University of Virginia Library

Since the united Cunning of the Stage
Has balk'd the hireling Drudges of the Age:
Since Betterton of late so thrifty's grown,
Revives old Plays, or wisely acts his own:
Thumb'd Rider with a Catalogue of Rhimes,
Makes the compleatest Poet of our Times:
Those who with Nine Months Toil had spoil'd a Play,
In hopes of Eating at a full Third Day,
Justly despairing longer to sustain
A craving Stomach from an empty Brain,
Have left Stage-practice, chang'd their old Vocations,
Attoning for bad Plays, with worse Translations;
And like old Sternhold, with laborious Spite,
Burlesque what nobler Muses better write;
Thus while they for their Causes only seem
To change the Channel, they corrupt the Stream.
So breaking Vintners to increase their Wine,
With nauseous Drugs debauch the generous Vine
So barren Gypsies for recruit are said
With Strangers Issue to maintain the Trade;
But lest the fairer Bantling should be known,
A daubing Walnut makes him all their own.

In the Head of this Gang to Fohn Dryden appears,
But to save the Town-censure, and lessen his Fears,
Join'd with a Spark, whose Title makes me civil,
For Scandalum Magnatum is the Devil;
Such mighty Thoughts from Ovid's Letters flow,
That the Translation is a work for two;
Who in one Copy join'd, their Shame have shown,
Since Tate could spoil so many, tho' alone:
My Lord I thought so generous would prove,
To scorn a Rival in Affairs of Love:
But well he knew his teeming Pangs were vain,
Till Midwife Dryden eas'd his labouring Brain;
And that when part of Hudibras's Horse
Jogg'd on, the other would not hang an Arse;
So when fleet Jowler hears the joyful Hollow,
He drags his sluggish Mate, and Tray must follow.
But how could this learn'd Brace employ their time?
One constru'd sure, while t'other pump'd for Rhime:
Or it with these, as once at Rome, succeeds,
The Bibulus subscribes to Cæsar's Deeds:
This from his Partners Acts ensures his Name,
Oh Sacred Thirst of everlasting Fame!
That could defile those well-cut Nails with Ink,
And make his Honour condescend to think:
But what Excuse, what Preface can attone
For Crimes which guilty Bayes has singly done?
Bayes, whose Rose-Ally Ambuscade injoin'd
To be to Vices which he practis'd kind,
And brought the Venom of a spiteful Satire,
To the safe Innocence of a dull Translator.
Bayes, who by all the Club was thought most fit
To violate the Mantuan Prophet's Wit,
And more debauch what loose Lucretius writ.
When I behold the Rovings of his Muse,
How soon Assyrian Ointment she would lose
For Diamond Buckles sparkling at their Shoes.
When Virgil's height is lost, when Ovid soars,
And in Heroicks Canacè deplores
Her Follies louder than her Father roars,
I'd let him take Almanzor for his Theme;
In lofty Verse make Maximin blaspheme,
Or sing in softer Airs St. Catharine's Dream.
Nay, I could hear him damn last Ages Wit,
And rail at Excellence he ne'er could hit;
His envy should at powerful Cowley rage,
And banish Sense with Johnson from the Stage:
His Sacrelege should plunder Shakespear's Urn,
With a dull Prologue make the Ghost return,
To bear a second Death, and greater Pain,
While the Fiend's Words the Oracle prophane.
But when not satisfy'd with Spoils at home,
The Pyrate would to foreign Borders roam;
May he still split on some unlucky Coast,
And have his Works or Dictionary lost!
That he may know what Roman Authors mean,
No more than does our blind Translatress Behn.

The Female Wit, who next convicted stands,
Not for abusing Ovid's Verse, but Sands';
She Might have learn'd from the ill-borrow'd Grace,
(Which little helps the Ruin of her Face)
That Wit, like Beauty, triumphs o'er the Heart,
When more of Nature's seen, and less of Art:
Nor strive in Ovid's Letters to have shown
As much of Skill, as Lewdness in her own.
Then let her from the next inconstant Lover,
Take a new Copy for a second Rover:
Describe the Cunning of a Jilting Whore,
From the ill Arts her self has us'd before;
Thus let her write, but Paraphrase no more.

Rymer to Crambo Privilege does claim,
Not from the Poet's Genius, but his Name;
Which Providence in contradiction meant,
Tho' he Predestination could prevent,
And with bold Dulness translate Heav'ns Intent.
Rash man! we paid thee Adoration due,
That ancient Criticks were excell'd by you:
Each little Wit to your Tirbunal came
To hear their Doom, and to secure their Fame:
But for Respect you servilely sought Praise,
Slighted the Umpire's Palm to court the Poet's Bays;
While wise Reflections, and a grave Discourse,
Declin'd to Zoons a River for a Horse.
So discontented Pemberton withdrew,
From sleeping Judges to the noisy Crew;
Chang'd awful Ermin for a servile Gown,
And to an humble Fawning smooth'd his Frown,
The simile will differ here indeed;
You cannot versify, though he can plead.

To painful Creech my last Advice descends,
That he and Learning would at length be Friends;
That he'd command his dreadful Forces home,
Nor be a Second Hannibal to Rome.
But since no Counsel his Resolves can bow;
Nor may thy Fate, O Rome, resist his Vow;
Debarr'd From Pens as Lunaticks from Swords,
He should be kept from waging War with Words:
Words which at first like Atoms did advance
To the just Measure of a tuneful Dance,
And jumpt to form, as did his Worlds, by Chance.
This pleas'd the Genius of the vicious Town;
The Wits confirm'd his Labours with Renown,
And swear the early Atheist for their own.
Had he stopt here— but ruin'd by Success,
With a new Spawn he fill'd the burden'd Press,
Till as his Volumes swell'd, his Fame grew less.
So Merchants flatter'd with increasing Gain,
Still tempt the Falshood of the doubtful Main:
So the first running of the lucky Dice,
Does eager Bully to new Betts intice;
Till Fortune urges him to be undone,
And Ames-Ace loses what kind Sixes won.
Witness this Truth Lucretia's wretched Fate,
Which better have I heard my Nurse relate;
The Matron suffers Violence again,
Not Tarquin's Lust so vile, as Creech's Pen;
Witness those heaps his Midnight Studies raise,
Hoping to Rival Ogilby in Praise:
Both writ so much, so ill, a Doubt might rise,
Which with most Justice might deserve the Prize;
Had not the first. The Town with Cuts appeas'd,
And where the Poem fail'd, the Picture pleas'd.

Wits of a meaner Rank, I could rehearse,
But will not plague your Patience, nor my Verse:
In long Oblivion may they happy lie,
And with their Writings, may their Folly die.
Now, why should we poor Ovid yet pursue,
And make his very Book an Exile too,
In Words more barb'rous than the place he knew?
If Virgil labour'd not to be translated,
Why suffers he the only thing he hated?
Had he foreseen some ill-officious Tongue,
Wou'd in unequal Strains blaspheme his Song;
Nor Prayers, nor Force, nor Fame shou'd e'er prevent
The just Performance of his wise Intent:
Smiling h'had seen his Martyr'd Work expire,
Nor live to feel more cruel Foes, than Fire.

Some Fop in Preface may those Thefts excuse,
That Virgil was the Draught of Homer's Muse:
That Horace's by Pindar's Lyre was strung,
By the great Image of whose Voice he sung.
They found the Mass, 'tis true, but in their Mould
They purg'd the drossy Oar to current Gold:
Mending their Pattern, they escap'd the Curse;
Yet had they not writ better, they'd writ worse.
But when we bind the Lyric up to Rhime,
And lose the Sense to make the Poem chime:
When from their Flocks we force Sicilian Swains,
To ravish Milk-maids in our English Plains;
And wandring Authors, e'er they touch our Shore,
Must like our Locust Hugonots be poor;
I'd bid th' importing Club their Pains forbear,
And traffick in our own, tho' homely Ware,
Whilst from themselves the honest Vermin spin,
I'd like the Texture, tho' the Web be thin;
Nay, take Crown's Plays, because his own, for Wit;
And praise what Durfey, not Translating, writ.