MAC FLECKNOE.

A

LL human things are fubject to decay,

And, when Fate fummons, Monarchs must obey:

This Flecknoe found, who, like Au guftus, young

Was call'd to Empire, and had

govern'd long:

In Profe and Verfe, was own'd, without difpute,
Through all the Realms of Non-fenfe, 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 Succeffion of the State:
And pond'ring which of all his Sons was fit
To Reign, and wage immortal War with Wit:
Cry'd, 'tis refoly'd; for Nature pleads that He
Should only rule, who moft refembles me:
alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulnefs from his tender years.
alone, of all my Sons, is he,

Sh

Sh

Who fands confirm'd in full ftupidity.

The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence,
But Sh never deviates into Senfe.

Some Beams of Wit on other Souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Sh's genuine night admits no ray,
His rifing Fogs prevail upon the Day:

Befides, his goodly Fabrick fills the eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtless Majefty:
Thoughtless as Monarch Oaks, that fhade the plain,
And, fpread in folemn ftate, fupinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but Types of thee,
Thou laft great Prophet of Tautology:
Even 1, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way:
And courfly clad in Norwich Drugget came
To teach the Nations in thy greater name.
My warbiing Lute, the Lute I whilom strung,
When to King John of Portugal I sung,

Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames did't cut thy way,
With well-tim'd Oars before the Royal Barge,
Swell'd with the Pride of thy Celeftial charge;
And big with Hymn, Commander of an Hoft,
The like was ne'er in Epfom Blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion Sail,

The Lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well fharpened thumb from Shore to Shore
The Treble fqueaks for fear, the Bases roar:
Ecchoes from Piffing-Ally, Sh---- call,

And Sh- they refound from Afton-Hall.

About thy Boat the little Fishes throng,
As at the morning Toaft, that Floats along.
Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious band
Thou weild't thy Papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Pfyche's Rhime:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,

That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er wou'd at Villerius more.
Here ftoft the good old Sire; and wept for joy
In filent raptures of the hopeful Boy.

All Arguments, but most his Plays, perfwade,
That for anointed dullness he was made.

Close to the Walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabrick, rais'd t' inform the fight,
There ftood 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 rise,

Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys. [keep,
Where their vaft Courts the Mother-Strumpets
And, undisturb'd by Watch, in filence fleep.
Near these a Nursery erects its head,

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Where Queens are form'd, and future Hero's bred;
Where unfledg'd Actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant Punks their tender Voices try,
And little Maximins the Gods defie.
Great Fletcher never treads in Buskins here,
Nor greater Johnson dares in Socks appear.
But gentle Simkin juft reception finds

Amidft this Monument of vanifht minds:
Pure Clinches, the fuburbian Mufe affords;
And Panton waging harmless War with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to Fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his Sh----'s Throne.
For ancient Decker prophefi'd long fince,
That in this Pile fhould reign a mighty Prince,
Born for a fcourge of Wit, and flayl of Sense:
To whom true dulnefs fhould fome Pfyches owe,
But Worlds of Mifers from his pen fhould flow;
Humorists and Hypocrites it fhould produce,
Whole Raymond Families, and Tribes of Bruce.

Now Empress Fame had publifht the renown Of Sh's Coronation through the Town. Rows'd by report of Fame, the Nations meet, From near Bun-hill, and distant Watling-street.

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No Perfian Carpets fpread th' Imperial way,
But fcatter'd Limbs of mangled Poets lay:
From dufty fhops neglected Authors come,
Martyrs of Pies, and Reliques of the Bum.
Much Heywood, Shirly, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Sh---- almoft choakt the way.
Bilk't Stationers for Yeomen food prepar'd,
And H----n 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, inftead of glories, grace,
And lambent dulness plaid around his face.
As Hannibal did to the Altars come,

Swore by his Sire a mortal Foe to Rome;
So Sh---- fwore, nor fhould his Vow be vain,
That he till Death true dulnefs would maintain;
And in his father's Right, and Realms defence,
Ne'er to have Peace with Wit, nor truce with Senfe.
The King himself the facred Unction made,
As King by Office, and as Prieft by Trade:
In his finifter hand, instead of Ball,
He plac'd a mighty Mug of potent Ale;
Love's Kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his Sceptre and his rule of Sway;
Whose righteous Lore the Prince had practis'd
young,

And from whofe Loyns recorded Psyche 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 Sway from twice fix Vultures took.
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And Omens of his future Empire take.