[Page] Discommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS, AND THE Satyr against WIT.
Laudat, amat, cantat nostros mea Roma Libellos,
Me
(que) sinus omnes, me manus omnis habet.
Ecce! rubet quidam, pallet, stupet, oscitat, odit,
Hoc volo, nunc nobis Carmina nostra placent.
Mart.
LONDON: Printed in the Year, MDCC.
The Preface.
AS it requires not much Thought to find out the Author of the Dedication to the Commendatory Verses, so there is no necessity of much Pains to return an Answer to it. Since Falsities are known to People who are unprejudic'd by their first appearance, and there is occasion for no other Method to find 'em out, than a true knowledge of the Gentleman who is abus'd. The Dedicator has long since been conversant in Scandal, and Abuses are as familiar to him as it is to be abus'd: We shall therefore leave him a while for his Masters who set him at Work, and distinguish'd him, by giving him the Title of Secretary to the Confederates at Will' s Coffee-house. They may be fine Gentlemen for all that I know in their Chambers, and pretty Conversation for the Ladies they Dress themselves up for; their Coaches may make a noble Appearance, and their Footmens Hatbands may, like their Masters, rise up and take leave of the Crowns of their Hats; their Perukes may be well adjusted, and their Persons set off to the greatest Advantage; yet for all this Sir R—Bl—re might chuse whether or no he would be laugh'd at for running into their Commendations. Several of 'em are Quality by their Cloths, but forfeit the Name by their Expressions. They have reason perhaps to boast of the Lady's Favours, but will never have any (till they Write better) to brag of the Reader's. In short, if they are Gentlemen, it's more than their Verses speak 'em to be; and 'tis manifest, that they who have chosen T—B—for their Leader, fall not a Tittle short of coming up to his admirable Qualifications. Ev'ry individual Man is a Giant in Scandal, and shews his Teeth to a Miracle, but what they would have done, had not the Gentleman they bark'd at been a Physician, it is not in our Power to divine. Bills, Pills, and Kills, are excellent Rhimes; and they had lost the greatest part of their Endeavours after Satyr, had Sir Richard been without that Title, which as it has done him Honour, so he has amply return'd it on the Profession by the Regularities and Success of his Practice. But we have taken the liberty to give some Account of their Works, and ought to do the same by our own; and since in some Places we may be accus'd for running into the same Faults we blame [Page] them for, we ought to make what Excuses we can for so doing. We have endeavour'd to answer ev'ry individual Copy as the Nature of 'em seem'd to require. The Scurrilous we have return'd a suitable Roughness to, and to the Dull (which are not very few) a Contempt which is proper for 'em. But where their Verses have seem'd too long for Epigrams, which they were design'd for, we have either answer'd 'em with those that are shorter, or made two or three on the same Subjects; and though the Covent-Garden Wits may make Cuckolds of those Citizens which are Old and Superanuated, yet we hope we have giv'n such a Specimen of our Performance in the following Sheets, that they cannot make Fools of those which are Young. And let their Editor be, as soon as he thinks fit, out with the Verses he promis'd us on Job and Habbakuk, unless he answers 'em himself, he shall not stay so long for our Answer as he has been endeavouring at the performance of his Promise. In the mean time since his Motto speaks him to be a Reader of Martial, without doubt he has met with the following Epigram, which we desire him to apply to himself; and have render'd into English for his Service.
Festive credis te Calliodore jocari,
Et solum multo permaduisse sale.
Omnibus arrides, dicteria dicis in omnes,
Sic te Convivam posse placere putas.
At si ego non
belle sed
vere dixero quiddam,
Nemo propinabit Calliodore Tibi.
B—n
Thou believ'st Thou'rt famous for a Jest,
And none like Thou, for Wit, can bear the Test;
Thou flatter'st All, on All Thou fling'st Thy Spight,
Thus think'st Thy Company must needs delight:
But if I speak what's Truth, though course and plain,
Thou ne'er will't have thy Reck'ning paid
again.
Discommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS, AND THE Satyr against WIT.
A Short and True History of a certain Captain-General.
BY Nature Small, and of a Dwarfish Breed,
Peevish was sent to School, to Write and Read;
Where brib'd by Gifts the Pedagogick Don
Abus'd the Father, and Deceiv'd the Son;
As for a fresh Reward he prais'd his Child,
And grasp'd one's Sugar, as he t'other spoil'd.
Thence, swol'n with Figures, and possess'd with Tropes,
On
Isis he bestow'd his Parents Hopes;
[Page 2] And there H'had scarce put on the Tufted-Gown,
And wildly view'd the Colleges and Town,
But Fortune, who no time would let him lose,
Gave him a Royal Infant for his Muse;
And Him he sung with Whimsies in his Brains,
Praising a borrow'd Prince, with borrow'd Strains.
Next, when the Doubtful Times were chang'd He saw
He left the
Son, to praise the
Son in Law;
And with his Righteous Undertaking warm'd,
He star'd, and in Pindarick Frenzie storm'd;
As wisely He the strongest side caress'd,
And
Curs'd the Babe his selfish Lays had
Bless'd.
All Matters fix'd, and likely to remain
In favour of the Great
Nassovian's Reign,
The Dapper 'Squire revolving in his Thought,
That he that Rhim'd, not pleas'd as he that Fought;
To Arms, as fast as Legs would carry, ran,
And Fretfully resolv'd to be a Man.
And since no Spark had walk'd up
High-street bolder,
The Fellow-Commoner turn'd Fellow-Soldier;
In Camps pursuing what in Schools h'had read,
As he
Lampoon'd the very Foes he
Fled.
But Heav'n, least some mischievous Ball should hit
This little Prodigy of Rhimes and Wit,
Put it in
William's thoughtful Head to make
A
Peace, and fight no more for Fighting's sake;
Thence he return'd, and a rich Father Dead,
Fatten'd the growing Maggots in his Head,
As he wrote Epigrams for Ladies Smiles,
And govern'd in
B—street the Leeward Isles.
And now he rides a Tiptoe in his Coach,
Frowning at every Hack that dares approach;
[Page 3] As he by Prince and Subject both prefer'd,
Is own'd a Patron, and adjudg'd a Bard;
A Patron fit for
Br—n's and
Ma—g's Flights,
If he
Rewards no better than he
Writes.
To the Poetical Knight, who would have no Body spoil Paper but Himself.
APox on Rhimes and Physick,
S—ly cry'd,
(And he had Sense and Reason on his side;)
For both of Rhimes and Physick H'had his fill,
And swallow'd more than ev'ry Verse a Pill.
A Doctor coming by, and loath to lose
A Knight so Famous for a P—and Muse,
Offer'd him means to give his Knighthood ease,
And make the radicated Torments cease.
Vile Quack, said he, go patch up Mother
Q—les,
Sir
Richard turn Prescriber to Sir
Ch—Is?
It shall not be, jog Homeward if you please,
I'll have no Paper spoil'd on my Disease.
The Doctor cry'd, 'Tis true, th' Infection's such,
Twill certainly discolour't with a Touch;
But I'll affirm, and so withdrawing smil'd,
My Papers may, but Thou can'st ne'er be
Spoil'd.
To the Prosaick POET, occasion'd by the two following Lines:
Thy Satyrs Bite not, but like
Aesop's Ass,
Thou Kick'st the Darling whom thou would'st Caress.
TIs plain that Wit at
Will's is very scarce,
By the poor Contradictions of thy Verse;
[Page 4] Else surely some Acquaintance would have made
Those Hobbing Lines speak Sense, which Sense upbraid;
But thou brim full of emptiness of Thought,
Betray'st thy self, and by thy self art caught:
As thou art fashion'd for a standing Jest,
And giv'st us the Reverse of
Aesop's Beast;
Who should, if
Bl—more's Folly thou'dst have shown,
Caress the Man he'd
Kick, as Thou hast done.
The Noble Corrected; or Advice to a Quality Commentator, who Writes in Defence of Greek Epistles as if he understood 'em.
LET
B—le write on, and still'd a Man of Letters,
Prefer Dull Heavy Authors to their Betters;
Let him His own to
B—lv's Sense oppose,
And knowing little fancy much he knows;
Let
D—nis in his Commendation strain,
And
Codron praise him, to be prais'd again:
Let ev'ry Wit, and ev'ry Beau declare
What his bright Genius is, and what They are;
As some commend his Parts, and some his Cloths,
Let him be any thing they please in Prose.
But ye, who seemingly appear his Friends,
And basely flatter him for sordid Ends,
Perswade him to avoid the Muses Hill,
And cease to Wound himself, who'd others Kill.
For its enough that he in Prose is Brave,
And Butchers many an Author in his Grave,
That against Truth, and
Bently's Worth he joyns,
And plays the Tyrant o're a Tyrant's Lines.
To the Sorry Poetaster at Will's Coffee-House.
PRithee, dear Scribbling Doctor, why so short?
Rail on if thoud'st have
Bl—re thank thee for't
Be permanent in Censure and Dispraise,
And grinning shew thy Teeth ten Thousand ways:
For 'tis acknowledg'd by the Court and Town,
Nothing can make him smile like
M—Frown.
He Patients has, 'tis true, which often Die,
And so, thoud'st vainly say perhaps, have I.
But Quack, 'tis false, thy Self-destroying Pill
Ne're had it in its Pow'r as yet to kill,
And as for Patients which thou
Dead would'st own,
Thou hast as many
Living, that is
none.
An Equal Match, or the Drawn Battle.
IF Bards would have a Shortliv'd Poem writ,
P—ck should dictate
Rules, and
T—mb Wit;
Like which no Mortal piece can e're be found
With Lines of Constitution so unsound.
But that where
T—mb shall a
Judge commence,
To file the Rust of
Wit from
P—ck's Sence.
To the Noble Captain, who was in aD amn'd Confounded Pet, because the Author of the Satyr against Wit, was pleas'd to Pray for his Friend, occasion'd by this Distich:
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight,
Which
P—r may demand with equal Right.
BOld Man of War, the drift of thy Designs?
And let us know the meaning of thy Lines.
If Mercy is a Suff'rance of a Fact,
How comes it then to give Rewards, and act?
Define, and tell us when thou'rt in the right,
And own that Mercy spares, but cannot Knight.
P—r and
Thou may be forgot and spar'd,
He for a Traytor, thou a Senceless Bard.
Yet neither can attone for either's Crimes,
He for his Foolish Plot, or
Thou for Rhymes.
Though
D—ke to purge thy Muse shou'd Physick send,
Or
S—d should absolve him as a Friend.
To the Inviolably Dull Critick, on his Heroical Strains upon the Satyr against Wit.
SOme Scribbling Fops as
D—is is by Name,
Never can hit, although they always aim,
And Storm, and Swear, and Drink, and Write for Fame.
What Star prevents 'em, or what Planet shines,
To keep the Lucky Goddess from their Lines;
Let those decide, who have it in their Sphere,
Doubtless they err, because they persevere.
But thou, my crabbed piece of blustring Wit.
Erring do'st think the wish'd for Mark is hit;
And, Pox upon thy Judgment and thy Skull,
Labour'st to be thought intricate and dull.
For shame, Grave Don, 'tis time that thou wer't wise,
Having seen Years enough before thine Eyes.
E'en do, as Men of Ancient standing shou'd,
Or understand, or else be understood,
Since 'tis in vain to shew thy fruitless spight,
And thou can'st find less Faults, than thou canst write.
To a Rhimer, who if he takes pains, Writes as if he did not.
WHO e're Thou art, to Me and Sense unknown,
Correct not others Follies but thy own;
Nor dare to Censure
R—ff's healing Arts,
Or point at
G—n's Wit thy Leaden Darts.
What have they done to call thy Nonsence forth,
And make thee shew thy Penury of Worth?
Or how could
B—re's Muse deserve thy Spight,
Unless it was for teaching thee to write?
Prithee, for shame acknowledge this Offence,
And own 'em Men of Skill, and Men of Sence.
But Oh! Kind Heav'n forbid it that thy Quill
Should dare t'attempt their Judgment or their Skill,
That thou should'st rise and injure 'em with praise,
And stab their Reputations with thy Lays,
For nothing but the poison of thy Lines,
Defeats their Cure, and mocks their great Designs.
A Modest Request to the Poetical Squire.
SInce You to Poetry will make pretence,
And
H—ly 'll be a Wit in
H—ly's Sence,
As you resign'd to Dullness, in your Chair,
Think on foul Lines to gratifie the Fair:
Long may you Rhime, and on your Lute and Spinnet
Play many a woful Tune with nothing in it.
But in return my dear Facetious Squire,
For once to gratifie a Friends desire,
Think as I do, you'll fling your Verses in the Fire.
To a L—d who would be a Saint, if he was as free from all other Sins, as he is from Hypocrisie.
ADvice to
P—rs, th' Adviser's Zeal may prove,
But ne'er like Praise can swell 'em into Love.
Then give me leave to do the thing that's safe,
And fling away some Verse in your Behalf.
That you have Travell'd, is exceeding true,
And that your L—p's Muse hath Teeth to shew,
But among all the Frolicks you have shewn,
Religion is a
Trick you ne'er have known.
To a Lady dignified and distinguish'd by the Name of Critick and Poet, on Her incomprehensible Raileries on the Satyr against Wit.
BElieve me, Madam, that your Muse has shown
So foul a Face, I beg you'd hide your own;
[Page 9] And if you'r real Quality be Civil,
For T—d and A—se all over is the Devil.
That you're no Pious Lady is confess'd,
By making
Wesly's Sacred Work your Jest;
Which (tho' it does not with the Witty take)
Might please the Wise for its great Subjects sake.
Not but I think you've been at Church sometimes,
Because you write of Sextons and of Chimes;
But that you are a Woman few can tell
So right, as those you think you praise so well.
For Heaven's sake, Madam, qualifie this Fit,
Some speak you Nobly Born, and yet a Wit?
Nor let me be successless in my Pray'r,
A Muse should not take up a Lady's care;
For 'tis a Composition most absurd,
That's made of Rhimes, of Woman, and of Turd.
To an Author, who never wrote but two Distichs and an half, and those could not pass Muster.
YOU bid me take my Pen again, 'tis true,
But I shall scarce request the same of You.
Five Lines already have your Judgment shewn,
Tho' you'd be more esteem'd for writing none;
And if excess of
Dulness Life can give,
You need not scribble Knight, you'r sure to
Live.
Occasion'd by the News that Tom B—n had the Courage to Engage with Sir Richard Blackmore, after his Bookseller had Defeated him.
WHen
B—Contending I with
R—r spy'd,
I wonder'd, but not pitty'd either side;
Well knowing, if they were of Scratching sick,
Abel could
buy, and
Tom could
beg a Stick.
Next came a Dun, and at his Garret stood,
He'd have his Money truly that he wou'd;
But still I could not pity him, as knowing
Tom would soon find a Trick to send him going.
But when I saw him brandishing his Muse,
The Bad to Flatter, and the Good Abuse,
With Pity then, and much Concern, I cry'd,
Tom, Do'st thou know what Folly's on thy side?
Give the fierce waspish Col'nel back his Gold,
Nor let thy Praise be bought, thy Lies be sold;
Blackmore and
Job believe it will subdue
Ten Thousand such Malicious Fiends as You.
How? Said the Bard, Most excellent Advice!
A Poet, and be Master of a Sice?
Find out that Place where e're I paid one Score,
Then I'll return the Guinea's, not before.
A Tale taken to pieces.
IF
Shallow Criticks, as your pleas'd to say,
Judge
Tully when at
Poetry at
Play,
[Page 11] And Ignorance would censure and suppose
He ne'er had been a
Consul but for Prose:
How comes it then that
Caesar, who's confess'd
To know the Man, and know his Talent best,
Who in Fame's List for Judgment is enroll'd,
(Whether you mean the Modern or the Old)
Should with the
Shallow for a
Judge be brought,
And make their Sence authentick with his Thought.
O Youth, tho' sweet and flowing be thy Song,
Thy Numbers beautious, and thy Beauties strong;
Tho'
Force and
Ease alternately appear,
And Fancy glads the Sight, and charms the Ear;
Yet, if amidst thy Turns of
Verse and
Thought
Mistake should blend, or Hast neglect a Fault;
If uncorrected Errors shall be found
T'offend our Senses, or our Judgments wound;
As to be
fearless, is not to be
Brave,
And
Squire's a
Noble, while a
Knight's a Slave;
In vain you measure out your fruitless Lays,
And gloss your want of Sence with gilded Praise;
For if you'd write with Credit and Success,
You must mind
Judgment more, and
Friendship less.
To Codron's and the Lady's Humble Servant.
NOT that I blame your Flatt'ry, or your Spleen,
But prithee give's the Sense of what you mean:
Can
Bl—re write without
Design, or Art,
And yet
design a—at
Codron's Heart?
Unthinking Bard! stuff'd up with Praise and Spight,
Gravely consider next before you write;
And if you'd shew a Man of Sense and Stile,
Bring other Vouchers than a Lady's Smile:
For if I know 'em well, they'd rather chuse
His
P—tle to
divert 'em than his
Muse.
To the same, on the same Subject.
CODRON may
please the
Ladies, as he writes,
And pretty things for pretty things Endites;
But Thou be damn'd, and fling away thy Pen,
Such
Fops as Thou, can never
please the
Men.
To the same, occasion'd by the Verse which reflects on Dr. Gibbons, (viz.) He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign.
FRiend, by my Soul, the Devil's in thy Quill,
Or Thou would'st never write and judge so ill;
For whilst thou Laugh▪st at
Gibbon's skill, 'tis sure,
Thou stand'st in need thy self of
*Dr.
Tyson is Physitian to
Bethlem Hospital.
Tyson's Cure.
Nor would the Youth, the Subject of thy Song,
Accept thy Flatt'ries, or permit thy Tongue
To blast his Credit with defaming Praise,
And take Lethargick
Opiats from thy
Lays;
Was
He the
Man thy Rhimes would have him be,
Or
Thou the
Man for whom he judges thee.
An Epigram on Dr. Ch—ood.
Poor
Job was
plagu'd, of Holy
Men the best,
But
Ch—ood sins, and in this Life is
Bless'd;
With Losses he, and Pains, and Fire was vex'd,
And he
divides Fat Capons with his Text.
One had a
Friend and Woman to perswade,
But t'other He can
Curse without their
aid.
As he delights to play the
Tempter's part,
And labours to be Damn'd with all his Heart.
When having lost the
Preacher in the
Beast,
He shews the
Devil, who should act the
Priest.
An Answer to a great many Impertinent Questions.
MEthinks you take too much upon you, Sir,
And tho' you stirring stink, you needs must stir;
Else, why so many Foolish Queries brought
T'upbraid the Querist's want of Sence and Thought?
That he found fault with Wit, is very true,
But, Captain, what a Pox is that to you?
Untouch'd by Satyr you may safely pass,
Unless to be a Wit's to be an A—.
To the same upon his calling Sir R—B—re's Composures; Coffee Rhimes.
IF Coffee does Awake the Senses keep,
And guards our Eye-lids from approaching Sleep,
Well hast thou giv'n the Doctor's Rhimes the Name,
And prais'd his Merits, which thou would'st defame;
For we with
wakeful Pleasure can peruse,
And meditate the Beauties of his Muse,
When
Thy Composures we for
Opiats take,
And only run 'em o're for
Sleepings sake.
To the Quibling, Drib'ling, Scribling Poetaster, who has let himself out for Scandal to the Wits at Will's Coffee-House.
BE not puff'd up with Punning, Friend of mine,
I've Slep't o'er many Jests as good as thine;
And tho' at present thou may'st strut and stare,
Blown up with
Treats and
Covent-Garden Air;
Yet when their Turns are serv'd, believe it, then
Spark thou must
Dine on Smoak at
How's again;
So different is thy wretched State from his,
Thou
hast been
Ush, but never can'st be
phiz.
To the-same Trifling Fellow, T—B—n.
DAme Fortune's just, malicious Fool, I see
By what sh' has done for
Blackmore, and for thee.
He in his Chariot, which is paid for, sits,
And dares the feeble Spleen of Thredbare Wits,
Who just like thou brush'd out in Tally Suit,
Laugh at his
Coach, but Rascals, laugh
a foot.
E'en take thy fill, and play a
Zany's part,
And censure Judgment, and reflect on Art,
While he by Parents, and by Children bless'd,
By Husbands pray'd for, and by VVives caress'd,
Brings Health and Safety at the Patient's call,
And
rises when thou can'st not lower
fall.
Upon seeing a Man wipe his A—se with T—B—'s Satyr against the French King.
IF shitten
Lines should wipe a shitten
A-se,
Thomas, the Man does Justice to thy Verse;
As it was
Born, whatever thou may'st think,
Thy
Ballad makes its
Exit too in
Stink.
When Mortal Man is buried, then the Word
Is
Dust to Dust, but here it's
T—d to T—d.
An Epigram, occasion'd by Mr. B—dy's, about his Friend Mr. Tate.
PRithee, my gentle Man of Crape, and Pray'r,
Why so concern'd, and full of Noise and Care?
T—e, 'tis allow'd, makes Payments when he can,
And slowly shews himself an Honest Man:
But I ne'er heard of
B—dy's Payments yet,
Either in ready
Money, or in
Wit.
Then rest contented, as a Man should be,
Sir
Richard ne'er will say the
same of
Thee.
A Reply to the Story of the Greek Chevalier.
IF Monarch's (as you'll hav't) on Trust reward,
I shall not ask why
Sh—ld was prefer'd?
But I'll be sworn, and vouch, it as 'tis true,
That Author's baulk'd, who waits Rewards from you.
To the same.
IF you'r a L—d, as whispering Fame reports,
And know the Constitutions well of Courts,
Does not your Honour think 'twould be a hard case,
He could not make a Knight, who made a M—ss.
To the Unworthy Author of the Verses on the Satyr against Wit.
IF
B—re labours as he writes, to please,
VVhy do'st not thou consult thy Reader's Ease?
And hammer out a Thought may shew thy pains,
To countenance thy Scarcity of Brains?
Sence may decline, and VVit consummate may
VVear itself out in time, and know decay;
But VVit like thine, and stumbling into Rhime,
Defies the Injuries of Fate, or Time:
'Tis still the same amongst the Learn'd and VVise,
And as it cannot
fall, it cannot
rise.
Merry Thoughts on Dr. B—d's Melancholy Reflections on the Deficiency of Useful Learning.
THat
B—d Raves, both Friends and Foes conclude,
Yet neither Friends nor Foes can say he's rude;
Rudeness they know's a meditated Crime,
But
B—d never thought in all his Time:
Absolve him then from Guilt, his Soul is clean,
For he that never
thinks, can nothing
mean.
On the same, to a Friend who said Dr. B—d Talk'd like an Apothecary.
WILL, thou do'st much mistake the Doctor's Parts,
And wrong'st his Knowledge, and his great Deserts.
He mimicks no Discourse, or Talks by Rule,
But prattles like Himself, and that's a F—l.
On the same Eternal Tatler.
B—d with noisie Cures may make us smile,
Yet cannot shew one Bill on any File:
What can it be that thus obstructs his Fame?
Because his Patients cannot say the same.
He on his own Report prescribes his Pills,
But Fame gives out, He neither Cures nor Kills.
To a midnight Author who does not Cant I'll be Sworn.
THat
c—Drinks hard, and late in Taverns sits,
'Tis known for
Truth amongst the
B—w-street Wits;
But I deny that VVitness can be brought
That
c—k was ever Drunk with too much
Thought.
The Adviser taken to Task.
IF Knighthood only be the
Hero's Right,
VVhat made a certain Man at
Will's, a Knight,
Who never burn'd a Town, or gain'd a Fight?
Sir, you remember certainly what scores
Your Bombs defeated, of dull Sunburn'd
Moors,
And how 'twas counted Valour to retreat,
And Nobler to be beaten than be beat.
Then pray deal fairly, and with Fame agree,
Owning the Justice of the Doctor's Plea;
Since
He for saving many lives, is known,
VVhen
Thou just sav'dst thy self, and that is One.
To the same.
THe Parliament who cry'd down Squibbs and Rockets,
Provided for our Safeties and our Pockets.
Not thinking Engineers in warlike times,
Instead of Squibbs wou'd fall a making Rhimes.
But 'tis no matter, Knight, pursue thy Punns;
They'l do as little Mischief as thy Guns.
To a Great Man who makes himself Little.
WEre I to turn Physician, and prescribe
To certain P—a most facetious Tribe,
I'de not make use of Syringes, and Tricks
To cure their Ulcers, and to mend their
That Ladies
foul might hug 'em in their Arms,
And praise their Money, while They praise their Charms.
No, I'd another sort of Cure begin,
And leave their Running-Nags to smart for Sin,
As I prescrib'd
Restringents in my Bills,
To cure the
running Humours of their Quills,
And make 'em some more noble Frollick seek;
Not try to
write that Sence, They cannot
speak.
To T. B—upon His concealing his Name, when He made the Author of the Satyr against Wit, the Subject of his harmless Satyr for concealing His.
SOme Folks may write, and writing be conceal'd,
When such as
Thou take pains to be reveal'd.
Scandal's a sort of Wit thou giv'st the Town,
And a
B—n's Works speak nothing but a
B—n.
As thy lewd Muse with Infamy her Task
Cannot, because she's poor, provide a Mask.
No more than when her Master in a heat,
Resolving to be Cudgell'd, or to Beat;
For want of Cane-Man's Faith, and want of Pence,
Could get a Stick to shew his want of Sence.
To the same.
JOB, as thou say'st, being willing to forget
The Cause, for which thou mad'st him storm and fret,
Plundg'd into
Lethe's Streams to seek relief,
And lost the sad remembrance of his Grief.
But take my word, Sir
Richard need not use
That method for the Scandal of thy Muse:
For what e're flows from such a triffling Sot,
Dies of it
self, and's born to be
forget.
To the same.
TOM, take my word, thou'st done like Man of Skill,
And I applaud the Conquest of thy Quill;
The
Wife and
Satan fail'd in
Their design;
But thou had'st brought their
Wish about in thine.
Thou teachest
Job most
heartily to
Curse;
Satan cou'd ne're have taught him what was worse.
So well thou'st play'd the subtle Tempter's part;
Yet he must give precedence to thy Art.
As full of Wonder we can neither grant,
Or
Job the greater
Fiend, or
B—n the greater
Saint.
To an Epigrammatic Parson.
'TIs false, leud Priest, I speak it to thy Face,
As are thy Actions infamous and base.
His Satyr tickle? No, it cannot be;
Especially that part which touches Thee.
Wounds almost cur'd, Experience will teach,
May have a Titillation, and an Itch.
But as for
Thine, I'de have
Thee rest assur'd,
Thou'l ne're be
tickled, who can'st ne're be
curd'.
A Gonsolatory Paper of Verses to Dr. D—ke, upon the News that He commended the 4th. Edition of Dr. Garth's Dispensary, and could not get His own Translation of Herodotus to bear One.
BOld thy Attempt, let Truth and Friendship speak,
In these
dull Times to venture forth at
Greek.
And dare to
Construe and
Translate with speed,
What Gentlemen of
Practice cou'd not
read.
Yet as Success not always waits the Brave,
And Heroes lose the Laurel for the Grave;
So tho' thy Volumes by their Bulk disclose,
What havock thou ha'st made of Sense and Prose.
Yet to our sorrow We, thy Friends, behold
Thy Price beat down, and ev'ry Sheet unsold;
While other Versions are receiv'd and bought,
Pigmies in
Mischief to the
Giant thought.
However, Man, take heart of Oak, and dare
Ev'n still to shew the World thy
stupid Care,
To mangle other's Works thy time employ,
Fools may, perhaps, at last be found to buy;
And thou acknowledg'd with thy skilful Pen,
As fit to murther
Sense, as murther
Men.
O
D—ke! How great shall be thy future Name?
What multitudes of
Trunks shall speak thy Fame!
Band-Box shall in thy Vindication rise,
And many a Cook with thee defend his Pies,
Which otherwise (I'm to thy merit just)
Would never tempt
Young Children with their
Crust.
Then take Thy Pen, as Men of Letters shou'd,
And Scrible for succeeding Trader's good.
What! If some certain Booksellers agree
Not to be Broke by such a Scribe as Thee,
'Tis Ten to One, but Thou a Chap may'st find
Among the Trading sort of Human Kind,
Who for the sake of dealing once in Greek,
Will take it off Thy hands, and nobly
break.
Arise then, Friend, and reassume thy Pen,
And swear B—G—d, 'tis good, like Antient
Ben;
Like a true Author magnifie thy Pains,
And tell
Ben T—k he has no Guts in's Brains,
Who durst such
useful Knowledge to decry,
He cannot
understand who does not
buy.
These are the ways preceeding Writers us'd
When once flung by, and Their
own Price refus'd,
And These, my Friend, are what the
present tread,
As soon as slighted and return'd unread.
Curse ev'ry thing in Print which has Success,
Make Author's write, and Readers buy, by guess;
Like Paper Kites, let
other's Labour's fly,
And by mere force of Wind be
born on high.
But rest assur'd, and easie in Thy Mind,
Thy Volumes dare the most Tempestuous Wind,
Though
North and
South, and each contending Blast
Should in united Storms their Furies cast,
Unmov'd by Force, and uninform'd by Sence,
Stupidity shall be their safe Defence;
Fix'd to their Shelv's no Winds can make 'em rise,
And there Thou'lt let 'em lie if thou art wise.
To Mr. F. M. on his Incomprehensible Farce, which goes by the Name of the Generous Choice.
THy Thoughts were never
great, it's very plain,
By this poor Trifling product of Thy Brain;
But I, in question do my Judgment call,
If Thou had'st Brains, Thou would'st not write at all.
To the same, on his Poem, call'd Greenwich-Hill.
LAwyer, and Bard, believe me for Thy Friend,
If I Thy stupid Poem don't Commend.
The Lady's are Indebted to Thy Quill,
And
Greenwich must acknowledge Thy good will;
But now Thou'st prais'd 'em both, dear Scribbler see,
If any Fools will do the
same by
Thee.
A Pun, by Mr. D—P—To T—B—upon his Witches Trusty Broomstaff.
BY all the Punns that D—l ever made,
Most wisely fitted, and most bravely said,
Broomstaff must own, if Broomstaff had a Tongue,
It owes it's chiefest glory to thy Song.
Trusty's a Noble Epithet, and Safe,
A Witch can never fall from such a Staff:
But Thou must own, if Thoud'st to Truth be just,
Thou'dst sooner giv't a
Vintner, if He'd
Trust.
To the same, by one who is Free of the Sadler's Company.
THat we have wooden Horses at our Doors,
Is full as True as Thine has Chalks and Scores,
Our's stand without, but
Thomas, 'tis no Sin,
To say, Thy Garrat has an A—ss within.
To the Infamous Poetastor at Will's Coffee-House.
IF Wit (as Thou art told) is a Disease,
Thou need'st not give Sir
R—Bl—re Fees,
For ev'ry Fool, with any Brains, must own,
He cannot Purge off Humours, where are none.
To the Gentleman whom Dr. C—lb—ch Cur'd of the Gout.
SIR, If you'd shew the Doctor's VVorth and Skill,
Ask Him, who Cur'd your
Legs to cure your
Quill,
And You will never Write so cursed Ill.
To the same.
SIR, We Rejoyce to hear that You are sound,
That you drink Wine, and send the Glasses round;
That Punks no more your want of Strength upbraid,
But all Love's reck'nings now are fully paid.
E'en take the Manly Pleasures of the Field,
And follow the Delights which
Drama's yield.
But be Advis'd, and once, I beg You, think,
Quit the Debauches of Leud Pen and Ink.
The Doctor's Mother Thought, 'tis very plain
Amongst Her Childbed Pangs, and felt the Pain;
But Your's ne're Thought at all, I durst believe,
By the few signs of
Thought Your Writings give.
To a Blustring Poet, who never Spoke or Wrote any thing that was taken notice of before.
I Tell Thee Man, thy Charges I defie,
Stradle and Damn Thy self, why, what care I.
Put off the Fool, and he'll put off his Rhimes,
For
Fool's make
Poets in our Senceless Times:
Be
Wise in Day-time, and be
Chast at Night,
And That's the way to make Him
cease to
Write.
An Epigram on T—m B—n.
HOW
B—n was
born in
Garret or in
Cell,
Let those determine who can better tell;
Or for what Ends the vengeful Heav'ns design'd
This
Pestilence of Wit and human Kind:
But this I dare affirm, without a Lie,
His
Epigrams are only
born to
die.
On the Same.
IF
Artbur from a
Ravish'd Parent came,
Thy
Ballad's merry
Birth is much the same;
For Thou (believe it Bard without Offence)
Writing, dost still commit a
Rape on
Sense.
An Epigram flung away on a certain Ballad-making Senator.
WHere
N—n lives I cannot tell,
If ne'er so fain I wou'd;
But
N—n this I
know full well,
Where'er the
Maggot makes you dwell,
You'll never do
much good.
Notes on the two Celebrated Copies in the Commendatory Verses, to let the Reader know the difference between the faithfulness of their Epitome and our Copies; taken verbatim from their own Words, without the omission of one Line.
BY Nature meant, by Want a Pedant made,
Bl—re at first set up the Whipping-Trade,
Had'st Thou been whipp'd Thou ne'er would'st Schools upbraid.
[Page 26] Grown fond of Buttocks he would lash no more,
But kindly cur'd the A—se he gall'd before:
And prithee where's the Sin to cure a Sore?
So Quack commenc'd; thence fierce with Pride he swore
That Tooth-Ach, Gripes, and Corns, should be no more:
Had he said Fops, thoud'st call his Mother Whore.
In vain his Drugs, as well as Birch he try'd,
His Boys grew Block-heads, and his Patients dy'd,
Then Thou hast got the Block-heads on thy Side.
Next he turn'd Bard and mounted on a Cart;
Whose hideous Rumbling made
Apollo start;
Doubtless thy Coachman drives with Ease and Art.
Burlesqu'd the bravest, wisest Son of
Mars,
In Ballad-Rhimes and all the Pomp of Farce.
A Commendation fit to wipe his A—se.
Still he chang'd Callingo, and at length has hit
On Business, for his matchless Talent fit
To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit.
Thou need'st no Drench
take Bl—re'
s Word for it.
Bold thy Attempt in these hard Times to raise
In our unfriendly Clime the tender Bays,
But bolder thine thy Country to dispraise.
While Northern Blasts drive from the neighb'ring Flood,
And nip the springing Lawrel in the Bud;
That thine e'er sprung I never understood.
On such bleak Paths our present Poets tread,
The very Garland withers on each Head,
When thou hast none to wither, as it's said.
In vain the Criticks strive to Purge the Soil,
Fertile in Weeds it mock's their busy Toil,
And D—ke'
s shoot up to be a C—er'
s Foyl.
Whose tow'ring Nonsense braves the very Skies,
While poor Herodotus
unprinted lies.
Like Paper-Kites the empty Volumes fly,
And by meer force of Wind are rais'd on high;
Thy Works would do the same if T—ke
would buy.
While we did these with stupid Patience spare,
And from
Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care;
The Plants far'd ne'er the worse I durst to swear.
The Muses Garden did small Product yield,
And Hemp and Hemlock over-ran the Field;
I warrant 'twas because thou laid'st conceal'd.
'Till skilful
Garth with Salutary Hand,
Taught us to Weed and Cure Poetick Land;
But thou ne'er learnd'st the Cure I understand.
Grubb'd up the Brakes and Thistles which
[...]
And sow'd with Verse and Wit the sacred Ground,
Not Verse and Wit like thine, which cannot wound.
But now the Riches of that Soil appear,
Which four fair Harvests yield in half a Year;
Four more than thy Translation e'er will bear.
No more let Criticks of the Want complain,
Of
Mantuan Verse or the
Maeonian Strain:
For those two Books are in the Press again.
Above 'em
Garth does on their Shoulders rise,
And, what our Language wants, his Wit supplies;
Who says the same of Thine by Heaven lies.
Fam'd Poets after him shall stretch their Throats,
And unfledg'd Muses chirp their Infant Notes;
Unfledg'd I guess because they have no Coats.
[Page 28] Yes
Garth; thy Enemies confess thy Store,
They burst with
Envy, yet they
long for more,
A sort of Envy never known before.
Ev'n we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindness call,
To see thy Stock so large and Gift so small;
Some Folks had lik'd him, if no Gift at all.
But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid,
And richest Wines in little Casks convey'd;
Thou seldom drink'st those Wines I am afraid.
Let lumpish
Bl—re his dull Hackney Feight,
And
break his
Back with heavy Folio's Weight,
For which if I were He, I'd break
thy Pate.
His
Pegasus is of the
Flanders Breed,
And Limb'd for Draught or Burthen, not for Speed;
A Sign his Strength of Thought does thine exceed
With Cart-Horse Trot he sweats beneath the Pack
Of Rhiming Prose, and Knighthood on his Back;
A Burthen thou'lt ne'er have, malicious Quack.
Made for a Drudge e'en let him beat the Road,
And tug of sensless Reams th' Heroick Load;
Thou hast Reams by thee cannot get abroad.
'Till overstrain'd, the Jade is set, and tires,
And sinking in the Mud with Groans expires:
Who say thy Muse can sink
are errant Lyars.
Then
Bl—re shall this Favour owe to Thee;
That thou perpetuatest his Memory;
Collier
has done the very same by Thee.
Bavius and
Maevius so their Works survive,
And in one single Line of
Virgil's live;
A Gift which all Thy Lines can never give.
FINIS.