University of Virginia Library

I. Literary Matters

To Sir Thomas St. Serfe: on the Printing his Play Call'd “Tarugo's Wiles”

To Mr. Edward Howard, on his Incomparable, Incomprehensible Poem Called “The British Princes”

Come on, ye critics! Find one fault who dare,
For, read it backward like a witch's prayer,
'Twill do as well; throw not away your jests
On solid nonsense that abides all tests.
Wit, like tierce claret, when 't begins to pall,
Neglected lies and's of no use at all;
But in its full perfection of decay,
Turns vinegar and comes again in play.
This simile shall stand in thy defence
'Gainst such dull rogues as now and then write sense.
He lies, dear Ned, who says thy brain is barren,
Where deep conceits, like vermin, breed in carrion;
Thou hast a brain, such as thou hast, indeed—
On what else should thy worm of fancy feed?
Yet in a filbert I have often known
Maggots survive when all the kernel's gone.
Thy style's the same whatever be the theme,
As some digestions turn all meat to phlegm:
Thy stumbling, founder'd jade can trot as high
As any other Pegasus can fly.
As skillful divers to the bottom fall
Sooner than those that cannot swim at all,
So in this way of writing without thinking
Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking:
Thou writest below e'en thy own natural parts
And with acquired dullness and new arts
Of studied nonsense tak'st kind readers' heart.
So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud
Than all the swift-finn'd racers of the flood.
Therefore, dear Ned, at my advice forbear
Such loud complaints 'gainst critics to prefer,
Since thou art turn'd an arrant libeller:
Thou sett'st thy name to what thyself dost write;
Did ever libel yet so sharply bite?

Epilogue to “Every Man in his Humour”

[Enter Johnson's Ghost.]

Epilogue to “Tartuffe”

Many have been the vain attempts of wit
Against the still prevailing hypocrite.
Once, and but once, a poet got the day,
And vanquish't Busy in a puppet play.
But Busy rallying, arm'd with zeal and rage,
Possessed the pulpit and pull'd down the stage.
To laugh at English knaves is dangerous then,
Whilst English fools will think them honest men.
But sure no zealous Rabbi will deny us
Free leave to act our Monsieur Ananias.
A man may say without being thought an atheist
There are damn'd rogues amongst the French and Papist
That fix salvation to short bands and hair,
That belch and snuffle to prolong a prayer,
That use “enjoy the creature” to express
Plain whoring, gluttony, and drunkenness;
And in a decent way perform them too,
As well, nay better far, alas, than you
Whose fleshly failings are but fornication—
We Godly phrase it “gospel propagation,”
Just as rebellion was call'd reformation.
Though zeal stand sentry at the gate of sin,
Yet all that have the word pass freely in;
Silent and in the dark for fear of spies
We march and take damnation by surprise.
There's not a roaring blade about the town
Can go so far towards Hell for half a crown
As I for sixpence, because I know the way:
For want of guides, men are too apt to stray.
Therefore give ear to what I shall advise:
Let every married man that's rich and wise
Take a Tartuffe of known ability
To teach and to increase his family,
Who may to settle lasting reformation
First get his son, then give him education.

On Mr. Edward Howard upon his “New Utopia”

Thou damn'd antipodes to common sense!
Thou foil to Flecknoe! Prithee tell from whence
Does all this mighty stock of dullness spring,
Which in such loads thou to the stage dost bring?
Is't all thy own, or hast thou from Snow Hill
Th'assistance of some ballad-making quill?
No, they fly higher yet; thy plays are such
I'd swear they were translated out of Dutch:
And who the devil was e'er yet so drunk
To own the volumes of Mynheer Van Dunk?
Fain would I know what diet thou dost keep,
If thou dost always or dost never sleep.
Sure hasty pudding is thy chiefest dish;
With lights and livers and with stinking fish,
Oxcheek, tripe, garbage, thou dost treat thy brain,
Which nobly pays this tribute back again.
With daisy roots thy dwarfish muse is fed:
A giant's body with a pigmy's head.
Canst thou not find 'mongst all thy num'rous race
One friend so kind to tell thee that thy play's
Laugh'd at by box, pit, gallery, nay stage
And grown the nauseous grievance of this age?
Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find
Thy body made for labor, not thy mind.
No other use of paper thou should'st make
But carrying loads of reams upon thy back.
Carry vast burdens 'till thy shoulders shrink,
But curs'd be he that gives thee pen and ink:
Those dang'rous weapons should be kept from fools,
As nurses from their children keep edge tools.
For thy dull muse a muckender were fit
To wipe the slav'rings of her infant wit,
Which, though 'tis late, if justice could be found,
Should like blind, new-born puppies yet be drown'd.
For were it not we must respect afford
To any muse that's grandchild to a lord,
Thine in the ducking stool should take her seat,
Drench'd like herself in a great chair of state,
Where like a muse of quality she'll die,
And thou thyself shalt make her elegy
In the same strain thou writ'st thy comedy.

To Mr. Bays

Thou mercenary renegade, thou slave,
Thou ever changing, still to be a knave:
What sect, what error wilt thou next disgrace?
Thou art so lewd, so scandalously base,
That antichristian Popery may be
Asham'd of such a proselite as thee.
Not all the rancour and felonious spite
Which animates thy lumpish soul to write
Could have contriv'd a satire more severe,
Or more disgrac'd the cause thou wouldst prefer.
Yet in thy favor this must be confest:
It suits with thy poetic genius best.
There thou. . . .
Thy mind, disus'd to truth, must entertain
With tales more monstrous, fanciful, and vain
Than ev'n thy poetry could ever feign.
Or sing the lives of thy own fellow saints—
'Tis a large field and thy assistance wants.
Thence copy out new operas for the stage,
And with their miracles divert the age.
Such is thy faith, if thou hast faith indeed,
For well we may distrust the poet's creed;
Rebel to God, blasphemer of the king,
Oh, tell whence could this strange compliance spring:
So may'st thou prove to thy new gods as true
As thy old friend the Devil has been to you;
Still conscience and religion's the pretence,
But food and drink the mythologic sense.
'Twas interest reconcil'd thee to the cheat,
And vain ambition prompted thee to eat.
Oh, how persuasive is the want of bread!
Not reasons from strong box more strongly plead.
A convert thou! Why, 'tis past all believing,
'Tis a damn'd scandal of thy foes' contriving,
A jest of that malicious monster, fame:
The honest layman's faith is still the same.

The Duel

A True Account of the Birth and Conception of a Late Famous Poem call'd “The Female Nine”