University of Virginia Library

This Scene being ended, and the Poets gone,
After some space a new Parrade came on;
A Throng of angry Ghosts that next drew near,
Large as a Persian Army did appear;
Each to the rest show'd Envy in his Looks,
Some Writings in their Hands, some printed Books.
The learn'd Contents of which they knew no more,
Than the Calves Skins their sundry Volumes wore,
Down from the bulky Folio to the Twenty-Four.
As they press'd on, confus'dly in a Crowd,
Piracy, Piracy, they cry'd aloud,
What made you print my Copy, Sir, says one,
You're a meer Knave, 'tis very basely done.
You did the like by such, you can't deny,
And therefore you're as great a Knave as I.
By their own Words I found alike they were,
The Dev'l a Barrel better Herring there.
Printers, their Slayes, b'ing mix'd amongst the rest,
Betwixt 'em both arose a great Contest:
Th' ungrateful Bibliopoles swoln big with Rage,
Did thus their servile Typographs engage:
You Letter-picking Juglers at the Case,
And you Illit'rate Slaves that work at Press,
How dare you thus unlawfully invade
Our Properties, and trespass on our Trade,
Print Copies for your selves, and fill the Town,
Instead of ours, with Pamphlets of your own;
Publish upon your own Accounts each Day,
And buy our Authors off with better Pay?
How can you justifie such Wrongs as these,
When both, by right, shou'd bow your Heads and Knees,
To Write and Print for us, and at what rates we please?

This Arrogance inflam'd the Printing Crew,
And from their Tongues these sharp reflections drew:
Ye paultry Tribe, we bow our Heads to you!
Pray when, or how, became this Homage due?
What has possess'd your Noddles with this Dream?
Our Trade's an Art soars high i'th' World's esteem:
'Tis we the Labours of the Learn'd disperse,
And diffuse Knowledge thro' the Universe,
We give new Light, Obscurities remove,
All Sciences preserve, the same improve;
Which were it not for us would quickly die,
And must in dark Oblivion bury'd lie.
Nay, I may boldly say, the Church and State
Are by our means supported and made great:
Yet Gratitude obliges us to give,
Preference to Authors, 'tis by them we live.
We did at first, and still alone can do
Their Bus'ness, and no Aid require of you,
Who were at first but Hawkers, and no more,
Imploy'd to range the Town and Country o'er;
Travel'd with Asses to convey your Books,
And kept no Shop but Panniers, Bags, and Pokes.
Thus trudg'd to Markets, strol'd to ev'ry Fair,
Open'd your Wallets on the Ground, and there,
Amongst Hogs, Pigs, and Geese expos'd your learned Ware.
Thus you at first were neither more nor less,
Than servile Pedlars to the fruitful Press;
No Copies cou'd ye buy, no Charter boast,
But now alas, those good old Times are lost.

Corners of Streets, and Gateways in the Town,
Were chosen Places where your Stocks were shown;
There sate like Women with their Curds and Whey,
Had none, or very little Rent to pay:
Sold Ballads, Peny-Books, poor Fools to please,
Tom Thumb's old Tales, or such like Whims as these.
At last, by Time and Chance more prosp'rous made,
Leap'd into Shops, and so advanc'd your Trade;
As you grew Rich, still proving greater Knaves,
Made Authors Hacknies, and the Press your Slaves:
Why should we thus your Impositions bear,
Who rais'd you first to be what now you are?
Both, to our Grief, have been too long your Tools,
They sell their Brains like Asses, we our Pains like Fools.

This made the Libel-Venders Wrath run high,
They shew their Teeth, began a warm Reply;
But that the Cryer call'd 'em to the Bar,
And the Court's awe supprest their rising War,
They knew their Guilt, and humble rev'rence paid,
Then all their Evils were before 'em laid.
Thus says Hell's Council, I begin their Charge,
Whose Crimes Stupendious are, their number large.

My Lord—
These Sheepish Forms, who look so pale and wan,
Corrupted by a strong desire of Gain,
Kingdoms inflam'd, disturb'd the Peace of Man.
These were the discontented Statesman's Tools,
Who spread his Malice and impos'd on Fools;
Princes abus'd, against their Thrones inveigh'd,
Affronting Pow'rs by them should be obey'd.
Base mercenary Scriblers did imploy,
And when the Troubles of a State run high,
Pour'd in their Pamphlets, did the World bewitch,
With Paper-Engines still enlarg'd the Breach,
Regarding not the Right of either side,
But made the Mob's mistaken Zeal their Guide,
Observ'd which way the People's Whimsies run,
And follow'd them with Books to drive 'em on.
Would Treasonable Lyes accumulate
And pelt 'em at a weak declining State,
Oft to a King's undoing, or a Nation's Fate.
Printed both Pro and Con no matter what,
Serv'd that Cause most, where most was to be got.
No publick Ill could reach the End desir'd,
But their assistance must be first requir'd:
Were Midwives to designs of restless Men,
Which ought to've dy'd Abortives in the Brain.
With hurtful Whims they kept the World in play,
And introduc'd new Mischiefs ev'ry Day;
Which the blind Crowd believing were misled,
And still were greater Fools the more they read.
When things accru'd they'd to their Scribe repair,
Hid in some lofty Turret Lord knows where:
Where for small Pay, his mercenary Quill,
Robs some of their good Names, gives others ill,
Just as the Pris'ners at the Bar requir'd,
To rail at any thing he wou'd be hir'd,
Who, fond of what he Writes, thinks ev'ry Line inspir'd.
These Mungril Scriblers they imploy'd in spight,
To abuse Wits, and teaze 'em on to Write,
That Press and Booksellers might both get Money by't.
Kept 'em to raise up Jealousies and Fears,
And set Mankind together by the Ears,
As wifling Curs make Mastiffs oft engage,
And keep a yelping to foment their Rage.
But at a distance stand behind some Skreen,
And, like true Cowards, shun the dang'rous Scene.

Next these, my Lord, my Breviate does include
The blackest of all Crimes, Ingratitude,
Distinguish'd by so vile, so foul a Stain,
Hateful to Beasts, nay Devils, well as Men.
This Sin was epidemically spread,
And by long use corrupted all the Trade,
T'wards Authors practis'd most, by whom they got their Bread.
Which aggravates the Evil, and does make
Their sullied Consciences appear more black.

When the unwary forward Youth begins,
To trust his private Thoughts in publick Lines,
Large Promises they'd make to draw him in,
But their Performance he shou'd find but thin.
If's Writings pleas'd, they gently fed his Wants,
And tho' things Sold, yet vex'd him with Complaints,
Instead of giving him that due Reward
His Pains deserv'd, and they might well afford,
They'd means contrive to build him up a Score,
And find a thousand ways to keep him Poor.
When this was done, they'd awe him with their Frowns,
And buy him as their Slave by lent Half-Crowns;
Arrest him, plague him, thus should he be teas'd,
Unless he drudg'd and scribl'd as they pleas'd:
In Print abuse him, scourge him round the Town,
And make his Reputation like their own.
Thus did they feed on Author's teeming Brains,
And kept 'em Starving to Reward their Pains,
Whose Faculties decline, as Age creeps on,
And when their sprightly Thoughts are fled and gone,
They leave the helpless Wretches mis'rably undone.
So th' Magget in a Nut that long has fed,
And by the Kernel fat and fair is made,
Disdains the empty Shell wherein he first was bred.

Next these, my Lord, themselves could not agree,
Or could they honest to each other be,
But one anothers Properties invade,
To th' scandal and the damage of their Trade.
He that to's own Fraternity is base,
Can ne'er be just, whilst Int'rest's in the Case;
But will for mercenary Ends pursue
The worst of Ills that's in his Power to do:
An Adage has declar'd, the Bird, at best,
Is but an ill one that befouls his Nest.
As such Ill Birds, my Lord, for such they are,
I represent the Pris'ners at the Bar,
To reward these their Crimes deserves your Lordship's Care.

Th' impartial Judge deliberation took,
And when determin'd, thus he gravely spoke.

You who before me do Convicted stand,
Of publick Mischiefs to your Native Land,
Besides Ingratitude, Fraud, Piracy,
Unreasonable Gain, and Calumny,
Souls blacken'd with such deep infernal Stains,
I'm bound to punish with the greatest Pains.
Beneath the Poets shall your Station be,
From their Invectives you shall ne'er be free:
With burning Satyrs they shall sting your Souls,
As Farmers do their Hogs, or Cooks their Fowls.
Pamphlets and Plays shall make your flaming Pile,
And Author's Dung shall baste you as you broil.
And there for ever to encrease your Woes,
Read O**d***'s dull Rhimes, or Sh***y's Prose.

A trembling Bookseller amidst the Crowd,
When Sentence was pronounc'd, cry'd out aloud,
Ah! Neighbours, Neighbours, wou'd we'd honest been,
Why what a sad Condition are we in!
Poets you know were such faint-hearted Wretches,
That when their Plays were damn'd they'd foul their Breeches.
Indeed I dread them most of all our Evils,
For now they're damn'd themselves they'll drip like Devils.