An Epistle to Mr. Dryden.
DRYDEN, thy Wit has catterwauld too long,
Now
Lero, Lero, is the only Song.
What Singing, Dancing, Interludes of late
Stuff, and set off our goodly Farce of State?
Not
Abbevil can turn a deep intrigue,
Till first well warm'd with Bishop
Talgol's Jigg.
Wem cannot sleep, or if a Nap he takes,
His Dream some old
Tressilian Ballad breaks.
But was e'er seen the like, in Prose or Metre,
To this mad Play, or work of Father
P?
At Court no longer Punchionello takes,
Each Scene, Part, Cue, mishapen to the
Mac's.
Sucli Plot, and the Catastrophe is such,
We must be either
Irish all, or
Dutch.
Our very Judges in
Westminster-Hall,
Like their old Roof, are
Irish Timber all.
And (bless us!)
Irish Wolves are brought to keep
The Nation, grown now all such silly Sheep;
Such errant Asses, errant Cattle made,
Or to be yoak'd, or saddl'd, fleec'd, or flea'd.
O Martyrs Son! thy destiny is shown,
Such props are for a Scaffold, not a Throne:
So
Iuno, in her impotence of rage,
By Heaven deny'd, did Hell's black Powers engage;
Yet sped the Heroe:
Iove and Fate were strong;
Religious care! He took his Gods along:
But heark, O heark, the
Belgick Lion roars,
And shakes afar the
French and
British Shoars:
One Brandy drinks, one mad with Prophecies:
Lord! what they tell us of some Prince from
Frize;
Arms, and the Man they sing, no
French finess,
But hearty Blows, and
Brandenburg Address.
Hence Vigor, and our Figure come agen,
We rise, and walk, all true erected men.
The force of those
Circaean Cups subdu'd,
And the wild Charms our new
Armida brew'd,
The Witchcraft he (our true
Rinaldo) broke,
And grubs the base pretenders to his stock.
But oh, what Spirit of Deceit afar,
Possess'd our Pulpits, and bewitch'd the Bar?
What Bane, what Mischief on poor Mortals shed
By Vermin, from the Laws corruption bred?
Tho to their
Irish Roof no Cobwebs cleave,
Below what strife and endless toyls they weave:
Wanting brave Strength to strangle men to death;
What Frauds they hide! What Venom underneath!
And when some shorter course to Murder's shown,
Cry, O that (luscious) Point! they gain'd the Crown.
Sons of the Pulpit the same measures keep,
And of that same stumm'd Cup have drunk as deep.
Agog for some odd transubstantiate thing,
Chimera reign, and Metaphysick King,
Sublim'd to School Divinity texreams,
Their Brains would crow with Patriarchal Dreams.
So high from solid honest wisdom blown,
They'd have some
Hippo-Centaur on the Throne.
Not Law-ordain'd, but by some God appointed,
Not Lay-elected, but be Priest-anointed.
Away this Goblin Witchcraft, Priestcraft-Prince;
Give us a King, Divine, by Law and Sense.
Now Bar and Pulpit to Dragoons a sport,
Their Cause is carried to the last Resort.
Princes in more compendious method teach,
Force is their way; let old Apostles preach.
What's stablish'd Law, where standing Armies come;
Or who'll talk Gospel to a Kettle Drum?
When God would hear, where Giants did oppress,
The several Nations had their
Hercules.
So were the Horns of grizly violence broke,
So People freed from triple
Geryon's yoke.
The various Snake in
Lerna Lough that bred,
That loll'd and hiss'd to death, at every head.
Nemaean Lion,
Erymanthian Boar,
In Bogs that wallow, and on Hills that roar:
All by his Godlike Prowess done away,
Their lawless rule, and that Gigantick sway.
In vain whilst this high Virtue Nations sought,
The
Nassau-House were never yet without.
Nor is confin'd to
Provinces their care,
Their generous
labour neighboring
Kingdoms share.
Here the foul Herd flee from his lifted hand,
That long had made a
Stable of the Land.
The Monster of the Lough, new
Lerna-Plague
(But scarce in head) the Bog-begotten
Teague,
The ravenous kind, the Harpyes sharp for prey,
With Birds obscene, and uncouth to the day.
No Den, no Ditch, no rousting for'em more,
Now, now is come our
Hercules ashore.
Vile Fraud dispell'd, and superstitious Mists:
He from our Temple drives all knavish Priests.
Then warmer
Wallop, in due Scarlet shown,
To Coffee-
Dick bequeaths his rusty Gown.
Oh
Dryden, if this
Hercules were thine,
How wou'd his Club, and
Atlas-shoulders shine:
How wou'dst thou all our Maids of Honor fright,
With naughty Tale, of
Fifty in a night?
Howe'er, no more let
Xavier mat thy Pen,
No Miracle to Forty thousand Men.
When Law, and bald Divinity begins,
Why then, the marvel that a Poet sins?
Exeter, Nov. 5. 1688.
FINIS.