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A Search after Wit

Or, A Visitation of the Authors: In Answer to The late Search after Claret; Or Visitation of the Vintners. By an Under-Drawer at the ---'s-Head-Tavern in --- Gate-Street [i.e. Richard Ames]

Ames, Richard

[section]

THE DRAWER's DEDICATION.

A Search after WIT:

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THE DRAWER's DEDICATION.

To you the chief Grievance and Plague of the Time,
Heavy Thrashers of Prose, and Tormentors of Rhime.
You Play-Wights and Authors, with all their Attendance,
The Locusts of Egypt were a civiller Vengeance.

From him who each Action o'th' Publick misconstrues,
To the Makers of Devils, and Sermons, and Monsters;
Than whom there's no Vulture discover can further,
By Instinct, the Approach of Dire Battle and Murder.

To each politick Stroker, or hungry Backbiter,
From the Bawdy Song-Scribler, to the Godly Book-Writer:
Be their Works or their Fortunes, or lucky, or scurvy;
From great Mr. Bays down to little Mr. D---y.

To Satyrical Dick, who has us'd us so kindly,
Though I hope, Mr. Author, to ben't far behind you:
And 'twere best that your Back you'd prepare for a humming,
The Drawer most humbly pre---
Coming, Sir, Coming!

He would have said Presents, but the Bell ringing on the sudden, unluckily stopp'd him in the middle of the Word.

A Search after WIT:

OR, A VISITATION OF THE AUTHORS.

By a DRAWER, &c.

I

Father Ben! For thy gentle Assistance I call,
Now Toping above in Apollo's Whitehall,
Where Sack, the true Nectar; for ever you drink:
And though the fair nimble heel'd Ganimede skink,
On us, mortal Drawers, you sometimes do think.

II

As there from bad Wines, and dull Criticks you're safe.
As ever you lov'd our Progenitor Ralph,
Look down for a Moment, and help me to swinge
The Blasphemers of Taverns with a lusty Revenge.

III

The King of Moroco's, and Bantam's Relation,
Has plagu'd us of late with a damn'd Visitation:
We'll appeal to the World, if it is'nt very fit;
Since he'll search for our Claret, we shou'd search for his Wit.

IV

First observe but his Sign—but not gaze unaware
On Sir Courtly's sweet Face—so killing, so fair,
That with his Reputation it well may compare.
If he has Wit, sure he has not enough on't to spare it;
For who ever search'd a Black Jack to find Claret?

V

But lest we should our Disappointment deplore,
He has Singing, and Dancing, and Stories good store:
But Wit from Jack-Pudding, as well you might hope:
Come pierce t'other Hogshead; for here's not a drop.

VI

Not Wit, Sir!—No, Wit, Sir! How that, Sir, d'ye prove?
Here's Sylvia's Revenge, Sir, and the Follies of Love:
Sure these you ne'er read, Sir, if no Wit you e'er saw there.
'Nouns! cries out St. Ph---ps, little Dick too turned Author:

VII

Then firing a Volley of half Oaths, and compleat Ones;
He heartily swears both by little and great Ones;
They may talk what they will, but there ne'er was a Satyr
Since His against Hypocrites writ, wou'd hold Water.

VIII

But Dragon grows old, and his Wits he has lost;
Speak softly, or you'll find he is young to your Cost:
He has yet a Colt's Tooth, whate'er you suppose,
And something besides—a Jolly-Red—Jolly Red-Nose.

IX

I'd fain in some Method my Subject pursue;
But that I'm affraid I never shall do:
For your Authors, like Tartars, are as light as a Feather,
And vanish like Jack-a-Lent's, Satan knows whither.

X

No Lodging they use, but true Brethren o'th Road,
Like Pilgrims and Gypsies, they all lie abroad,
Unless if for Nothing the Landlord will spare it,
Now and then they Pig into a Barn, or a Garret.

XI

Mr. Reader may smile as he pleases, or grumble;
But must take 'em like Fagots, as out they will tumble:
Stand clear of their Dulness, and their Wit won't surprize us;
And who first shou'd Trump up, but the Parabolizers?

XII

Poor B---aw, thy Magpye's of late gone astray,
And for fear of a Cage, is hopp'd out of the way;
Nor is it so strange, though Puppies will scoff,
That for fear of the Mouse-Trap the Shark is rubb'd off.

XIII

Who for Wit in a Ballad of Top-knots wou'd seek,
Tho' the Author, like Hudibrass, rattles out Greek?
Who e'er heard a Toad sing, or a Nightingale croak;
Or one single wise Word that a Raven e'er spoke,
Though the Capitol once was preserv'd by a Gander?

XIV

And 'troth well remember'd;—How is't Mr. Vander?
There's your Man—if there be Wit in the City, he has it
In two Bushels of Letters a Week for his Gazett

XV

He must be an Alderman by his Invention;
For he keeps the Ten Quires of Authors in Pension:
This Brother, that Kinsman, this Friend, and that Cozen;
Tell 'em out he that can,—One,-Two,-Three,-and a Dozen.

XVI

First enter Sir Astrophel, Plodding, and Drudging,
In Answering of Levi, and Mauling of T---n;
Still adoring his Stella's fair Hand, and fair Glove;
Tho' thereby but a Coxcomb himself he will prove:
For who that has Wit, wou'd be ever in Love?

XVII

Next comes the Athenian Invisible Author,
With his Face in a Veil, like the Jews Legislator;
Among Ten Thousand more, I One Query wou'd make him,
That's, Where were his Brains at this Task's Undertaking?

XVIII

Not a Fool, or a Wit, let him do what he can, Sir,
But will send him more Questions than e'er he can answer;
Though like other Case-splitters of the self-same Community,
He'll refer what's too hard till another Opportunity.

XIX

Nay prithee Friend Vander,—thou dost not do fairly,
Thus to take away Trade from B---ss, and Shirley;
This ne'er will hear more from his Cases of Conscience,
And the t'others Peny-Sermons will all be flat Non-sense.

XX

Now thou'rt right Jack of all Trades, tho' the last's but a mean one
To be Groom of the Stool to the Orac'lous Athenian;
And when e'er he'll be pleas'd his Butt-End to discover,
Bring him Paper sufficient to wipe him all over.

XXI

Step to the next Door if you'd hear a good Lecture,
Or Ichabod's Groans from the famous Reflecter;
But he'll not be disturb'd for any Occasion,
Since he's busie in Bills for the Good of the Nation.

XXII

He had lately a Call, though the Step was o'th' longest,
To watch all the Motions of the Princes in Congress;
So grave, and so old, and so full of the Matter,
And amongst his hot Brains the Notions so clatter,
That he rather deserves our Pity than Laughter.

XXIII

When Lud first built London, old Stories declare
The Sacks stood at Cornhill, and Wheat was sold there;
Stocks-Market for Apples, and Herbs, and such Ware;
And the Poultry a Hen-Coop for the Shrieves, and Lord Mayor.

XXIV

The First long ago its Office did lose;
But the Last of old Customs yet something will use;
Against all the rest, and each other still pecking
As well the old Cock, as the sprightly young Chicken;
Nor e'er will be quiet while they've left Spur or Neck on.

XXV

Sure no single Dulness on Earth will suffice
For such blessed Writers as there Authoriz'd;
How they order the Matter, I cannot devise,
Except one finds the Nonsense, and t'other finds Lies.

XXVI

But I'll fairly rub off, for fear e'er I go
They should take their Leaves of me with a kind Starring-Blow:
And who next should I meet, or my Eyes-sight is false,
But the little new Auth'ress, Poetical Alce?

XXVII

And is't all come to this—When at Oxford she's undone,
With whole Dung-Carts of Doggrel to plague us at London:
Yet like a true Wit in great things she miscarry'd;
For who but a Wit such a Wit would have marry'd?

XXVIII

Calling in at St. Paul's, I a certain Shop harp'd on,
Where lay 20 Plays that were printed for K---ton;
But unless by the Title you chanc'd to discern 'em,
For their Wit, you'd mistaken a Play for a Sermon:
But what's that to the purpose, if Estates they can get;
Their Search is for Money, and mine is for Wit.

XXIX

Then farewell old Bellarmine, Pasquez and Suarez!
Farewel you old Glosses and new Commentaries!
Farewel all at once, since your Brains are no quicker,
From the ragged Verse-Tagger, to the rich Country-Vicar.

XXX

We'll e'en to the Play-house—there sure we shall find it;
For they tell us,—they live by their Wits, if you mind it.
No wonder, cries one, they then are as poor
As a modest fac'd Bully, or an ugly old Whore.

XXXI

Let's begin with Squire Laureat, since sure 'twould be strange,
If to so many Guts, Nature gave him no Brains:
And left Nonsense and Noise for true Wit should o'erpow'r us,
We'll step in for Relief to his Play, call'd the Scowrers.

XXXII

This 'tis to turn Rhymer without Nature's leave.
And the Town with Poetical Titles deceive;
Since he left honest Prose, the old Stroke he ne'er hit,
And is equally admir'd for his Shape and his Wit.

XXXIII

And was it for him, that old de Jure—Bays,
With his Horus, and his Panthers was turn'd out to graze?
He had better have staid, and both writ at a Time,
That one might find Wit, and t'other find Rhyme.

XXXIV

What Dryden want Wit! cries a huffing old Spark?
Thus Curs at Dame Luna for Envy will bark,
Or Glow-worms pretend that the Sunshine is dark?—
Your Pardon, and Thanks for your courteous Remark.

XXXV

I am better informed, or I spoke it in Haste,
A Poet, like a Disputant's sometimes too fast:
If there ever was Wit in the Times that are past
Or present, in Poems, in Books, or on Stages,
In the eloquent Roman, or Grecian Ages.

XXXVI

In Johnson, or Davenant, or Boileau, or Donne,
He has it, he Books it, Slapdash 'tis his own:
Nor is't his Religion alone that surprizes;
For his Wit is like that of all Nations and Sizes .

XXXVII

At D****'s New Play I next thought fit to call,
Where the Masters of Legs he sans merry does mawl:
So nimble, so clever, so dapper an Elf,
I always till now thought he had been one himself.

XXXVIII

There's no Man upon Earth, that can please a Lass better
With an easie soft Biller, fine Song, or fine Letter.
But if you ask him for Wit, he must still be your Debtor.
Fa, la, la, he replies, pray expect no Wit from us;
For we spend all our Stock every Wednesday on Momus.

XXXIX

Poor Mortals! What different Fortunes befal us,
Poor Authors! Hard Fate! so unkindly to maul us!
Rouse, Elkanah; rouse in the Name of Crimhallaz:
Since thy Guts are still croaking, and thy Brains are still chiming,
Plague the Stage yet again with thy huffing and rhiming.

XL

None will ask thee for Wit; for all know that the Creature
Had never yet any such thing in his Nature:
But what will take more from the Gazette Purloyn-a,
Some raw Head and bloody Bones Tales of Amboyna!

XLI

If the Brats of the Brain for Damnation are fated;
And if e'er they are born, they are all reprobated:

There's a Trick too for that; and were't my Case, I'd rather
Hire one of the Players to stand for their Father.

XLII

Poor Nat, thou hast lost both thy Reason and Wit;
Yet the happiest Author for Bread that e'er writ.
Let the Criticks fret on;— if they snarl, thou can'st growl;
If they bark, thou can'st bite; if they hiss, thou can'st howl.

XLIII

Thy Fortune, whatever they think of the Matter,
Is what they'll all come to or sooner, or later;
Upon a mad Subject to make a mad Play,
And write for a Third House without any Third Day.

XLIV

Thou hast told what Wit is in thy Princess of Cleve,
But thy self and the Reader doth only deceive
Our longing, in vain, thou attemptest to save;
And instead of being witty, dost nothing but rave:
So did'st thou not once, when Fortune was kinder,
And the Theatre rung with thy brave Alexander.

XLV

Scarce Rascius himself could Goodman outdo;
He spoke it as well as 'twas written by you.

XLVI

Let's dispatch to the Mud-house poor Lunatick Nat,
And proceed to the Cream of Sobriety, T*ro,

As modest as Virgin that knows not what's what,
Nor dares venture beyond his Pint, or his Pot.

XLVII

He others Foundations has oftentimes built on;
For he has writ more Epistles than Tully, or Milton.

XLVIII

A good Second-Rate-Poet, and Faithful Translator;
And if you ask him for Wit, he knows something o'th' Matter.

XLIX

For this must be said, for his Credit and Profit,
He has chosen a Patron that has enough of it;
Great Pollio, who Judge of Parnassus does sit,
And has, spite of his Quality, Learning and VVit.

L

On the Shepherd he smil'd when so sweetly he sung,
And the VVoods and the Plains with his Pastorals rung:
How Nat'ral each Stroke, and how easie and fine;
How curious the Opening, how vast the Design
Of the Glories of William, and VVonders o'th' Boyn!

LI

Go on, happy Bard, on so Glorious a Theme;
Go on to the Rhine's or the Sambre's fair Stream;
Still rise with thy Subject, and greater thy Name,
And ravish the Laurels from S---ll and Fame.

LII

Great William, our Honour, our Safety, and Pride,
With all the English Heroes that fight by his side,
(If they are not past Number.—) so generous, so kind,
All those who are gone, or who tarry behind.

LIII

Had C---n but had any kind Prophet's Advice,
And ne'er scribled a Line but his Comical Nice,
He'd not pester'd the VVorld, nor pester'd his VVriting
With Nonsense and Blasphemy, Roaring and Fighting.

LIV

Wou'd he had known while 'twas well, his Siege to give o'er;
Content with one Part, and not cramm'd us with more!
But twice on the same dull Subject to write,
Is like Jimminy Gemminy every Night.

LV

If the Plays, of true Wit have so little to spare,
'Tis unlikely to find any more in a Player:
Yet is it no wonder when the Authors want Sense,
The Players turn VVriters in their own defence.

LVI

Since their Business lies more in their Tongues, than their Brains,
We expect no great Matter from M---d, or H---nes.
Damn our Play while you will, if toth' Third Day it tarries,
We'll forgive you, quoth Pow---ll, and Ca---, and Ha---is.

LVII

The Theatres flourish'd when Quality writ,
For they always had Money, and sometimes had VVit;
But now they for nothing but States-men are fit:
No—not one single Line, tho' the whole House beseeches,
Since from making of Plays, they'r turn'd Makers of Speeches.

LVIII

From them to the Criticks, at last let's repair;
'Tis their Trade, and we sure shall find somewhat on't there;
But they, like the rest, knew nothing o'th' Matter;
Tho' the want on't was richly supply'd with ill-Nature.

LIX

'Tis true, Mr. Ry---r long pass'd for a VVit,
And still might have done so, if he never had writ;
His Stationer may for his Profit go whistle:
But he swears all's not Gospel that's in his Epistle.

LX

If you think't worth the while, and 'twon't give ill example,
Let's next search for Wit with the Students o'th' Temple?
But they heartily vow they have never a Rag;
For Counsellor Gripe has it all in his Bag.

LXI

Nay then we shall find it;—good Sir, not too fast!
These Authors ne'er part with their Writings in haste;
As dear as old Coins, or old Manuscripts sell 'em;
For they write like the Monks, with great Letters on Velom.

LXII

Yet there's no Ballad-Singer, that louder can baul
Than they at the Sizes, or Westminster-Hall:
A Customer seldom of their Dulness complains;
No matter for the Text, so they baul, and take pains:
Hold out Brow and Lungs, there's no need of any Brains.

LXIII

If, as there's no Lawyer e'er doubted it yet,
'Tis getting of Money's the only true Wit;
Let him write what he will, by Rote, or by Rule,
In Prose, or in Verse, little At---d's a Fool.

LXIV

But whether old Prophesies he will unveil,
Or cracks your grave Doctors like Nits, with his Nail,
He's the Civilest Author that you meet with e'er can, Sir,
For he'll ne'er write a thing that another can't answer.

LXV

I was just a concluding, when, who shou'd I meet,
But two Ballad-Singers, that stunn'd all the Street;
Whose Tails still kept Time to their Mouth's Modulation,
Whose Hats were both fix'd to the right Elevation.

LXVI

I know not how 'twas, but my Business they knew,
And fain wou'd for Wits have been registred too;
No Answer they'd take, tho' I laugh'd at the Fancy,
And ask'd 'em, if any thing for't they can say?

LXVII

At which one gravely cries;—since such, Sir, your Will is,
May I never more rattle Philander or Phillis:
If we cannot say more for our own Occupation,
Than all th' Haberdasher's of Wit in the Nation.

LXVIII

No Author unless he's cramm'd full of Iniquity,
And Falshood, can ever deny our Antiquity:
We only, how much now soever they slight us,
Were the Primitive Rise of all Poets and Writers.

LXIX

Old Homer, as I've heard that old Histories tell,
Went begging about with a Dog and a Bell:
He sung, his Dog danc'd, not a Wake or a Fair
Through Greece, but the jolly-blind Beggar was there.

LXX

Now at Smyrna, or Athens, perhaps, his Abodes;
Then a Sculler he'd take, and cross over to Rhodes.
From Tithing to Tithing, still strolling about,
Where ever he comes in his Way he's not out.

LXXI

Till once out of the Road he unluckily strays—a;
With a Nipperkin fuddl'd of Chier. or Gaza;
And as the Bank-side he wou'd fain have surrounded,
His Dog with the Sight of the Water confounded,
They fell over the Key, and were both on 'em drounded.

LXXII

Thus he dy'd without Trouble of Burial or Herse;
There's an end of the Poet, but not of his Verse:
For his Ballads were rescu'd from the Moth, and the Mouse,
And pasted up safely in every good House.

LXXIII

Well rest his sweet Bones, while ours are still jogging,
Every Night we his Memory treat with a Noggin;
Though the Poets, to cheat us of the Honour design,
'Tis we are his Successors in the right Line.

LXXIV

How proud is this Age, and how silly too grown,
When Men their own Trades are ashamed to own:
There's none we need blush for, if we get Money by it;
And were I a Tom T---d*man, I'd certainly cry it.

LXXV

The Doctor, Forsooth, thinks his Fingers 'twould blister,
To make up a Bolus, or squirt up a Clysser:
And whilst in his Coach his Pleasure he takes,
He out of his Footman a 'pothecary makes.

LXXVI

Thus the Poet pretends, by his prudent Advices,
When first he had brought them to a dangerous Crisis,
To cure Men's Minds of Follies and Vices:
But to act in't himself, after all, he's too proud;
'Tis we with the Medicines must travel abroad.

LXXVII

Thus enter'd, I thought he would ne'er have given o'er,
Till one ask'd for a Ballad, and I heard him no more.
Quite tired with my Search, I home agen trotted,
And had no more Wit than when I first sought it.

LXXVIII

Thus weary of doing nothing, to my Garret I come;
And since I lost it abroad, would seek it at home:
But for Fear I there too should happen to miss,
I'll first make a modest Enquiry what 'tis.

LXXIX

'Tis a Thing that's more easie to know than express;
'Tis all the Creation in its Holyday-Dress;
'Tis a pleasant gay Humuor, not sullen, nor proud,
Ridiculous, fawcy, or noisie, or loud.

LXXX

'Tis not made of New Banter, or merry Old Tales,
Like his, who late lash'd the poor Curate of Wales;
If that, or if Similies either were it,
The Old Woman, or School Boy might pass for a VVit.

LXXXI

Tis not Hunting, or Hooking, or Riding, or Fencing,
Or Cringing, or Riping, or Singing, or Dancing;
'Tis not breaking VVindows, nor Scowring, nor Boaring,
Nor Felling a VVatchman, nor Swearing, nor VVhoring.

LXXXII

It does what it pleases, is Proof against Fate,
Can a thousand new Forms in a moment create;
The Philosopher's-Stone, for no Price to be sold,
Which all things it touches, converts into Gold.

LXXXIII

Not a cool Summer-Evening, nor a warm Winters-Day,
Nor a Mistress her self is so pleasing, and gay;
Nor Empire, for which the Ambitious contend,
For these must all fail; but Wit's Charms never end.

LXXXIV

'Tis not when two Syllables jangle, or chime,
Nor puzzling, dull Anagrammatical Rhime,
Hard Words, or wise Sentences, spoke by old Sages,
To help at Dead-Lifts in all future Ages.

LXXXV

For this strange Camelion where then shall we seek;
'Tis not Bawdy, nor Banter, nor Latin and Greek;
'Tis not Oaths, nor ill Nature, the Blood's sour Disease,
Nor Language as ill, though that better will please.

LXXXVI

'Tis all that is lovely, and sprightly, and fair;
'Tis a Flash when the Soul comes abroad to take Air;
'Tis a Flame can the Sun's paler Splendor outshine;
'Tis unbounded, eternal, immortal, divine.

LXXXVII

No Monarch so bless'd, or so happy as me,
While thus, my dear Horace, I hug it in thee:
Admire it in loftier Virgil, or Smile
When with Waggish Catullus my Cares I'd beguile.

LXXXVIII

When with thee, Ariosto, or Tasso, I sport,
Or go with our Spencer to his Fairy-Court,
Or Cowley, or Oldham, or Davenant pursue,
Or spend a few Hours, neat Waller, with you.

LXXXIX

Here I read till I'm quite into Ecstasies carry'd,
Assoon as the Sun peeps into my Garret;
There, out of the reach of ill Fate, and Disaster,
I sit; and the Drawer's as great as his Master.

A Drawer that Ben Johnson used to remember in his Prayers.

Athenian Gazett.

Alluding to the Motto at the Play-house, Viviter Ingenio.

Dancing Masters, who are well enough exposed in his last new Comedy.

The History of Amboyna—reprinted at the then Prince's landing.

Bedlam.

In the Epilogue.

Of Jerusalem.

Vid. Title Pag.

Rich Wines which anciently grew there.

FINIS.