SHEP. You more fair, and I more fond.

NYMPH. I more fair, and you more fond.

AN ESSAY UPON SATIRE*.

BY THE EARL OF MULGRAVE AND MR. DRYDEN,

How dull and how infenfible a beast

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the reft?

Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove

In ev'ry age the lumpifh mass to move;

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But thofe were pedants when compar'd with thefe,
Who know not only to inftruct but please.

Poets alone found the delightful way
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; fo that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wifer too.
Satire has always fhone among the reft,

And is the boldeft way, if not the best,

IO

This Effay was printed among the poems of Mr. Dryden, vol.iii. p. 5. but it was judged no impropriety to repeat it here to complete the collection of this noble Author.

To tell men freely of their fouleft faults,

To laugh at their vain deeds and vainer thoughts. In Satire, too, the wife took diff'rent ways,

To each deferving its peculiar praise.

Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilft others laugh'd and scorn'd 'em into shame.
But of these two the last fucceeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And cenfure those who cenfure all befides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd:
Against the groffeft follies they declaim;
Hard they purfue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit,
And 't is the talent of each vulgar wit.

Befides, 't is labour loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach?
"Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with fharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifest mind;
That little fpeck, which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil,
Beyond the loofe-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd fcenes of our declining stage.
Above all cenfure, too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to see the greater hit,

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Who judging better, tho' concern'd the most,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boast.
In fuch a Satire all would feck a fhare,

And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die
To fee their antiquated wit laid by;

Like her who mifs'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd fo foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing fparks appear,

Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight;

Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?

Much lefs half wits; that's more against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar,

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As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier fhould be flighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes so much ado,

Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,

Like Afop's fox, becomes a prey at laft.

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Nor fhall the royal miftreffes be nam'd,

Too ugly, or too cafy, to be blam'd;

With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a pother,

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They are as common that way as the other;

Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his beaftly brace,' Meets with diffembling still in either place,

Affected humour, or a painted face.

In loyal libels we have often told him
How one has jilted him, the other fold him ;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail fo long as he can fleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylsbury, with all that race
Of bufy blockheads, fhall have here no place;
At council fet, as foils on Dorfet's score,

To make that great falfe jewel fhine the more,
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

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But there's no meddling with fuch nauseous men ; 80
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen:
'Tis time to quit their company, and chuse
Some fitter fubject for a sharper Muse.

First, let's behold the merriest man alive
Against his careless genius vainly ftrive,
Quit his dear eafe, fome deep defign to lay
'Gainft a fet time, and then forget the day;
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Juft as good company as Nokes and Lee;
But when he aims at reafon or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at bus'nefs ne'er fo earnest sit,

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Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit, That fhadow of a jeft fhall be enjoy'd,

Tho' he left all mankind to be destroy'd.

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So cat, transform'd, fat gravely and demure
Till moufe appear'd, and thought himself secure,
But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find,
That nimbleft creature of the busy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes,
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.

What gravity can hold from laughing out
To fee him drag his feeble legs about
Like hounds ill coupled? Jowler lugs him still
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill.
'Twere crime in any man, but him alone,
To ufe a body fo tho' 't is one's own:
Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er,

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That, whilst he creeps, his vig'rous thoughts can foar.
Alas! that foaring, to those few that know,
Is but a bufy grov'lling here below.

So men in rapture think they mount the iky,
Whilft on the ground th' entranced wretches lie;
So modern fops have fancy'd they could fly.
As the new Earl, with parts deferving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways,
Yet lofes all foft days and fenfual nights,
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune flights,

IIS

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