For never hermit under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense,
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose
No nastiness offends his skilful nose,
Which from all stink can, with peculiar art,
Extract perfume and essence from a f―t.
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night;
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits,
'Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rochester I despise for want of wit,
Tho' thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find;
And so, like witches, justly suffers shame,
Whose harmless malice is so much the same.
False are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks :
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:
A proof that Chance alone makes ev'ry creature ; 240 A very Killigrew, without good nature;
For what a Bessus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd?
For, there's the folly that's still mix'd with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear.
Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away :
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
Falsely he falls into some dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose.
A life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting.
I'd lik'd to have left out his poetry,
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinder-woman's trade,
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deserve no comments here,
Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulness must atone.
How vain a thing is Man, and how unwise! E'en he who would himself the most despise! I, who so wise and humble seem'd to be. Now my own vanity and pride can't see.
While the world's nonsense is so sharply shown, 270
We pull down others, but to raise our own;
That we may angels seem we paint them elves,
And are but satires to set up ourselves.
I, who have all this while been finding fault
E'en with my master, who first satire taught,
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward,
Now labour, with unequal force, to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time;
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
LORD CHANCELLOR HYDE.
PRESENTED ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1662.
WHILE
HILE flatt'ring crowds officiously appear,
To give themselves, not you, an happy year,
And by the greatness of their presence prove
How much they hope, but not how well they love,
The muses, who your early courtship boast,
Tho' now your flames are with their beauty lost,
Yet watch their time, that if you have forgot
They were your mistresses the world may not;
Decay'd by time and wars, they only prove
Their former beauty by your former love,
And now present, as ancient ladies do,
That courted long at length are forc'd to woo :
For still they look on you with such kind eyes,
As those that see the church's sov'reign rise,
From their own order chose, in whose high state 15
They think themselves the second choice of Fate.
When our great Monarch into exile went,
Wit and religion suffer'd banishment.
Thus once, when Troy was wrapp’din fire and smoke,
The helpless gods their burning shrines forsook; 20
They with the vanquish'd prince and party go,
And leave their temples empty to the foe,
At length the Muses stand, restor❜d again
To that great charge which Nature did ordain ;
And their lov'd Druids seem reviv'd by Fate,
While you dispense the laws and guide the state.
The nation's soul, our Monarch, does dispense
Thro' you to us his vital influence;
You are the channel where those spirits flow,
And work them higher as to us they go.
In open prospect nothing bounds our eye,
Until the earth seems join'd unto the sky;
So in this hemisphere our utmost view
Is only bounded by our King and you.
Our sight is limited where you are join'd,
And beyond that no farther heav'n can find.
So well your virtues do with his agree,
That, tho' your orbs of diff'rent greatness be,
Yet both are for each other's use dispos'd,
His to inclose, and your's to be inclos'd;
Nor could another in your room have been,
Except an emptiness had come between.
Well may he then to you his cares impart,
And share his burden where he shares his heart,
In you his sleep still wakes; his pleasures find
Their share of bus'ness in your lab'ring mind.
So when the weary Sun his place resigns,
He leaves his light, and by reflection shines.
Justice, that sits and frowns where public laws Exclude soft mercy from a private cause,
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