University of Virginia Library

Satyr.

Lucilius was the man who bravely bold,
To Roman Vices did this Mirror hold,
Protected humble Goodness from reproach,
Show'd Worth on foot and Rascals in the Coach :
Horace his pleasing Wit to this did add,
And none uncensur'd could be Fool, or mad ;
Unhappy was that Wretch, whose name might be
Squar'd to the Rules of their Sharp Poetry.
Persius, obscure, but full of Sence and Wit,
Affected brevity in all he writ !
And Juvenal, Learn'd as those times could be,
Too far did stretch his sharp Hyperbole ;
Tho horrid Truths through all his labors shine,
In what he writes there's something of Divine :
Whether he blames the Caprean Debauch,
Or of Sejanus Fall tells the approach,
Or that he makes the trembling Senate come
To the stern Tyrant, to receive their Doom ;
Or Roman Vice in coursest Habits shews,
And paints an Empress reeking from the Stews :
In all he Writes appears a noble Fire ;
To follow such a Master then desire,
Chaucer alone fix'd on this solid Base ;
In his old Stile, conserves a modern grace :
Too happy, if the freedom of his Rhymes
Offended not the method of our Times.
The Latin Writers, Decency neglect ;
But modern Readers challenge our respect,
And at immodest Writings take offence,
If clean Expression cover not the Sence.
I love sharp Satyr, from obsceneness free ;
Not Impudence, that poaches Modesty :
Our English, who in Malice never fail,
Hence, in Lampoons and Libels, learnt to Rail ;
Pleasant Detraction, that by Singing goes
From mouth to mouth, and as it marches grows !
Our freedom in our Poetry we see,
That Child of Joy, begot by Liberty.
But, vain Blasphemer, tremble, when you chuse
God for the Subject of your Impious Muse :
At last, those Jeasts which Libertines invent
Bring the lewd Author to just punishment,
Ev'n in a Song there must be Art, and Sence ;
Yet sometimes we have seen, that Wine, or Chance
Have warm'd cold Brains, and given dull Writers
And furnish'd out a Scene for Mr. S— : (Mettle,
But for one lucky Hit, that made thee please,
Let not thy Folly grow to a Disease,
Nor think thy self a Wit ; for in our Age
If a warm Fancy does some Fop ingage ;
He neither eats or sleeps, till he has Writ,
But plagues the World with his Adulterate Wit.
Nay, 'tis a wonder, if, in his dire rage,
He Prints not his dull Follies for the Stage ;
And, in the Front of all his Senceless Plays,
Makes * David Logan Crown his head with Bayes.