 | A journey to h---- |  |
CANTO VI.
These were succeeded by a numerous Throng,
Who scan'd their Paces as they march'd along,
Some in their Hands had Songs, and some Lampoons,
Some Read, whilst others Sung White-Fryars Tunes.
Amongst 'em, here and there, a stanch'd old Wit,
Who long had stood the Censure of the Pit,
Emphatically mouthing to the rest,
Some Madman's Rant, or some Fools barren Jest:
Repeating all things like a Man Inspir'd,
Storming or Smiling as the Sence requir'd.
Some who had Lyrick'd o'er a lucky Strain,
Look'd as if lately Rig'd in Drury-Lane;
Whilst others, banter'd by their Jilting Muse,
Appear'd in Thread-bare Coats and rusty Shooes,
Yet all had Swords hung on strange aukward ways,
From Poet Ninny to the worthy Bays;
Not wore as Soldiers do their Arms, to fight,
But for distinction, as an Author's Right,
Who tho' he hurts sometimes, yet hates to kill,
And never Wounds but with a Goose's Quill.
Who scan'd their Paces as they march'd along,
Some in their Hands had Songs, and some Lampoons,
Some Read, whilst others Sung White-Fryars Tunes.
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Who long had stood the Censure of the Pit,
Emphatically mouthing to the rest,
Some Madman's Rant, or some Fools barren Jest:
Repeating all things like a Man Inspir'd,
Storming or Smiling as the Sence requir'd.
Some who had Lyrick'd o'er a lucky Strain,
Look'd as if lately Rig'd in Drury-Lane;
Whilst others, banter'd by their Jilting Muse,
Appear'd in Thread-bare Coats and rusty Shooes,
Yet all had Swords hung on strange aukward ways,
From Poet Ninny to the worthy Bays;
Not wore as Soldiers do their Arms, to fight,
But for distinction, as an Author's Right,
Who tho' he hurts sometimes, yet hates to kill,
And never Wounds but with a Goose's Quill.
The mungril Sriblers, who could stand no Test,
Bow'd low with Veneration to the rest,
Entreating some grave Seignior to peruse,
A Leathern Satyr against Wooden Shooes;
Or else a Poem, praising to the Skies,
The Cook that first projected Farthing-Pies,
Crying it was not heighten'd to his Power,
Because he loosely writ it in an Hour;
The anngry Bard with sundry Trifles teaz'd,
Made it much worse, and then the Fool was pleas'd.
Bow'd low with Veneration to the rest,
Entreating some grave Seignior to peruse,
A Leathern Satyr against Wooden Shooes;
Or else a Poem, praising to the Skies,
The Cook that first projected Farthing-Pies,
Crying it was not heighten'd to his Power,
Because he loosely writ it in an Hour;
The anngry Bard with sundry Trifles teaz'd,
Made it much worse, and then the Fool was pleas'd.
Some about preference of Wit fell out,
And made a Riot in the Rhiming Rout,
Wounding each other with Poetick Darts,
And rail'd like Billingsgates to show their Parts;
Each envious Wasp stung t'other at no rate,
Expressing not his Judgment, but his Hate.
Thus did the Partial Criticks all run Mad,
And fiercely strugl'd for what neither had;
As Whores their Reputations oft defend,
And for a Good Name, which they want, contend;
Whilst ev'ry stander-by the Feud derides,
Takes neither part, but ridicules both sides.
When round the Bar Apollo's Sons were spread,
And Proclamation was for Silence made.
Hell's Advocate began his just Report,
Op'ning their Accusations to the Court.
And made a Riot in the Rhiming Rout,
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And rail'd like Billingsgates to show their Parts;
Each envious Wasp stung t'other at no rate,
Expressing not his Judgment, but his Hate.
Thus did the Partial Criticks all run Mad,
And fiercely strugl'd for what neither had;
As Whores their Reputations oft defend,
And for a Good Name, which they want, contend;
Whilst ev'ry stander-by the Feud derides,
Takes neither part, but ridicules both sides.
When round the Bar Apollo's Sons were spread,
And Proclamation was for Silence made.
Hell's Advocate began his just Report,
Op'ning their Accusations to the Court.
May't please your Lordship—
—these the Taglines are,
Who softly Write, and very hardly Fare;
They tune their Words as Tubal did his Shells,
And Chime 'em as a Green-Bird does his Bells:
Their Muses leisure wait, and Rave by fits,
By some call'd Madmen, by themselves call'd Wits;
Who, to improve, and please a vicious Age,
Lampoon'd the Pulpit, and debauch'd the Stage;
And with convincing Arguments profest,
Wit was best relish'd in a Bawdy Jest;
Writ wanton Songs would fire a Virgin's Blood,
And make her covet what's against her good:
Laid such obscene Intrigues in ev'ry Play,
That sent warm Youth with lustful Thoughts away.
And when thus guilty, a defence could urge,
And justifie those Ills they ought to scourge.
—these the Taglines are,
Who softly Write, and very hardly Fare;
They tune their Words as Tubal did his Shells,
And Chime 'em as a Green-Bird does his Bells:
Their Muses leisure wait, and Rave by fits,
By some call'd Madmen, by themselves call'd Wits;
Who, to improve, and please a vicious Age,
Lampoon'd the Pulpit, and debauch'd the Stage;
And with convincing Arguments profest,
Wit was best relish'd in a Bawdy Jest;
Writ wanton Songs would fire a Virgin's Blood,
And make her covet what's against her good:
Laid such obscene Intrigues in ev'ry Play,
That sent warm Youth with lustful Thoughts away.
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And justifie those Ills they ought to scourge.
These are the Flatt'rers, who with fulsome Lies
Made Knaves seem honest, and rich Fools seem wise;
Misplac'd the Epithets, Great, Good, and Just,
Us'd them as Masks to cover Pride and Lust:
Virtues to each vain gilded Fop they gave,
Made Niggards Generous and Cowards Brave;
Found Charms and Graces for each homely She,
And highly prais'd each Jilt of Quality;
Made her all Beauty, Innocence Divine,
And like a Goddess in their Poems shine,
Who whilst they sung her Praise, in Fact was lewd,
And lawless Pleasures ev'ry Hour pursu'd;
If lib'ral of her Gold they'd give her Charms,
Thus sold their Praise as Heralds do their Arms.
Made Knaves seem honest, and rich Fools seem wise;
Misplac'd the Epithets, Great, Good, and Just,
Us'd them as Masks to cover Pride and Lust:
Virtues to each vain gilded Fop they gave,
Made Niggards Generous and Cowards Brave;
Found Charms and Graces for each homely She,
And highly prais'd each Jilt of Quality;
Made her all Beauty, Innocence Divine,
And like a Goddess in their Poems shine,
Who whilst they sung her Praise, in Fact was lewd,
And lawless Pleasures ev'ry Hour pursu'd;
If lib'ral of her Gold they'd give her Charms,
Thus sold their Praise as Heralds do their Arms.
The World they cheated into base Mistakes,
And gull'd 'em with a thousand Rhiming Knacks;
With Fancies, witty Flirts, and musing Dreams,
Extravagantly heighten'd to Extreams.
If Praise they writ, then ev'ry partial Line,
Shou'd make the Bristol Stone like Diamond Shine;
Or vouch a Nosegay of some Lady's Farts,
More fragrant than a Rose, to show their Parts.
Their Works are all false Mirrors, where Men see
Not what they are, but what they cannot be:
Such lushious Flatt'ries flowing from each Pen,
As make their Patrons Gods, not Mortal Men.
Thus some affecting Grandeur, by a Cheat
Are often made so Popular and Great.
As the proud Sapho did, by Parrots praise,
Himself above all Humane Glory raise;
And by his subtle and amusing Fraud,
Procur'd the Veneration of a God.
So are the Prisoners at the Bar (my Lords)
A jingling Consort of deceitful Birds,
And gull'd 'em with a thousand Rhiming Knacks;
With Fancies, witty Flirts, and musing Dreams,
Extravagantly heighten'd to Extreams.
If Praise they writ, then ev'ry partial Line,
Shou'd make the Bristol Stone like Diamond Shine;
Or vouch a Nosegay of some Lady's Farts,
More fragrant than a Rose, to show their Parts.
Their Works are all false Mirrors, where Men see
Not what they are, but what they cannot be:
Such lushious Flatt'ries flowing from each Pen,
As make their Patrons Gods, not Mortal Men.
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Are often made so Popular and Great.
As the proud Sapho did, by Parrots praise,
Himself above all Humane Glory raise;
And by his subtle and amusing Fraud,
Procur'd the Veneration of a God.
So are the Prisoners at the Bar (my Lords)
A jingling Consort of deceitful Birds,
Who sung about the World, like common Fame,
Hyperboles of Praise to each great Name,
And made those Actions Glorious which deserv'd but Shame.
Hyperboles of Praise to each great Name,
And made those Actions Glorious which deserv'd but Shame.
The lewd Great Man, that banter'd Holy Writ,
And ridicul'd Religion, was a Wit;
For all things render'd able, tho' for nothing fit.
And ridicul'd Religion, was a Wit;
For all things render'd able, tho' for nothing fit.
Sublime his Notions, and refin'd his Thoughts,
Their Dedications wip'd away all Blots,
And made the wild young Fop an Angel without Fau'ts.
Their Dedications wip'd away all Blots,
And made the wild young Fop an Angel without Fau'ts.
The Patron of his Gold profusely free,
To indulge himself in his Debauchery,
Was generously Great, to a laudable degree.
To indulge himself in his Debauchery,
Was generously Great, to a laudable degree.
If too much love of Money was his Vice,
He did the Pleasures of the World despise,
And was with them no less than Provident and Wise.
He did the Pleasures of the World despise,
And was with them no less than Provident and Wise.
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Tho' ne'er so vile, if th' Muses Friends they were,
For every Vice a Virtue shou'd appear,
Poems and Dedications kept their Honours clear.
For every Vice a Virtue shou'd appear,
Poems and Dedications kept their Honours clear.
If they writ Satyr, 'twas their only Care
To represent things blacker than they were;
Nay, clap a Sable Vizard on the brightest Fair:
To represent things blacker than they were;
Nay, clap a Sable Vizard on the brightest Fair:
Make the best Creatures to their Lash submit,
Render each Virtuous She a Counterfeit,
And Stile the Pious Virgin but a Hipocrite.
Render each Virtuous She a Counterfeit,
And Stile the Pious Virgin but a Hipocrite.
The saving Man as Niggard they'll accuse,
The gen'rous Worthy they can call Profuse,
Thus all that's Good and Just, when e'er they please, abuse.
The gen'rous Worthy they can call Profuse,
Thus all that's Good and Just, when e'er they please, abuse.
The sober Student is a Bookish Dunce,
The Wit that's free spends too much Brains at once,
And he that's Brave or Bold, is but a Flash or Bounce.
The Wit that's free spends too much Brains at once,
And he that's Brave or Bold, is but a Flash or Bounce.
Religion, when they please, is but a Trick,
The Priests are Hounds that hunt a Bishoprick,
Who for the same Reward wou'd truly serve Old Nick.
The Priests are Hounds that hunt a Bishoprick,
Who for the same Reward wou'd truly serve Old Nick.
Thus Cause or Person, whether bad or good,
That in their biass'd Path of Interest stood,
Were without Merit prais'd, or falsly render'd Lewd.
That in their biass'd Path of Interest stood,
Were without Merit prais'd, or falsly render'd Lewd.
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Thus, may it please your Lordship, have I run
Thro' the chief Ills their biass'd Pens have done,
And must conclude, 'tis now the Bench's part
To give the Rhiming Paupers their desert.
Thro' the chief Ills their biass'd Pens have done,
And must conclude, 'tis now the Bench's part
To give the Rhiming Paupers their desert.
Their Accusations being all made plain,
The Judge himself austerely thus began.
The Judge himself austerely thus began.
You who by Nature had such Gifts allow'd,
As rais'd your Minds above the common Crowd.
When thus enrich'd, to condescend so low
As stoop to Railing, or to Flatt'ry bow,
Shame on your Cow'rdly Souls, to so abuse
That Genius giv'n you for a nobler use.
To've heighten'd Virtue should have been your Task,
And show'd the Strumpet Vice without her Mask.
To've giv'n the Wise Respect, taught Fools more Wit,
Reprov'd, and not have rais'd vain Self-Conceit;
By Flatt'ring some for Int'rest, who abhor
Those very Virtues you have prais'd 'em for,
Whilst the Great Soul who true desert contains,
Is render'd Odious by your envious Pens.
For these Offences, which your Charge makes plain,
Destructive to the common Peace of Man,
This Sentence I Decree—
As rais'd your Minds above the common Crowd.
When thus enrich'd, to condescend so low
As stoop to Railing, or to Flatt'ry bow,
Shame on your Cow'rdly Souls, to so abuse
That Genius giv'n you for a nobler use.
To've heighten'd Virtue should have been your Task,
And show'd the Strumpet Vice without her Mask.
To've giv'n the Wise Respect, taught Fools more Wit,
Reprov'd, and not have rais'd vain Self-Conceit;
By Flatt'ring some for Int'rest, who abhor
Those very Virtues you have prais'd 'em for,
Whilst the Great Soul who true desert contains,
Is render'd Odious by your envious Pens.
For these Offences, which your Charge makes plain,
Destructive to the common Peace of Man,
This Sentence I Decree—
To Hell's remotest Caves ye shall be sent,
In woful Verse you shall your Crimes recant,
And Criticising Devils shall your Souls Torment.
Nay, further, to encrease your wretched State,
Shall write in praise of Bailiffs, whom you hate,
And humbly, in your Poems, stile 'em Good and Great.
In woful Verse you shall your Crimes recant,
And Criticising Devils shall your Souls Torment.
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Shall write in praise of Bailiffs, whom you hate,
And humbly, in your Poems, stile 'em Good and Great.
Brisk Clarret, and th' obliging Miss dispraise;
Thus shall you Scribble 'gainst your Wills both ways,
And ev'ry Imp shall make Bumfodder of your Lays.
Thus shall you Scribble 'gainst your Wills both ways,
And ev'ry Imp shall make Bumfodder of your Lays.
| A journey to h---- | |