,
Would blend his Wit with scandal, to expose
His Friends and metamorphize 'em to Foes?
Since 'tis the Care of e'ery prudent Man,
T'encrease the useful number, if he can;
But some, directed by uncommon fates
Abuse their Friends, as Spendthrifts their Estates,
Till both alike, in time of need, repent,
What one has idly lost, and t'other spent.
Ye Gods, that dwell in some ætherial Mist,
Or only in poetick Brains subsist,
Inspire my humble Muse with pow'r to please
All, but the common Foes to human ease,
Whose restless Envy labours to postpone
And stigmatize all Merit but their own:
If I must rail, when in my spleen I write,
Be them alone the objects of my spight;
But let my Friends be sacred to my Muse,
And no ill-natur'd Jest their favour lose;
By me, let no ingrateful Dirt be thrown,
But all their Faults be hid, as if they'd none;
Poor mercenary Wits may be allow'd,
With naked Scandal to divert the Crowd,
But Poets, re-refin'd from common Dust,
Should file and polish off all earthy rust,
And, like the Gods, be generous and just.
Nor can some loose flagitious Pens forbear
T'unman their Wit in torturing the Fair,
Exposing to our weak unguarded Youth,
Too little of their Worth, or too much Truth,
Both tending to subvert that happy state,
Which to each Man confirms a pleasing Mate;
Forgetting, that, perhaps, he makes a jest
Of his own Mother's Failings with the rest:
And thus, by early Prejudice o'ercome,
Directs, by chance, th'unlucky Satyr home.
So have I heard a poor cornuted Spouse,
With unfelt Antlers hanging o'er his Brows,
Upbraid another's Wife he scarce has known,
With odious Faults peculiar to his own.
The young depending Poet ne'er should vex
Th'admiring Beaus, or the obliging Sex,
Their Bounty makes the Stage and Muses shine,
And when they judge, their Sentiments they join,
All Authors Works succeed that they commend,
But die, if they their friendly Smiles suspend,
And thus, thro' fond Affection, or despite,
They damn or save whate'er our Poets write,
Perhaps extol one Fav'rite for a time,
And loudly cry him up for the Sublime,
Hurry to 'Change, to Fleet-street, or the Strand,
T'enquire what's new from his unerring hand,
Till some distasteful Character he draws,
That gives offence, and forfeits their Applause;
Then do the angry Beaus and Bels unite,
Turn all their former fondness into spight,
With proud invidious Scorn withhold their Praise,
And treat the Bard with Birch instead of Bays,
Leave him neglected, pensive and shagreen,
A prey unto his own revengeful Spleen,
Till Pride has made him poor, and Envy lean.
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.
Since unexpected Changes thus attend
The Sons of Fortune, that on Fame depend,
And e'ery Wit, solicitous of Praise,
Be sav'd or damn'd by what the Publick says,
The Poet, above all, should have a care,
How he calumniates, or provokes too far;
For one unguarded Satyr may encrease
A formidable croud of Enemies;
Such as, perhaps, may find a thousand ways,
To low'r his Pride and strip him of his Bays;
For Friends, in our behalf, are seldom warm,
But Foes are boiling hot to do us harm;
The first but calmly move in our defense,
The last, with fury their ill turns dispense,
Ascribe to others what our selves have wrote,
Or make us father what we ne'er begot.
So Prior, in the Mouse, took all the pains,
But M**ntag**e made hold with Prior's Brains,
Rais'd himself high, by what the other pen'd,
Not only Honour, but Preferment gain'd,
And to the care of Fortune left his starving Friend.
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.
What Snake-hair'd Envy, with infernal Ire,
Could thy revengeful Muse of late inspire,
And move the angry Fantom to produce
The Dunciad, of such admirable use,
Wherein the Reader may, with pleasure see,
How Poverty joins hands with Poetry,
And be instructed, if untaught before,
How to despise true Merit when it's poor;
Which way to shake dead Authors by the Beard,
Worthies, when living, by the World rever'd;
And how, in Epick Satyr, to asperse
Their sacred and immortal Characters,
That from their mould'ring Reliques may be torn
The blooming Laurels by their Statues worn,
To crown his restless sacrilegious Head,
That wants to rend a Garland from the dead;
Conscious his own Deferts will never raise
A Wreath of Weeds, much less a Crown of Baies;
Among the same Heroicks may be found
New methods of defence, and how to wound;
With whom to quarrel, when to mischief bent,
How to push home, and when to make a feint;
But, above all, he does at large disclose
The useful Art of turning Friends to Foes,
By representing, in false magick Glasses,
Wits as dull Fools, and Scholars as meer Asses;
Then craftily extenuates the Offence,
By prefatory Mendaciloquence;
A shift too mean for Men of Parts to use,
And therefore far beneath an Epick Muse:
But Poets that in calumny delight,
Must wrong the Truth as surely as they write,
Then quote Authorities, perhaps unknown,
And by old Errors justify their own.
'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.
When Reputation meets a galling stroke,
That injures Fame, and does the Mind provoke,
Lex Talionis, is the only sure
Remedium that can work a pleasing Cure;
Then rouse, ye injur'd Brethren of the Quill,
Why all so tame, so indolent and still?
Exert your Talents, your resentment show,
Hunt him as far as Wit and Words will go;
And since his Muse, of late, has been so rash,
Attack him warmly, give him Lash for Lash;
Proclaim him Rebel to Apollo's Crown,
And make him run the Gantlet thro' the Town;
That e'ery Brother, he has us'd with scorn,
May deal the Bard an adequate return:
For, tell me, you harmonious Sons of Verse,
Which most deserves to wear the Asse's Ears,
He that offends, or he that tamely bears.
Well may the restless little Bard accuse,
Of tacit dulness, e'ery modern Muse,
Since you unactive Souls in silence sit,
And bear, with Patience, his invective Wit;
Not only so, but stifling your disgust,
Confirms his Dunciad Satyr to be just:
Therefore, if none will his Arraignment heed,
Like Mutes at Bar, you must be press'd to plead.
You find his active Genius spares no pains,
But, with fresh Scandal, daily feeds his Brains;
Which in a labour'd Dress is midwif'd forth,
And stil'd Heroick, to enhance its worth.
So Jewellers, to please the wanton Fair,
Set Bristol Stones in Gold for common wear,
Which, glitt'ring Baubles, grace the pritty Dames,
And, with misjudging Eyes, oft pass for Gems.
Durgen's sweet Pen, we know, the World admires,
He's bless'd with a kind Muse that never tires;
Skill'd in all antient Tongues, and modern Arts,
A prodigy in Person, and in Parts;
A half-bred Deity, made up of Thought,
A something, but no mortal Man knows what;
A living Chaos, whose prolifick Brain,
Does e'ery thing in miniature contain;
Has Wit at Will, and is, without dispute,
A wondrous Creature, neither Man nor Brute;
Who, to delight himself, and vex the Town,
Spent twice three Years in writing one Lampoon;
And, if no Rival does his Scheme defeat,
Will waste six more to make the work compleat;
A task, that when it's finish'd, must command
Laudative Poems from each skilful Hand,
Especially each poor neglected Muse,
His gen'rous Satyr does so kindly use,
Forgetful of the hard unhappy fate
Of Poets more sublime, and Wits more great,
Than those that wrong the Mem'ry of the Dead,
And stifle Conscience for the sake of Bread,
Slander the living, with a spightful Pen,
And prostitute the Fame of worthy Men,
So the proud Cit, possess'd of an Estate,
For nothing good, tho' worshipfully Great,
Triumphs o'er Dealers of a low Degree,
More honest, tho' less prosperous than he.
The Grecian Bard whose excellence we trace,
Great Prince and Father of the Epick Race,
The first wise Sage that taught his native Tongue,
The graceful Numbers of heroick Song.
Apollo's Darling, and the only light
That in so dark a Lanthorn shone so bright;
As if the Gods assembled at his birth,
And all consenting to enlarge his worth,
Enrich'd with heav'nly Gifts the new born Earth.
Thus Homer's Muse from Heav'n to Earth retir'd,
When to the utmost height she had aspir'd,
Leaving to Poets such an epick Plan,
As if devis'd by Angels, not by Man:
What tho' he beg'd relief of tender Hearts,
His Wants were no dishonour to his Parts,
But show'd his Genius too sublimely great
For a dull World, that knew his Worth too late;
Tho' Heav'n, perhaps, that had inspir'd his Mind,
Might kindly suff'r him to be Poor and Blind,
That no temptation should debase a Soul
Of Wit and Virtue so divinely full;
For beauteous Objects, that engage the Sight,
Bend not our Thoughts to Wisdom, but delight;
And Wealth, that Bawd to e'ery loose design,
Does the frail Heart to sensual Joys incline:
Therefore, had the immortal Greek possess'd
Redundant Riches, or with Sight been bless'd,
The seven contending Towns, perhaps, had heard
No news of Trojan Wars, or Grecian Bard;
All the brave Heroes in those Battles slain,
Had in Oblivion's Grave long since been lain;
Fair Helen's Character entirely lost,
And Seas of Blood forgot her Beauty cost;
No great Examples left upon record,
To spirit up yoang Princes to the Sword;
Or teach poor suff'ring Nations to betake
Themselves to glorious Arms for Justice sake,
That when by Tyrants they're in Slav'ry held,
Force may, by Force, be gallantly repell'd;
No Wits inspir'd by his exemplar Worth,
But Dulness must have reign'd thro' all the Earth;
Then had the Dunciad Author gain'd renown,
And his tame Hero bully'd all the Town;
For if a Dunce shall in Heroicks bear
Against all rule, the leading Character,
And Epick Bards may seat a stupid Ass,
Where none but warlike Princes should have place,
Then in an Age when Men are least polite,
Dulness must set off what such Poets write,
As a dark foil makes Jewels shine more bright.
Durgen, invoke the Nine to help thee praise,
The Grecian Poet and his Epick Lays,
Had not thy bold aspiring Muse been free
With his old Songs, we scarce had heard of thee;
Thy lustre borrow'd from the Eastern Bard,
Is but like Moonshine to the Sun compar'd;
In e'ery Line his fiery Genius charms,
But thine's a glow-worm Light that never warms,
Does of itself no dazling Rays expand,
But by Reflexion shines at second hand.
None can to Homer's lofty pitch arrive,
To equal his bright Thoughts in vain we strive'
And only maim the Works we struggle to revive.
'Tis hard such diff'rent Fortunes should attend
The noble Greek and his translating Friend,
One starv'd in framing his account of Troy,
What he deserv'd his Ape does now enjoy;
But had not Fortune been, like Homer, blind,
Sh'ad chang'd their Fates and to the first been kind,
And plac'd the latter in the same degree
With those that he contemns for Poverty,
Forc'd him, in spight of Wit, to humbly seek
A free-cost Dinner twice or thrice a Week,
And doom'd the proud Homunculus to share
Those Hardships more instructive Authors bear,
Then had his Epick-strains been less abstruse,
And his pert Satyrs freer from abuse;
But Dainties and full Bowls retard his flights,
And make his Muse too lazy when he Writes;
For had not other Wits, first, taken pains
In English Verse to render Homer's strains,
Durgen the knotty Labour had declin'd,
And in Heroick Numbers never shin'd;
But Og's old Version having well explain'd
The Grecian Text to our Translator's Hand,
His Christian Muse, tho' Learn'd, disdain'd to seek
For Homer's sense, in Homer's heathen Greek,
But wisely took it, as before laid down,
Disguis'd the antient Tale to gull the Town,
And in a pompous Style, his Art to shew,
Transform'd the old Translation to a new.
So cunning Bawds oft Dye their Harlot's Hair,
Turn Brown to Black and Bleech the Red to Fair,
Then in rich Dresses pass the wanton Jades,
At Play-house, publick Balls, and Masquerades,
Upon their old Gallants once more for Maids.
Ladies, bright heav'nly Stars, to you I bow,
Your charming Sex my Muse addresses now,
Without whose soft'ning Graces we should find
Proud Man unfriendly, and to rage inclin'd;
The sweet Examples your Endowments give,
Instruct us how to talk and how to live;
Your Beauties furnish Lovers Pens with Themes,
And lull our Poets into pleasing Dreams;
Your Virtues prompt'em both to Think and Write,
And your kind Converse makes the World Polite;
Robb'd of your Charms we justly might assert,
That Man would be no more than living Dirt,
Who, when divested of your soothing Smiles,
Has nothing left him to reward his Toils.
Then curs'd be e'ery Miser, Fool and Sot,
That value not such Blessings as they ought,
But drudge and hurry on their days till Old,
Some in pursuit of Wine, and some of Gold,
Affect a single State, neglect the Fair,
And die without a self-begotten Heir.
O Muse! inspire me with a just regard
To th'tender Sex, whose Favours I have shar'd,
And, to their Honour and my own, can say,
Not in a vicious, but a lawful way,
O grant me power, whilst on Earth I dwell,
To do 'em good, at least to wish'em well.
Take this advice, ye bright angelick Race,
Whose sweet Perfections bless our Nights and Days,
Withhold your Bounty, barter not your Gold,
For Grecian Tales so oft in English told,
Cook'd, in all Ages, to their change of tast,
The last translation proving ever best:
For ancient Stories in a modern Style,
Ne'er fail of some admirers, for a while,
Who b'ing but slender Judges of the Sense,
Think Novelty alone an excellence.
So Salmon's Waxwork, common to our view,
Gains always fresh applause when dress'd anew,
And thus we're often cheated and surpris'd
With the same Substance artfully disguis'd.
You therefore that adorn our British Isles,
And cherish Wit with your enliv'ning Smiles,
To whose endearing qualities we owe
The sweetest Comforts we enjoy below,
And by whose wise domestick Care, the best,
As well as meanest Families, are blest;
Doat not so much on one proud epick Muse,
Nor let the useful Stage your Favour lose,
But by your pers'nal Influence sustain
The sinking Credit of Apollo's Train,
For wheresoe'er your Beauties you display,
Admiring Crouds will follow to survey
Your lovely Charms, as Swallows take their flight
Persuing Phœbus for his warmth and light.
Be kind to Merit, wheresoe'er 'tis found,
And show regard to Sense, as well as Sound;
By vogue or common Fame be gull'd no more,
Despise no Man of Wit for being poor,
Since Homer starv'd, if History be true,
For want of Benefactors, such as you:
Think none an empty Coxcomb, or a Beau,
Because an envious Dwarf proclaims him so;
Nor for ill-natur'd Falsities caress
A spightful Satyr in an epick Dress,
But lend your kind assistance to revive
A Poet long defunct, and yet alive;
Tho' not in Person, still his Works obtain
New Life, and are about to shine again;
Such as have ever pleas'd the nicest tast,
And grac'd the English Stage for Ages past;
But length of Time some Beauties have impair'd,
And wrong'd the Sense of the immortal Bard;
For Wit, tho' ne'er so regular and just,
In a few Years, like polish'd Steel, will rust,
And want a careful Artist to restore
The pleasing lustre it display'd before.
A Poet therefore in the Drama skill'd,
Who to no Rival should the Laurel yield,
Of late has rais'd old Shakespear from the dead,
And with judicious care his Works survey'd,
Expung'd the Faults, ungrateful to our view,
Fil'd off the rust, and burnish'd him anew,
A meritorious Work, that must prevail
With all good Judges to promote its sale;
For Wit so well adapted to the Stage,
Tho' stifl'd in a loose unthinking Age,
Can never long lie bury'd in disgrace,
And Farce be suffer'd to usurp its place.
Once more, fair Ladies, we implore your aid,
All Arts without your quick'ning Smiles are dead,
Your kind Encouragement the Muses ask,
Pray lend your hands to the deserving Task,
That Shakespear's Plays, correct in e'ery Line,
Once more may in their pristine Glory shine;
Then may you, charming Students, justly boast
An useful Treasure, bought at little cost,
And Shakespear's faithful Friend more honour gain,
Than Homer's Ape by his translating Pen.
Some think the Stars our diff'rent Fates dispense,
But how, is yet unknown to human Sense;
For what wise Albumazar can presage,
When Wit shall reign and Folly quit the Stage?
And both the Houses to their credit raise,
Instead of monstrous Farces, moral Plaies?
When these new changes shall surprise the Town,
And Poets only father what's their own,
Then shall repeated Plaudets let us see,
Which angry Bard shall most regarded be,
Heroick Durgen, or Dramatick The ------