 | A Satyr |  |
A SATYR.
Canit, ante Victoriam Triumphum.
Most Reverend Dean, pray cease to Write;
Nor longer dwell on Things so Trite;
Teize not unto they Feeble Aid,
Each Grace and Heliconian Maid;
Apollo's tir'd, Minerva Swears,
She never more will hear thy Prayers;
And, to speak Truth, I think it odd is,
To Nauseate, thus, The God and Goddess;
To Ditto it, daily, through the Town,
And Write, and Write our Spirits down.
Nor longer dwell on Things so Trite;
Teize not unto they Feeble Aid,
Each Grace and Heliconian Maid;
Apollo's tir'd, Minerva Swears,
She never more will hear thy Prayers;
And, to speak Truth, I think it odd is,
To Nauseate, thus, The God and Goddess;
To Ditto it, daily, through the Town,
And Write, and Write our Spirits down.
Great Sir, its own'd, you well behav'd;
Your Skin is whole, your Country's sav'd;
The Grand Dispute! you've made an End on't;
Our State and Church are Independent.
The Weather's good, and Phœbus Smiles,
On This, just, as on other Isles;
In Gold we wallow; But, nor Brass,
Thank God, or Silver current pass;
Priests bent, and People are, on Gains,
No Politicks disturb our Brains.
No Popish Plot, nor Wars Alarms
Our Warlike Genius wakes to Arms.
Long since, the Muses Nine were seen,
To take their leave of College-Green;
The Graces too, are either Dead,
Or, Opiated, are gone to Bed,
And (unless Fame does much bely 'em;)
Dos'd, sleeps Præpos. Cum socijs, by 'em;
No Midnight Hours consume the Taper;
Cheaply are sold Pen, Ink and Paper.
Science and Arts are at a Stand;
Were't not for Hel---m's Slight of Hand,
For Sherry's Quibles, and thy Quill,
The Dusty Press wou'd stand, quite, still;
A Stop to Literature be put,
And the Musæum' Gates be shut:
And, as it happen'd, once at Paris,
(Nor fetch'd, the Simile, too far is,)
With Milk, the Maids, so jeune et Tendre,
Wou'd cry about, Latin A vendre.
Your Skin is whole, your Country's sav'd;
The Grand Dispute! you've made an End on't;
Our State and Church are Independent.
The Weather's good, and Phœbus Smiles,
On This, just, as on other Isles;
In Gold we wallow; But, nor Brass,
Thank God, or Silver current pass;
Priests bent, and People are, on Gains,
No Politicks disturb our Brains.
No Popish Plot, nor Wars Alarms
Our Warlike Genius wakes to Arms.
Long since, the Muses Nine were seen,
To take their leave of College-Green;
The Graces too, are either Dead,
Or, Opiated, are gone to Bed,
And (unless Fame does much bely 'em;)
Dos'd, sleeps Præpos. Cum socijs, by 'em;
No Midnight Hours consume the Taper;
Cheaply are sold Pen, Ink and Paper.
Science and Arts are at a Stand;
Were't not for Hel---m's Slight of Hand,
For Sherry's Quibles, and thy Quill,
The Dusty Press wou'd stand, quite, still;
A Stop to Literature be put,
And the Musæum' Gates be shut:
And, as it happen'd, once at Paris,
(Nor fetch'd, the Simile, too far is,)
With Milk, the Maids, so jeune et Tendre,
Wou'd cry about, Latin A vendre.
But pray, Great Sir, (our Isle's Apollo,)
From what dull Logic, does it follow,
That, 'cause, in Writing you have Skill,
Can joke oft Hand, have Wit at Will,
That a whole People you must cully,
And feed with nought but Chapon Bouilli:
And make us all for Idiots pass
With Foreign Nations: Wood and Brass
Being all the Subjects, that you write on,
And squander Wit, and vent your Spite on:
Unless that, now and then, you deign
To praise your self, in humble Strain.
From what dull Logic, does it follow,
That, 'cause, in Writing you have Skill,
Can joke oft Hand, have Wit at Will,
That a whole People you must cully,
And feed with nought but Chapon Bouilli:
And make us all for Idiots pass
With Foreign Nations: Wood and Brass
Being all the Subjects, that you write on,
And squander Wit, and vent your Spite on:
Unless that, now and then, you deign
To praise your self, in humble Strain.
Stop then thy Hand, my dear Dean Bluff,
Believe me Sir, you've done enuff:
Ay, and much more, a deal, than any
Poet before; wrote against Money.
Believe me Sir, you've done enuff:
Ay, and much more, a deal, than any
Poet before; wrote against Money.
Then let us chaw, no more, your Crambe;
No such disgustful Thing there can be;
Thy Saint ordain'd not such Lent-Diet:
His Broad-fac'd Mob's Mouth's shut and quiet
Snarlerus does, no longer press
In fervent Pray'r, for thy Success:
No longer frown, no longer flatter;
The Saint, again, is turn'd The Satyr.
Ev'n Prœcox, who did, once, abhor thee,
Has ceas'd, at length, to stutter for thee.
And I must say (what e'er be ment)
Thy Works are no great Complement,
For Learned Carteret to lay before him,
Et spes et Ratio Studiorum.
Nor do I see the wondrous Glory,
You're like to get, by all this Story;
You Print, just as you Preach and Pray,
No mortal ever yet said, Nay.
You write, a while; and then write on;
Sole Arbiter of Pro & Con.
No Knight attempting to oppose,
The Olive Dean and Black-guard Foes.
And you'll be, fully, answer'd, when,
For want of Brass, your Huzza-Men,
Find Butter-Milk nor Bought, nor sold here,
Which happen may, e're, you're much Older.
No such disgustful Thing there can be;
Thy Saint ordain'd not such Lent-Diet:
His Broad-fac'd Mob's Mouth's shut and quiet
Snarlerus does, no longer press
In fervent Pray'r, for thy Success:
No longer frown, no longer flatter;
The Saint, again, is turn'd The Satyr.
Ev'n Prœcox, who did, once, abhor thee,
Has ceas'd, at length, to stutter for thee.
And I must say (what e'er be ment)
Thy Works are no great Complement,
For Learned Carteret to lay before him,
Et spes et Ratio Studiorum.
Nor do I see the wondrous Glory,
You're like to get, by all this Story;
You Print, just as you Preach and Pray,
No mortal ever yet said, Nay.
You write, a while; and then write on;
Sole Arbiter of Pro & Con.
No Knight attempting to oppose,
The Olive Dean and Black-guard Foes.
And you'll be, fully, answer'd, when,
For want of Brass, your Huzza-Men,
Find Butter-Milk nor Bought, nor sold here,
Which happen may, e're, you're much Older.
And so Adieu.
| A Satyr | |