The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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On Sternhold and Hopkins, and the New Version of David's Psalms.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
On Sternhold and Hopkins, and the New Version of David's Psalms.
Ye scoundrel old Bards, and a Brace of dull Knaves,
What a plague makes ye mutter, and talk in your Graves?
Sure ye drank in your Porridge, like a Couple of Sots,
And have mix'd the Spoon-meat with the Belch of the Pots;
Or the Worms had by this Time, if they had any Conscience,
Stopp'd the Tongues of those Fools who made David speak Nonsence.
Ye write, and be damn'd t'ye! Ye traffick in Metre!
Why, a Baudy-house Tonge has a Voice that is sweeter:
A White-Fryar Sinner, or a Saint in Duck-Lane,
A Crowders-Well Sonnet, or a Pye-Corner Strain,
Has Raptures and Flights, full of Judgment, and taking
When compar'd to the things ye call Psalms of your making.
Shame on ye, for Coxcombs, away with this Riot,
And rot on, like the rest, who lie by ye in quiet;
Nor dare to presume to petition and squable,
When there's none takes your Part, but the ignorant Rabble.
As for David, for God's sake, how dare ye to name him?
When your wretched Translations so damnably shame him?
Poor Psalmist! he frets, and he storms, and he stares,
Bemoans his Composures, and renounces his Pray'rs;
Blushes more at the Dress which his Penitence hath on,
Than when told of his Faults by the Prophet old Nathan.
So chang'd are his Lines, and so murder'd each Sentence,
So debauch'd his God's Praise, and so lame his Repentance.
That to know the good King by the Words ye create him,
Is a thing much more hard, than it is to translate him.
Let me tell you, grave Dons, I'll be bold to assure ye,
It is well that this Warrier lies buried in JURY;
Had he laid near the Place, which at present contains,
Of the two sorry Sinners, the stupid Remains,
'Tis a Pound to a Penny, but his Ashes would fly on,
And handle your Skulls like the Bear and the Lion.
What a plague makes ye mutter, and talk in your Graves?
Sure ye drank in your Porridge, like a Couple of Sots,
And have mix'd the Spoon-meat with the Belch of the Pots;
71
Stopp'd the Tongues of those Fools who made David speak Nonsence.
Ye write, and be damn'd t'ye! Ye traffick in Metre!
Why, a Baudy-house Tonge has a Voice that is sweeter:
A White-Fryar Sinner, or a Saint in Duck-Lane,
A Crowders-Well Sonnet, or a Pye-Corner Strain,
Has Raptures and Flights, full of Judgment, and taking
When compar'd to the things ye call Psalms of your making.
Shame on ye, for Coxcombs, away with this Riot,
And rot on, like the rest, who lie by ye in quiet;
Nor dare to presume to petition and squable,
When there's none takes your Part, but the ignorant Rabble.
As for David, for God's sake, how dare ye to name him?
When your wretched Translations so damnably shame him?
Poor Psalmist! he frets, and he storms, and he stares,
Bemoans his Composures, and renounces his Pray'rs;
Blushes more at the Dress which his Penitence hath on,
Than when told of his Faults by the Prophet old Nathan.
So chang'd are his Lines, and so murder'd each Sentence,
So debauch'd his God's Praise, and so lame his Repentance.
That to know the good King by the Words ye create him,
Is a thing much more hard, than it is to translate him.
Let me tell you, grave Dons, I'll be bold to assure ye,
It is well that this Warrier lies buried in JURY;
Had he laid near the Place, which at present contains,
Of the two sorry Sinners, the stupid Remains,
'Tis a Pound to a Penny, but his Ashes would fly on,
And handle your Skulls like the Bear and the Lion.
But for fear I should dwell on the Subject too long,
And the Dulness I laugh at, be seen in my Song;
Lest the Muse should turn Jade, and, by Sympathy led,
Take part of the Scandal sh' has flung on the Dead;
I'll no more of your Canting, and Whining, and Chiming.
Your Elizaebth Phrase, and your Farthingal-Rhiming,
Brought in Use as a Covert to Nonsence, I'll tell ye,
As that righteous Queen's Dress was to hide a Great Belly.
And the Dulness I laugh at, be seen in my Song;
Lest the Muse should turn Jade, and, by Sympathy led,
Take part of the Scandal sh' has flung on the Dead;
I'll no more of your Canting, and Whining, and Chiming.
Your Elizaebth Phrase, and your Farthingal-Rhiming,
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As that righteous Queen's Dress was to hide a Great Belly.
But tho' the loud Rabble should never deny ye;
Confirm'd in their Purpose, and resolv'd to stand by ye;
Tho' the poor Ones should murmur, and doat on your Sense,
For want of due Thinking, and for want of the Pence;
Tho' the stiff Parish Clerks, with their Bands and their Gowns,
Read the New Psalms with Hums, and with Ha's, and with Frowns,
Cause the Levites, their Masters, by Chance are afraid
Innovation should turn to a Practice and Trade;
And by those Means, the Godly Wise-Acres be driven
From their Desks and their Pulpits, their Sloth and their Haven;
Tho' the Stationers strive all they can to decry 'em,
And Took swears, that thousands of old Ones lie by 'em:
Tho' the late Version fails of the Spirit and Force
Of DAVID's Rejoycings, or DAVID's Remorse;
Yet I'm not such a Coxcomb, 'sted of new Psalms, to learn Old,
Or to quit TATE and BRADY, for Hopkins and Sternhold.
Confirm'd in their Purpose, and resolv'd to stand by ye;
Tho' the poor Ones should murmur, and doat on your Sense,
For want of due Thinking, and for want of the Pence;
Tho' the stiff Parish Clerks, with their Bands and their Gowns,
Read the New Psalms with Hums, and with Ha's, and with Frowns,
Cause the Levites, their Masters, by Chance are afraid
Innovation should turn to a Practice and Trade;
And by those Means, the Godly Wise-Acres be driven
From their Desks and their Pulpits, their Sloth and their Haven;
Tho' the Stationers strive all they can to decry 'em,
And Took swears, that thousands of old Ones lie by 'em:
Tho' the late Version fails of the Spirit and Force
Of DAVID's Rejoycings, or DAVID's Remorse;
Yet I'm not such a Coxcomb, 'sted of new Psalms, to learn Old,
Or to quit TATE and BRADY, for Hopkins and Sternhold.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |