 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
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APPENDIX II
In defence of Satyr. [by Sir Carr Scroope]
When Shakes. Johns. Fletcher, rul'd the Stage,
They took so bold a freedom with the Age,
That there was scarce a Knave, or Fool, in Town,
Of any note, but had his Picture shown:
And (without doubt) though some it may offend,
Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend
Ill Manners, or is trulier Virtues Friend.
Princes, may Laws ordain, Priests gravely Preach,
But Poets, most successfully will teach.
For as a passing Bell, frights from his Meat,
The greedy Sick man, that too much wou'd Eat;
So when a Vice, ridiculous is made,
Our Neighbors shame, keeps us from growing Bad.
But wholsome Remedies, few Palates please,
Men rather love, what flatters their Disease;
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoones, and all the Crew,
That under Friendships name, weak Man undoe;
Find their false Service, kindlier understood,
Than such as tell bold Truths to do us good.
Look where you will, and you shall hardly find,
A Man, without some Sickness of the Mind.
In vain we Wise wou'd seem, while ev'ry Lust,
Whisks us about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust.
They took so bold a freedom with the Age,
That there was scarce a Knave, or Fool, in Town,
Of any note, but had his Picture shown:
And (without doubt) though some it may offend,
Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend
Ill Manners, or is trulier Virtues Friend.
Princes, may Laws ordain, Priests gravely Preach,
But Poets, most successfully will teach.
For as a passing Bell, frights from his Meat,
The greedy Sick man, that too much wou'd Eat;
So when a Vice, ridiculous is made,
Our Neighbors shame, keeps us from growing Bad.
But wholsome Remedies, few Palates please,
Men rather love, what flatters their Disease;
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoones, and all the Crew,
That under Friendships name, weak Man undoe;
Find their false Service, kindlier understood,
Than such as tell bold Truths to do us good.
Look where you will, and you shall hardly find,
A Man, without some Sickness of the Mind.
In vain we Wise wou'd seem, while ev'ry Lust,
Whisks us about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust.
Here for some needless Gain, [a] Wretch is hurl'd,
From Pole, to Pole, and Slav'd about the World;
While the reward of all his Pains, and Care,
Ends in that despicable Thing, his Heir.
From Pole, to Pole, and Slav'd about the World;
While the reward of all his Pains, and Care,
Ends in that despicable Thing, his Heir.
There a vain Fop, Mortgages all his Land,
To buy that gawdy Play-thing, a Command,
To ride a Cock-Horse, wear a Scarfe, at's Arse,
And play the Pudding, in a May-day Farce.
To buy that gawdy Play-thing, a Command,
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And play the Pudding, in a May-day Farce.
Here one whom God to make a Fool, thought fit,
In spight of Providence, will be a Wit.
But wanting Strength, t'uphold his ill made choice,
Sets up with Lewdness, Blasphemy, and Noise.
There at his Mistress Feet, a Lover lyes
And for tawdrey, painted Baby dyes.
Falls on his Knees, adores, and is afraid,
Of the vain Idol, he himself has made.
These, and a Thousand Fools unmention'd here,
Hate Poets all, because they Poets fear.
Take heed (they cry) younder Mad Dog will bite,
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit;
Come but in's way, and strait a new Lampoone
Shall spread your mangled Fame about the Town.
In spight of Providence, will be a Wit.
But wanting Strength, t'uphold his ill made choice,
Sets up with Lewdness, Blasphemy, and Noise.
There at his Mistress Feet, a Lover lyes
And for tawdrey, painted Baby dyes.
Falls on his Knees, adores, and is afraid,
Of the vain Idol, he himself has made.
These, and a Thousand Fools unmention'd here,
Hate Poets all, because they Poets fear.
Take heed (they cry) younder Mad Dog will bite,
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit;
Come but in's way, and strait a new Lampoone
Shall spread your mangled Fame about the Town.
But why am I this Bug bear to ye all?
My Pen is dipt in no such bitter Gall.
He that can rail at one he calls his Friend,
Or hear him absent wrong'd, and not defend;
Who for the sake of some ill natur'd Jeast,
Tells what he shou'd conceal, Invents the rest;
To fatal Mid-night quarrels, can betray,
His brave Companion, and then run away;
Leaving him to be murder'd in the Street,
Then put it off, with some Buffoone Conceit;
This, this is he, you shou'd beware of all,
Yet him a pleasant, witty Man, you call
To whet your dull Debauches up, and down,
You seek him as top Fidler of the Town.
My Pen is dipt in no such bitter Gall.
He that can rail at one he calls his Friend,
Or hear him absent wrong'd, and not defend;
Who for the sake of some ill natur'd Jeast,
Tells what he shou'd conceal, Invents the rest;
To fatal Mid-night quarrels, can betray,
His brave Companion, and then run away;
Leaving him to be murder'd in the Street,
Then put it off, with some Buffoone Conceit;
This, this is he, you shou'd beware of all,
Yet him a pleasant, witty Man, you call
To whet your dull Debauches up, and down,
You seek him as top Fidler of the Town.
But if I laugh when the Court Coxcombs show,
To See that Booby Sotus dance Provoe,
Or chatt'ring Porus, from the Side Box grin,
Trickt like a Ladys Monkey new made clean.
To me the name of Railer, strait you give,
Call me a Man, that knows not how to live.
To See that Booby Sotus dance Provoe,
Or chatt'ring Porus, from the Side Box grin,
Trickt like a Ladys Monkey new made clean.
To me the name of Railer, strait you give,
Call me a Man, that knows not how to live.
But Wenches to their Keepers, true shall turn.
Stale Maids of Honour, proffer'd Husbands scorn,
Great States-Men, flatt'ry, and Clinches hate,
And long in Office dye without Estate.
Against a Bribe, Court Judges, shall decide,
The City Knav'ry want, the Clergy Pride.
E're that black Malice, in my Rhymes you find,
That wrongs a Worthy Man, or hurts a Friend.
But then perhaps you'll say, why do you write?
What you think harmless Mirth, the World thinks Spight.
Why shou'd your Fingers itch to have a lash,
At Simius, the Buffoon, or Cully Bash?
What is't to you, if Alidores fine Whore,
Fucks with some Fop, whilst he's shut out of Door?
Consider pray, that dang'rous Weapon Wit,
Frightens a Million, when a few you hit.
Whip but a Curr, as you ride through a Town,
And strait his Fellow Currs the Quarrel own.
Each Knave, or Fool, that's conscious of a Crime,
Tho he scapes now, looks for't another time.
Stale Maids of Honour, proffer'd Husbands scorn,
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And long in Office dye without Estate.
Against a Bribe, Court Judges, shall decide,
The City Knav'ry want, the Clergy Pride.
E're that black Malice, in my Rhymes you find,
That wrongs a Worthy Man, or hurts a Friend.
But then perhaps you'll say, why do you write?
What you think harmless Mirth, the World thinks Spight.
Why shou'd your Fingers itch to have a lash,
At Simius, the Buffoon, or Cully Bash?
What is't to you, if Alidores fine Whore,
Fucks with some Fop, whilst he's shut out of Door?
Consider pray, that dang'rous Weapon Wit,
Frightens a Million, when a few you hit.
Whip but a Curr, as you ride through a Town,
And strait his Fellow Currs the Quarrel own.
Each Knave, or Fool, that's conscious of a Crime,
Tho he scapes now, looks for't another time.
Sir, I confess all you have said is true,
But who has not some Folly to pursue?
Milo turn'd Quixot, fancy'd Battails, Fights,
When the Fifth Bottle, had encreas'd the Lights.
But who has not some Folly to pursue?
Milo turn'd Quixot, fancy'd Battails, Fights,
When the Fifth Bottle, had encreas'd the Lights.
War-like Dirt Pyes, our Heroe Paris forms,
Which desp'rate Bessus, without Armour storms.
Which desp'rate Bessus, without Armour storms.
Cornus, the kindest Husband, e're was born,
Still Courts the Spark, that does his Brows adorn.
Invites him home to dine, and fills his Veins,
With the hot Blood, which his dear Doxy drains.
Still Courts the Spark, that does his Brows adorn.
Invites him home to dine, and fills his Veins,
With the hot Blood, which his dear Doxy drains.
Grandio thinks himself a Beau-Garcon,
Goggles his Eyes, writes Letters up and down;
And with his sawcy Love, plagues all the Town.
While pleas'd to have his Vanity thus fed,
He's caught with G[osnell], that Old Hag a Bed.
But shou'd I all the crying Follies tell,
That rouse the sleeping Satyr from his Cell,
I to my Reader, shou'd as tedious prove,
As that Old Spark, Albanus making love:
Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth flam,
He gravely to the publick, tries to sham.
Goggles his Eyes, writes Letters up and down;
And with his sawcy Love, plagues all the Town.
While pleas'd to have his Vanity thus fed,
He's caught with G[osnell], that Old Hag a Bed.
But shou'd I all the crying Follies tell,
That rouse the sleeping Satyr from his Cell,
I to my Reader, shou'd as tedious prove,
As that Old Spark, Albanus making love:
Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth flam,
He gravely to the publick, tries to sham.
139
Hold then my Muse, 'tis time to make an end,
Least taxing others, thou thy self offend.
The World's a Wood, in which all loose their way,
Though by a diff'rent Path, each goes Astray.
Least taxing others, thou thy self offend.
The World's a Wood, in which all loose their way,
Though by a diff'rent Path, each goes Astray.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |