Refiftless force and immortality
Make but a lame, imperfect, deity :
Tempests have force unbounded to destroy,
And deathlefs being even the damn'd enjoy;
And yet heaven's attributes, both laft and first,
One without life, and one with life accurft:
But juftice is heaven's felf, fo ftrictly he,
That could it fail, the Godhead could not be.
This virtue is your own; but life and state
Are one to fortune fubject, one to fate :
Equal to all, you justly frown or fmile;
Nor hopes nor fears your fteady hand beguile;
Yourself our balance hold, the world's our ifle.
LL human things are fubject to decay,
And when fate fummons, monarchs must obey.) This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguftus, young Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long : In profe and verfe, was own'd, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonfenfe, abfolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And bleft with iffue of a large increase; Worn out with business, did at length debate To fettle the fucceffion of the state: And, pondering, which of all his fons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, Cry'd, 'Tis refolv'd; for nature pleads, that he Should only rule, who moft resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulnefs from his tender years:
Shadwell alone, of all my fons, is he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The rest to fome faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into fenfe.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rifing fogs prevail upon the day.
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtless majesty :
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And spread in folemn ftate fupinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of tautology!
Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarfely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I fung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames didft cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epfom blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-fharpen'd dumb from shore to shore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar:
And Shadwell the
About thy boat th
Ally Shadwell call,
nd from Afton-Hall. tle fishes throng,
As at the morning toaft that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'ft thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Pfyche's rhyme :
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.
Clofe to the walls which fair Augufta bind,
(The fair Augufta much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric rais'd t'inform the fight,
There flood of yore, and Barbican it hight :
A watch-tower once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains:
From its old ruins brothel-houses rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vaft courts the mother-ftrumpets keep,
And, undifturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.
Near thefe a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are form'd, and future herces bred;
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonfon dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin juft reception finds.
Amidft this monument of vanish'd minds :
Pure clinches the fuburbian Mufe affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously defign'd his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker prophefy'd long fince,
That in this pile fhould reign a mighty prince,
Born for a fcourge of wit, and flail of sense.
To whom true dulnefs fhould fome Pfyches owe,
But worlds of misers from his pen fhould flow:
Humorists and hypocrites it fhould produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now emprefs fame had publish'd the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rouz'd by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and diftant Watling-street.
No Perfian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay :
From dufty fhops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pics, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almoft chok'd the way.
Bilk'd ftationers for yeomen ftood prepar'd, And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majefty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labours rear'd. At his right hand our young Afcanius fate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, And lambent dulnefs play'd around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Swore by his fire, a mortal foe to Rome; So Shadwell fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain, That he till death true dulnefs would maintain; And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. The king himself the facred unction made, As king by office, and as prieft by trade. In his finifter hand, inftead of ball, He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale; Love's kingdom to his right he did convey, At once his fceptre, and his rule of fway; Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd young, And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche sprung. His temples, laft, with poppies were o'erfpread, That nodding feem'd to confecrate his head. Juft at the point of time, if fame not lye, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tyber's brook, Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took. Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take.
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