 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
176
ODE XIX. BOOK II.
TO DOCTOR BUSBY.
“Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus.”
I saw (nor disbelieve my strain,)
High, in a Box at Drury Lane,
In consequential trim,
A little pert translating Prig,
Extend his hands, and shake his wig,
Most ludicrously grim.
High, in a Box at Drury Lane,
In consequential trim,
A little pert translating Prig,
Extend his hands, and shake his wig,
Most ludicrously grim.
With gestures strange, and accent loud,
He lectur'd to the gaping crowd,
About the Drama's laws;
While now and then, in noisy fit,
Some long-ear'd brethren in the Pit,
Who thought the Doctor still a wit,
Stood up, and bray'd applause.
He lectur'd to the gaping crowd,
About the Drama's laws;
While now and then, in noisy fit,
Some long-ear'd brethren in the Pit,
Who thought the Doctor still a wit,
Stood up, and bray'd applause.
In vain he spoke—the Gallery Gods,
From their celestial high abodes,
Sent forth a dismal yell;
Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough,
Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off
With Proserpine to hell.
From their celestial high abodes,
Sent forth a dismal yell;
Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough,
Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off
With Proserpine to hell.
177
I hear, in varied cadence still,
The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill,
The loud discordant bray;
I see the spouting Pedant stand
Unmov'd,—his Prologue in his hand,
Amid the wild affray.
The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill,
The loud discordant bray;
I see the spouting Pedant stand
Unmov'd,—his Prologue in his hand,
Amid the wild affray.
Hail, Busby, hail! eccentric Wight!
The feats of that tumultuous night
Unfading laurels yield;
When boldly thou withstood'st the brunt,
A coat of mail, thy brazen front,
And impudence thy shield.
The feats of that tumultuous night
Unfading laurels yield;
When boldly thou withstood'st the brunt,
A coat of mail, thy brazen front,
And impudence thy shield.
Lucretius calls thee from the shades,
In hollow voice he thus upbraids—
“For vanity, or bribe,
How durst thou murder my sublime,
Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme!
And bid the town subscribe?
In hollow voice he thus upbraids—
“For vanity, or bribe,
How durst thou murder my sublime,
Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme!
And bid the town subscribe?
“Think'st thou my philosophic Muse,
To teach the lessons of the stews
Was e'er design'd by fate,
To charm the ears of modern jilts,
Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts
To strut in empty state?
To teach the lessons of the stews
Was e'er design'd by fate,
To charm the ears of modern jilts,
Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts
To strut in empty state?
178
“By nature form'd for low debate,
To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate,
Impertinence thy crest;
O! surely thou wert born to shine
A Petit-maître of the Nine,
Apollo's scorn and jest.
To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate,
Impertinence thy crest;
O! surely thou wert born to shine
A Petit-maître of the Nine,
Apollo's scorn and jest.
“Since 'twas ordain'd by angry fate
That, Dunce! thou should'st my works translate,
(With common sense at strife:)
What now remains to blast my fame,
And brand with infamy my name,
But Bowles to write my Life?
That, Dunce! thou should'st my works translate,
(With common sense at strife:)
What now remains to blast my fame,
And brand with infamy my name,
But Bowles to write my Life?
“If thou would'st wound me deeper still,
Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill,
Arch rogue! supply the notes;
And Master George, thy hopeful son,
The flatt'rer play, as thou hast done,
And dedicate to Coates.”
Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill,
Arch rogue! supply the notes;
And Master George, thy hopeful son,
The flatt'rer play, as thou hast done,
And dedicate to Coates.”
| The Modern Dunciad | |