University of Virginia Library

POEMS to MULGRAVE and SCROOPE

An Epistolary Essay

Deare Friend.

I heare this Towne does soe abound,
With sawcy Censurers, that faults are found,
With what of late wee (in Poetique Rage)
Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age;
But (howsoe're Envy, their Spleen may raise,
To Robb my Brow, of the deserved Bays)
Their thanks at least I merit since through me,
They are Partakers of your Poetry;
And this is all, I'll say in my defence,
T'obtaine one Line, of your well worded Sense
I'd be content t'have writ the Brittish Prince.
I'm none of those who thinke themselves inspir'd,
Nor write with the vaine hopes to be admir'd;
But from a Rule (I have upon long tryall)
T'avoyd with care, all sort of self denyall.
Which way soe're desire and fancy leade
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;
And if exposeing what I take for Witt,
To my deare self, a Pleasure I beget,
Noe matter tho' the Censring Crittique fret.
Those whom my Muse displeases, are at strife
With equall Spleene, against my Course of life,
The least delight of which, I'd not forgoe,
For all the flatt'ring Praise, Man can bestow.
If I designd to please the way were then,
To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen;
The first's unnaturall, therefore unfit,
And for the Second, I despair of it,
Since Grace, is not soe hard to get as Witt.
Perhaps ill Verses, ought to be confin'd,
In meere good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind;
Were Reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to thinke
Men might noe more write scurvily, than stinke:
But 'tis your choyce, whether you'll Read, or noe,
If likewise of your smelling it were soe,
I'd Fart just as I write, for my owne ease,
Nor shou'd you be concern'd, unlesse you please:
I'll owne, that you write better than I doe,
But I have as much need to write, as you.
What though the Excrement of my dull Braine,
Runns in a harsh, insipid Straine,
Whilst your rich Head, eases it self of Witt?
Must none but Civet-Catts, have leave to shit?
In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Witt, and Rhyme
Faile me at once, yet something soe Sublime,
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see,
It cou'd have beene produc'd, by none but me.
And that's my end, for Man, can wish noe more,
Then soe to write, as none ere writ before.
Yet why am I noe Poet, of the tymes?
I have Allusions, Similies and Rhymes,
And Witt, or else 'tis hard that I alone,
Of the whole Race of Mankind, shou'd have none.
Unequally, the Partiall Hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n;
The World appeares like a great Family,
Whose Lord opprest with Pride, and Poverty,
(That to a few, great Plenty he may show)
Is faine to starve the Num'rous Traine below:
Just soe seemes Providence, as poor and vaine,
Keeping more Creatures, than it can maintaine.
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for One Prince, it makes Ten Thousand Slaves:
In Witt alone, it has beene Magnificent,
Of which, soe just a share, to each is sent
That the most Avaricious are content.
For none e're thought, (the due Division's such),
His owne too little, or his Friends too much.
Yet most Men shew, or find great want of Witt,
Writeing themselves, or Judging what is writ:
But I, who am of sprightly Vigour full
Looke on Mankind, as Envious, and dull.
Borne to my self, my self I like alone,
And must conclude my Judgment good, or none.
(For shou'd my Sense be nought, how cou'd I know,
Whether another Man's, were good, or noe?)
Thus, I resolve of my owne Poetry,
That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or Arrogance?
Oh! but the World will take offence thereby,
Why then the World, shall suffer for't, not I.
Did e're this sawcy World, and I agree?
To let it have its Beastly will on me?
Why shou'd my Prostituted Sense, be drawne,
To ev'ry Rule, their musty Customes spawne?
But Men, will Censure you; Tis Two to one
When e're they Censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name
Soe foolish, and soe false, as Common Fame.
It calls the Courtier Knave, the plaine Man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightfull Lewd.
Impertinent the briske, Morosse the sad,
Meane the Familiar, the Reserv'd one Mad.
Poor helplesse Woman, is not favour'd more
She's a slye Hipocryte, or Publique Whore.
Then who the Devill, wou'd give this—to be free
From th'Innocent Reproach of Infamy?
These things consider'd, make me (in despight
Of idle Rumour,) keepe at home, and write.

Song. [by Sir Carr Scroope]

The Mock Song.

Ephelia to Bajazet. [by Sir George Etherege]

How farre are they deceiv'd who hope in vaine,
A lasting Lease of joys, from Love t'obtaine?
All the deare sweets, wee promise or expect,
After Enjoyment, turnes to cold neglect:
Cou'd Love, a constant happinesse have knowne,
The mighty wonder had in me beene showne;
Our Passions were soe favoured by Fate,
As if she meant 'em an Eternall Date;
Soe kind he look'd, such tender words he spoke,
'Twas past beliefe, such Vows shou'd e're be broke!
Fixt on my Eyes, how often wou'd he say,
He cou'd with pleasure, gaze an Age away!
When thoughts too greate for words had made him Mute,
In kisses, he wou'd tell my hand his Suite;
Soe fierce his Passion was, soe farr above,
The Common Gallantryes, that passe for Love;
At worst I thought, if he unkind shoud prove,
His ebbing Passion wou'd be kinder farr,
Than the ffirst Transports, of all others are:
Nor was my Love, weaker or lesse than his,
In him I center'd all my hopes of Blisse!
For him my Duty to my Friends forgot,
For him I lost, alas, what lost I not!
Fame, all the valuable things of life
To meete his Love, by a lesse name than Wife!
How happy was I then, how dearely blest,
When this greate Man, lay panting on my Breast,
Lookeing such things, as ne're can be exprest!
Thousand fresh lookes, he gave me evry Houre,
Whilst greedily I did his lookes devoure,
Till quite or'ecome with Charmes, I trembling lay,
At ev'ry looke he gave, melted away.
I was soe highly happy in his Love,
Methoughts, I pitty'd them that dwelt above.
Thinke then, thou greatest, lovelyest, falsest Man,
How you have vow'd, how I have lov'd, and then
My faithlesse deare, be cruell if you can!
How I have lov'd, I cannot, need not tell,
Noe ev'ry Act has showne, I lov'd too well:
Since first I saw you, I nere had a thought,
Was not intirely yours, to you I brought,
My Virgin Innocence, and freely made,
My love an Off'ring to your Noble Bed:
Since when, y'ave beene the Starr, by which I steer'd,
And nothing else but you I lov'd, or feard;
Your smiles I only live by, and I must,
When e're you frowne, be shatter'd into Dust.
Oh! can the coldnesse that you shew me now,
Suite with the Generous heate you once did shew!
I cannot live on pitty, or respect,
A thought soe meane, wou'd my whole frame infect,
Lesse than your Love, I scorne Sir to expect.
Let me not live in dull indiff'rency,
But give me Rage enough, to make me dye!
For if from you, I needs must meete my Fate,
Before your pitty, I wou'd choose your hate.

A very Heroicall Epistle in Answer to Ephelia.

Madam.

If you're deceiv'd, it is not by my Cheate,
For all Disguises, are below the greate;
What Man, or Woman, upon Earth can say,
I ever us'd 'em well above a Day?
How is it then, that I inconstant am?
He changes not, who allways, is the same.
In my deare self, I center ev'ry thing,
My Servants, Friends, my Mistresse and my King,
Nay Heav'n, and Earth, to that one poynt I bring:
Well-Manner'd, Honest, Generous and stout,
(Names by dull Fooles, to plague Mankind found out)
Shou'd I reguard, I must my self constraine,
And 'tis my Maxim, to avoyd all paine;
You fondly looke for what none e're cou'd find,
Deceive your self, and then call me unkind;
And by false Reasons, wou'd my falshood prove;
For 'tis as Naturall, to change, as love:
You may as justly at the Sun repine
Because alike it does not allways shine;
Noe glorious thing, was ever made to stay,
My Blazeing Starr, but visits, and away:
As fatall too, it shines, as those i'th' Skyes,
Tis never seene, but some great Lady dyes.
The boasted favour you soe precious hold,
To me's noe more, than changeing of my Gold;
What e're you gave, I paid you back in Blisse!
Then where's the Obligation pray of this?
If heretofore you found grace in my Eyes,
Be thankfull for it, and let that suffice.
But Women, Beggar-like, still haunt the Doore,
Where they've receiv'd a Charity before.
Oh happy Sultan! whom wee Barb'rous call!
How much refin'd art thou above us all?
Who Envys not the joys of thy Seraill?
Thee, like some God, the trembling Crowd adore,
Each Man's thy Slave, and Woman-kind, thy Whore.
Methinkes I see thee underneath the shade,
Of Golden Cannopies, supinely laid:
Thy crowching Slaves, all silent as the Night,
But at the Nod, all Active as the Light!
Secure in Solid Sloth, thou there dost Reigne,
And feel'st the joys of Love, without the paine:
Each Female Courts thee with a wishing Eye,
Whilst thou with Awfull Pride, walkst carelesse by,
Till thy kind Pledge at last markes out the Dame,
Thou fancy'st most to quench thy present flame:
Then from thy Bed, submissive she retires,
And thankfull for the Grace, noe more requires.
Noe lowd reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound
Of Womens Tongues, thy sacred Eare dares wound;
If any doe, a nimble Mute strait tyes,
The True-Love-Knot, and stops her foolish cryes.
Thou fearst noe injur'd Kinsmans threatning Blade,
Nor Midnight Ambushes, by Rivalls laid;
While here with Akeing Heart, our joys wee taste,
Disturb'd by Swords, like Democles his Feast.

On the suppos'd Authour of a late Poem in defence of Satyr.

To rack, and torture thy unmeaning Brain,
In Satyrs praise, to a low untun'd strain,
In thee was most impertinent and vain.
When in thy Person, we more clearly see,
That Satyr's of Divine Authority,
For God, made one on Man, when he made thee.
To shew there are some Men, as there are Apes,
Fram'd for meer sport, who differ but in shapes:
In thee are all those contradictions joyn'd,
That make an Asse, prodigious and refin'd.
A lump deform'd, and shapeless wert thou born,
Begot in Loves despight, and Natures scorn;
And art grown up, the most ungraceful Wight,
Harsh to the Ear, and hideous to the sight,
Yet Love's thy bus'ness, Beauty thy delight.
Curse on that silly hour, that first inspir'd,
Thy madness, to pretend to be admir'd;
To paint thy grizly Face, to dance, to dress,
And all those Awkward Follies that express,
Thy loathsome Love, and filthy daintiness.
Who needs will be an Ugly Beau-Garcon,
Spit at, and shun'd, by ev'ry Girl in Town;
Where dreadfully Loves Scare-Crow, thou art plac'd
To fright the tender Flock, that long to taste:
While ev'ry coming Maid, when you appear,
Starts back for shame, and strait turns chaste for fear.
For none so poor, or Prostitute have prov'd,
Where you made love, t'endure to be belov'd.
'Twere labour lost, or else I wou'd advise.
But thy half Wit, will ne're let thee be wise.
Half-witty, and half-mad, and scarce half-brave,
Half-honest (which is very much a Knave.)
Made up of all these Halfs, thou can'st not pass,
For any thing intirely, but an Asse.

The Answer. [by Sir Carr Scroope]

Raile on poor feeble Scribbler, speake of me,
In as bad Terms as the World speakes of thee;
Sit swelling in thy hole, like a vext Toad,
And full of Pox, and Mallice spit abroad.
Thou canst blast noe Mans Fame with thy ill word,
Thy Pen, is full as harmlesse as thy Sword.

On Poet Ninny.

Crusht by that just contempt his Follys bring
On his Crazd Head, the Vermin faine wou'd sting;
But never Satyr, did soe softly bite,
Or gentle George, himself, more gently write.
Borne to noe other, but thy owne disgrace,
Thou art a thing soe wretched, and soe base,
Thou canst not ev'n offend, but with thy face:
And dost at once, a sad Example prove,
Of harmlesse Malice, and of hoplesse Love.
All Pride, and Uglinesse! Oh how wee loath,
A nauseous Creature soe compos'd of both!
How oft' have wee thy Cap'ring Person seene,
With dismall looke, and Melacholly Meene?
The just Reverse of Noakes, when he wou'd be,
Some mighty Heroe, and makes Love, like thee.
Thou art below being laught at, out of spight,
Men gaze upon thee, as a hideous sight,
And cry, there goes the Melancholly Knight.
There are some Modish Fooles, wee dayly see,
Modest, and dull; why they are Witts to thee!
For of all Folly, sure the very topp,
Is a conceited Ninny, and a Fopp.
With Face, of Farce, joyn'd to a head Romancy,
There's noe such Coxcomb, as your Foole of fancy.
But 'tis too much, on soe despis'd a Theame;
Noe Man, wou'd dabble in a dirty Streame:
The worst that I cou'd write, wou'd be noe more,
Then what thy very Friends have said before.

My Lord All-Pride.