Poems on Affairs of State

All my Endeavours, all my Hopes depend
On you the Orphans, and the Muses Friend;
The only great good Man, who will declare
Virtue and Verse the object of his Care;
And prove a Patron in the worst of Times,
When hungry Bays forsakes his empty Rhymes,
Beseeching all true Catholicks Charity,
For a poor Prostitute which long did lie
Under the Mortal Sins of Verse and Heresy.

Shadwell, and starving Ta--- I cease to name,
Poets of all Religions are the same:
Recanting Settle brings the tuneful Ware,
Which wiser Smithfield damn'd to Sturbridge-Fair;
Protests his Tragedies and Libels fail
To yield him Paper, Penny-Loaves and Ale,
And bids our Youth by his Example fly
The love of Politicks and Poetry.

And all Retreats except New-Hall refuse
To shelter Durfey and his Jocquey Muse;
There to the Butler, and his Grace's Maid,
He turns, like Homer, Sonneteer for Bread;
Knows his just bounds, nor ever durst aspire
Beyond the swearing Groom and Kitchin Fire.

Is there a Man to these Examples blind,
To clinking Numbers fatally design'd,
Who by his Parts would purchase Meat, and Fame,
And in next Miscellanies plant his Name?
Were my Beard grown, the Wretch I'd thus advise:
Repent fond Mortal, and be timely wise;

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Take heed, nor be by gilded Hopes betray'd,
Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade;
By Verse you'l starve: John Saul cou'd never live,
Unless the Bellman made the Poet thrive;
Go rather in some little shed by Pauls,
Sell Chevy-Chase, or Baxter's Salve for Souls,
Cry Raree-Shows, sell Ballads, transcribe Votes,
Be Care, or Ketch, or any thing but Oates.

Hold Sir, some Bully of the Muses cries,
Methinks you're more Satyrical than Wise;
You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme,
At once encourage and condemn the Crime.

True Sir, I write, and have a Patron too,
To whom my Tributary Songs are due;
Yet with your leave I'd honestly disswade
Those wretched Men from Pindus barren shade:
Who tho they fire their Muse, and rack their Brains
With blustering Heroes, and with piping Swains,
Can no great patient giving Man engage
To fill their Pockets, and their Title Page.
Were I, like these, unhappily decreed
By Penny Elegies to get my bread,
Or want a Meal, unless George Croom and I
Could strike a Bargain for my Poetry,
I'd damn my Works to wrap up Soap and Cheese,
Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices
To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess.

But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue,
Herd with the hungry little chiming Crew,
Obtain the empty Title of a Wit,
And be a free-cost Noisy in the Pit:
Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place
A Crown of Laurel, and a Meager Face.
And may just Heav'n thy hated Life prolong,
Till thou blest Author seest thy deathless Song,
The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall,
And findst thy Picture starch'd 'gainst Suburb Wall,
With Johnny Armstrong and the Prodigal.

140

And to compleat the Curse,
When Age and Poverty comes faster on,
And sad Experience tells thou art undone,
May no kind Country Grammar-School afford
Ten Pounds a Year to pay for Bead and Board;
Till void of any fix'd Employ, and now
Grown useless to the Army and the Plow,
You've no Friend left, but trusting Landlady,
Who stows you on hard Truckle Garret-high,
To dream of Dinner, and curse Poetry.

Sir, I've a Patron, you reply. 'Tis true,
Fortune and Parts you say may get one too:
Why Faith e'en try, Write, Flatter, Dedicate,
My Lord's, and his Forefathers Deeds relate:
Yet know he'll wisely strive ten thousand ways
To shun a needy Poet's fulsom Praise;
Nay to avoid thy Importunity,
Neglect his State, and condescend to be
A Poet, tho perhaps a worse than thee.

Thus from a Patron he becomes a Friend;
Forgetting to reward, learns to commend;
Receives your twelve long Months successess Toil,
And talks of Authors, Energy, and Stile;
Damns the dull Poems of the scribling Town,
Applauds your Writings, and repeats his own;
Whilst thou in Complaisance oblig'd, must sit
T'extol his Judgment and admire his Wit;
And wrapt with his Essay on Poetry,
Swear Horace writ not half so strong as he,
But that we're partial to Antiquity.
Yet this Authentick Peer perhaps scarce knows
With jingling sounds to tag insipid Prose,
And shou'd be by some honest Manly told,
He'd lost his Credit to secure his Gold.

But if thou'rt blest enough to write a Play,
Without the hungry hopes of kind third Day,

141

And he believes that in thy Dedication
Thou'lt fix his Name, not bargain for the Station:
My Lord his useless Kindness then {abiures},
And to the utmost of his pow'r he's yours.
How fine your Plot, how exquisite each Scene!
And play'd at Court wou'd strangely please the Queen.
And you may take his Judgment sure, for he
Knows the true Spirit of good Poetry;
And might with equal judgment have put in
For Poet Laureat as Lord Ch---in.
All this you see and know, yet cease to shun;
And seeing knowing, strive to be undone.
So Kidnapt Dutchess once beyond Gravesend,
Rejects the Counsel of recalling Friend;
Is told the dreadful Bondage she must bear,
And sees, unable to avoid the snare.
So practis'd Thief oft taken, ne'er afraid,
Forgets the Sentence, and pursues the Trade.
Tho yet he almost feels the smoking Brand,
And sad T. R. stands fresh upon his Hand.
The Author then, whose daring hopes would strive
With well built Verse to keep his Fame alive,
And something to Posterity present,
That's very new and very excellent;
Something beyond the uncal'd drudging Tribe,
Beyond what Bays can write or I describe;
Shou'd in substantial happiness abound,
His Mind with Peace, his Board with Plenty crown'd.
No early Duns should break his Learned Rest,
No sawcy Cares his nobler Thoughts molest,
Only the God within should shake his labouring Breast.
In vain we from our Sonneteers require
The height of Cowleys, and Anacreon's Lyre.
In vain we bid 'em fill the Bowl,
Large as their capacious Soul,

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Who since the King was crown'd ne'er tasted Wine,
But write at sight, and know not where to dine.
In vain we bid dejected Settle hit
The Tragick Flights of Shakespear's towring Wit;
He needs must miss the Mark, who's kept so low,
He has not strength enough to draw the Bow.
Sedley indeed and Rochester might write
For their own credit, and their Friends delight,
Shewing how far they cou'd the rest outdo,
As in their Fortunes, so their Writings too.
But shou'd Drudg Dryden this example take,
And Absaloms for empty Glory make,
He'd soon perceive his Income scarce enough
To feed his Nostril with inspiring Snuff;
Starving for Meat, not surfeiting on Praise,
He'd find his Brains as barren as his Bays.

There was a time when Otway charm'd the Stage,
Otway the Hopes, the Sorrow of our Age;
When the full Pit with pleas'd attention hung,
Wrapt with each accent from Castalio's Tongue.
With what a Laughter was his Soldier read!
How mourn'd they when his Jaffier struck, and bled!
Yet this best Poet, tho with so much ease,
He never drew his Pen but sure to please;
Tho Lightning were less lively than his Wit,
And Thunder-claps less loud than those o'th' Pit
He had of's many Wants much earlier dy'd,
Had not kind Banker Betterton supply'd,
And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play,
Till he could pay himself the next third Day.
Were Shakespear's self to live again, he'd ne'er
Degen'rate to a Poet from a Player.
Carlile ith' new rais'd Troops we see,
And chattering Mountfort in the Chancery;
Mountfort how fit for Politicks and Law,
That play'd so well Sir Courtly and Jack Daw.
Dance then attendance in slow M---ves Hall,
Read Maps, or court the Sconces till he call;

143

One Actor's Commendation shall do more
Than Patron now, or Merit heretofore.
Some Poets I confess the Stage has fed,
Who for half Crowns are shown, for two Pence read;
But these not envy thou, but imitate,
Much rather starve in Shadwel's silent Fate,
Than new vamp Farces, and be damn'd with Tate.
For now no Sydneys will three hundred give,
That needy Spencer and his Fame may live;
None of our new Nobility will send
To the King's Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend.
Chymists and Whores by Buckingham were fed,
Those by their honest Labours gain'd their Bread;
But he was never so expensive yet,
To keep a Creature merely for his Wit;
And Cowley from all Clifden scarce could have
One grateful Stone to shew the World his Grave.
Pemb--- lov'd Tragedy, and did provide
For Butchers Dogs, and for the whole Bankside;
The Bear was fed, but dedicating Lee
Was thought to have a larger Paunch than he.
More I cou'd say, but care not much to meet
A Crabtree Cudgel in a narrow Street.
Besides, your Yawning prompts me to give o'er:
Your humble Servant, Sir, not one word more.

University of Virginia Library

A Satyr upon the Poets, being a Translation out of the 7th Satyr of Juvenal.