University of Virginia Library

A SATYRE UPON WIT.

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Printed in the Year 1700.

Who can forbear, and tamely silent sit,
And see his native Land undone by Wit?
Boast not, Britannia, of thy happy Peace,
What if Campaigns and Sea Engagements cease,
Wit, a worse Plague, does mightily encrease:
Some monstrous Crimes to Ages past unknown,
Must sure have pull'd this heavy Judgment down;
Whence Insect-Wits draw out their noisy Swarms,
And threaten Ruin more than foreign Arms:
O'er all the Land the hungry Locusts spread,
Gnaw every Plant, taint every flow'ry Bed,
And crop each budding Vertue's tender Head.
How happy were the old unpolish'd Times,
As free from Wit as other modern Crimes;
As our Forefathers vig'rous were, and brave,
So they were vertuous, wise, discreet and grave,
And did alike detest the Wit and Knave.
For Wits and Fools they justly thought the same,
And Jester was for both the common Name.
Their Minds for Empire form'd, did long retain
Their noble Roughness, and soft Arts disdain;
For Business born, and bred to martial Toil,
They rais'd the Glory of Britannia's Isle,
Which then her dreadful Ensigns did advance,
To curb Iberia, and to conquer France.
But this degenerate, loose and foolish Race
Are sunk to Wits, and their great Stock debase:
Learning and Sense decay, while Jest is grown
The Conversation of the laughing Town,
Where manly Virtues, which we once could boast,
Unnerv'd by Mirth and Levity, are lost.
So far this Plague prevails, I fear, in vain
We now attempt its Progress to restrain;
It takes Men in the Head, and in the Fit
They loose their Senses, and are gone in Wit:
By various Ways their Frenzy they express,
Some with vile Lines run haring to the Press,
In Leudness some are Wits, and some in Dress.
Some seiz'd, like Graver, with Convulsions strain
Always to say fine Things, but strive in vain,
Urg'd with a dry Tenesmus of the Brain.
Had but the People, scar'd with Danger, run
To shut up Will's, where this sore Plague begun,
Had they the first infected Men convey'd
Straight to Moorfields, the Pest-House for the Head,
The wild Contagion might have been supprest,
Some few had fall'n, but we had sav'd the rest,
An Act like this had been a good Defence
Against our great Mortality of Sense;
But now the Poison spreads, the Bills run high,
At the last Gasp of Sense Ten Thousand lie.
We meet fine Youth in every House and Street,
With all the mortal Tokens out of Wit.
Vannine, that look'd on all the Danger past,
Because he 'scap'd so long, is seiz'd at last;
By Pox, and Hunger, and by D---n bit,
He Grins and Snarls, and in his dogged Fit
Froths at the Mouth, a certain Sign of Wit.
Craper runs madly 'midst the sickest Crowd,
And fain would be infected if he could;
Under the Means he lies, frequents the Stage,
Is very Leud, and do's at Learning rage;
Yet happily his Care and Pains are lost,
By his Athletick Constitution crost:
Against th' Assaults of Wit his Make is Proof,
Still his strong Nature works the Poison off;
He still escapes, but yet is wond'rous pleas'd
Jests to recite, and to be thought diseas'd.
So Hypocrites in Sin, in this vile Town,
Boastful pretend to Vices not their own.
Since this vain Humour has the Realm possest,
And sober Heads are grown a standing Jest;
Men arm'd with Pow'r should this light Spirit hate,
That saps the Church, and undermines the State.
What Throne is safe, what Government can last,
When impious Wits have laid all Vertue waste?
While Wisdom fails, and Probity decays,
In vain we beat our Heads for Means and Ways.
The laughing Mob is up, and range the Town,
With Jests and Noise they bear all Reason down;
Subvert Divine Religion's envy'd Fence,
Set up loose Wit, and pull down common Sense.
Our Libraries they gut, and shouting bear
The Spoils of ruin'd Churches in the Air.
Their Captain Tom do's at their Head appear,
And S---d in his Gown brings up the Rear.
Aloud the Church and Clergy they condemn,
Curse all their Order, and their God blaspheme.
Against all Springs of Learning they declare,
Against Religion's Nurseries, and swear
They'll of the Schools not One Supporter spare.
But chief the Crew affirm by all that's good,
They'll ne'er disperse till they have B---ly's Blood
For that ill-natur'd Critick has undone
The finest Piece of Wit, that has been shown:
Till his rude Strokes had thresh'd the empty Sheaf
We thought there had been something else than Chaff:
Crown'd with Applause this Master-Critick sits,
And round him lie the Spoils of ruin'd Wits:
How great a Man! what Rev'rence were his due,
Could he suppress the Critick's Fastus too?
As certain Words will Lunaticks enrage,
Who did before appear sedate and sage,
So do but Lock, or Books, or Newton name,
The Wit's in clammy Sweats, or in a Flame.
Horror and Shame! what would the Madmen have?
They dig up learned Bernard's peaceful Grave;
The sacred Urn of the fam'd Stilling fleet,
We see prophan'd by the leud Sons of Wit.
The skillful Ty---n's Name they dare invade,
And yet they are undone without his Aid;
Learning they next to Vertue most abhor,
Laugh at Discretion, but at Business more:
For a loose Wit's an Idle Fool of Parts,
That hates all Liberal and Mechanick Arts.
Mirth do's enfeeble and debauch the Mind,
Before to Action or to Arts inclin'd.
How mean a Trifler is a saunt'ring Wit,
Only to please with Jests at Dinner fit?
What hopeful Youths for Bar and Bench design'd,
Seduc'd by this light Vein have Cooke declin'd?
For what has Wit to do with Sense or Law?
Can that in Titles find or mend a Flaw?
Can that supply great T---by's nervous Sense,
Or S---r's more than Roman Eloquence?
The Law will ne'er support this jesting Breed,
There Blockheads may, but Wits can ne'er succeed.
Thy Learning G---ns, and thy Judgment H---w
Make you in envy'd Reputation grow:
Had you been Wits, you had been both secure
From Business, and for Satyre too obscure,
Ill-natur'd, arrogant and very poor,
Let Malice rage, the Thousands whom you raise
From threaten'd Death, will bless you all their Days,
And spend the Breath you sav'd in just and lasting Praise.
Had not this merry Sickness of the Head,
This Plague in Fashion o'er the Nation spread,
Proud of her Sons, Britannia might have seen
Vast Numbers more of great and generous Men.
She had not lost a Senator in M---l,
Nor a fine Scholar in the hopeful B---l:
Now, since his foolish Rhymes, both Friends and Foes
Conclude they know, who did not write his Prose.
Wit do's our Schools and Colleges invade,
And has of Letters vast Destruction made;
Has laid the Muses choicest Gardens waste,
Broke their Inclosures, and their Groves defac'd.
We strive in Jests each other to exceed,
And shall e'er long forget to write or read.
Unless a Fund were settled once, that could
Make our deficient Sense and Learning good,
All Hope will be extinguish'd; for the Debt
By this loose Age contracted is so great,
To set the Muses Mortgag'd Acres free,
Our Bankrupt Sons must sell outright the Fee.
The present Age has all their Treasure spent,
They can't the Int'rest pay at Five per Cent.
Ye Lords, who o'er the Muses Realm preside,
Their Interests manage, and their Empire guide;
Regard your Care, regard the Sacred State,
Laid by Invaders waste and desolate.
Tartars, and Schythians, have in barb'rous Bands
Rifled the Muses, and o'er-run their Lands.
The Native Subjects, who in Peace enjoy'd
The happy Seat, are by the Foe destroy'd.
Gardens and Groves, Parnassus did adorn,
Condemn'd to Thistles now, and curst with Thorn;
Instead of Flowers and Herbs of wholesome Use,
The Beds rank Weeds and pois'nous Plants produce,
Fitter to be for Witches a Retreat,
Owls, Satyres, Monkeys, than the Muses Seat;
Who since debauch'd by D---n and his Crew,
Turn Bawds to Vice, and wicked Aims pursue.
Therefore some fit and wholesome Laws ordain,
That may this wild licentious Course restrain;
To Vertue and to Merit have regard,
To Punish learn, you know how to Reward.
Let those Correction have and not Applause,
That Heav'n affront, and ridicule its Laws.
No sober Judge will Atheism e'er permit
To pass for Sense, or Blasphemy for Wit.
Declare that what's Obscene shall give Offence;
Let Want of Decency be Want of Sense.
Send out your Guards to scow'r the Ways, and seize
The Footpads, Outlaws, Rogues and Rapparees,
That in the Muses Country rob and kill,
And make Parnassus worse than Shooter's Hill.
The strictest Justice should on these be shown,
Or Schools of Learning soon must be undone.
For now a vertuous Pen scarce peeps Abroad,
And all chaste Muses dread the dangerous Road.
If in Parnassus any needy Wit,
Should filch and petty Larceny commit;
If he should rifle Books, and Pilferer turn,
An Inch beside the Nose the Felon burn;
Let him distinguish'd by this Mark appear,
And in his Cheek a plain Signetur wear.
Chastise the Poets, who our Laws invade,
And hold with France for Wit an Owling Trade:
Felonious G--- pursuing this Design,
Smuggles French Wit, as Merchants Silks and Wine;
But let his Suff'rings doubly be severe,
For he both steals it there, and runs it here.
Condemn all those, who 'gainst the Muses Laws,
Solicite Votes and canvass for Applause.
When Torman writes, he rattles up and down,
And makes what Friends he can, to make the Town.
By Noise and Violence they force a Name,
For this leud Town has Setters too for Fame.
It is not Merit now, that recommends,
But he acquires most Fame, that makes most Friends.
In Panegyrick let it be a Rule,
That for his Sense, none praise a wealthy Fool.
D---n condemn, who taught Men how to make
Of Dunces Wits, an Angel of a Rake.
By Treats and Gifts, our Youth may now commence,
Wits without Brains, and Scholars without Sense.
They cry up Darfel for his Parts; to treat
Let Darfel cease, and they their Words will eat.
Great Atticus himself these Men would curse,
Should Atticus appear without his Purse.
Of any Price you may bespeak a Name,
For Characters they cut, and Retail Fame;
Bounty's the Measure of a Patron's Mind,
For they have still most Brains, that prove most kind.
Fame on great Men's a Charge, that still goes on;
For Wits, like Scriv'ners, take for Pro and Con.
Without his Gold, Pausanias had not writ
With Spartan Judgment, and Athenian Wit.
Those, who by Satyre would reform the Town,
Should have some little Merit of their own,
And not be Rakes themselves below Lampoon.
For all their Libels Panegyricks are,
They're still read backward, like a Witch's Pray'r.
Ell---t's Reproofs, who do's not make his Sport?
Who'll e'er repent that S---d do's exhort?
Therefore let Satyre Writers be supprest,
Or be reform'd by cautious D---set's Test.
'Tis only D---set's Judgment can command
Wit, the worst Weapon in a Madman's Hand.
The biting Things by that great Master said,
Flow from rich Sense, but theirs from want of Bread,
To lash our Faults and Follies is his Aim,
Theirs is true Worth and Vertue to defame:
In D---set Wit (and therefore still 'twill please)
Is Constitution, but in them Disease.
Care should be taken of the Impotent,
That in your Service have their Vigour spent.
They should have Pensions from the Muses State
Too old to write, too feeble to translate.
But let the lusty Beggar-Wits, that lurk
About the Hill, be seiz'd and set to work.
Besides some Youths Debauches will commit,
And surfeit by their undigested Wit:
Th' intoxicating Draught they cannot bear,
Their Heads grow giddy e'er they are aware;
Weak Brothers, by Excesses it appears,
Have oft been laid up Months, and some whole Years
That neither Sick nor Poor you may neglect,
For all the Muses Invalids, erect
An Hospital upon Parnassus Hill,
And settle Doctors there, of Worth and Skill.
This Town can Numbers for your Service spare.
That live obscure, and of Success despair:
Fracar has many sow'r Invectives said,
And Jests upon his own Profession spread,
And with good Reason, 'twill not find him Bread.
And some such Doctors sure you may perswade
To labour at th' Apothecary's Trade;
They'll make up Medicines, at the Mortar sweat,
And out of pounded Drugs their Dinner beat.