Should I be troubled when the Purblind Knight, Who fquints more in his judgment than his fight, Picks filly faults, and cenfures what I write? Or when the poor-fed poets of the town For fcabs and coach-room cry my verfes down? I loath the rabble; 'tis enough for me If Sedley, Shadwell, Shephard, Wycherley, Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham, And fome few more, whom I omit to name, Approve my fenfe: I count their cenfure fame.
Sir CAR SCROPE, who thought himself reflected on at the latter End of the preceding Poem, published a Poem "In Defence of Satire," which occafioned the following Reply.
To Sir CAR SCROPE.
To rack and torture thy unmeaning brain,
In Satire's praife, to a low untun'd strain,
In thee was most impertinent and vain. When in thy person we more clearly fee
That fatire's of divine authority,
For God made one on man when he made thee; To fhew there were fome men, as there are apes, Fram'd for meer fport, who differ but in fhapes: In thee are all these contradictions join'd, That make an afs prodigious and refin’d.
A lump deform'd and shapeless wert thou born, Begot in Love's defpight and Nature's fcorn; And art grown up the most ungrateful wight, Harsh to the ear, and hideous to the fight; Yet Love's thy bufinefs, Beauty thy delight. Curfe on that filly hour that first inspir'd Thy madness, to pretend to be admir'd; To paint thy grifly face, to dance, to drefs, And all those aukward follies that exprefs Thy loathsome love, and filthy daintiness. Who needs wilt be an ugly Beau-Garçon, Spit at, and fhunn'd by every girl in town; Where dreadfully Love's fcare-crow thou art plac'd To fright the tender flock that long to tafte : While every coming maid, when you appear, Starts back for fhame, and straight turns chafte for fear; For none fo poor or prostitute have prov'd, Where you made love, t' endure to be belov'd. 'T were labour loft, or elfe I would advife; But thy half-wit will ne'er let thee be wife. Half witty, and half mad, and fcarce half brave, Half honeft (which is very much a knave) Made up of all these halves, thou canst not pass For any thing intirely, but an Afs.
As charms are nonfenfe, nonsense seems a charm,
Which hearers of all judgment does difarm; For fongs and scenes a double audience bring, And doggrel takes, which Smiths in fatin fing. Now to machines and a dull mask you run ; We find that wit 's the monster you would fhun, And by my troth 'tis moft difcreetly done. For fince with vice and folly wit is fed, Through mercy 'tis most of you are not dead. Players turn puppets now at your defire,
In their mouth's nonfenfe, in their tail's a wire, They fly through crowds of clouts and showers of fire.. A kind of lofing Loadum is their game,
Where the worft writer has the greatest fame. To get vile plays like theirs fhall be our care; But of fuch aukward actors we despair. Falfe taught at first------
Like bowls ill-biafs'd, ftill the more they run, They're further off than when they first begun. In comedy their unweigh'd action mark, There's one is fuch a dear familiar spark, He yawns as if he were but half awake, And fribbling for free speaking does miftake; Falfe accent and neglectful action too : They have both fo nigh good, yet neither true,
That both together, like an ape's mock-face, By near resembling man, do man disgrace. Thorough-pac'd ill actors may, perhaps, be cur'd; Half players, like half wits, can't be endur'd. Yet these are they, who durft expose the age
Of the great wonder of the English stage; Whom Nature feem'd to form for your delight, And bid him fpeak, as she bid Shakespeare write. Those blades indeed are cripples in their art, Mimic his foot, but not his fpeaking part. Let them the Traitor or Volpone try, Could they------
Rage like Cethegus, or like Caffius die,
They ne'er had sent to Paris for such fancies, As monsters heads and Merry-Andrew's dances. Wither'd, perhaps, not perish'd, we appear; But they are blighted, and ne'er came to bear. Th' old: poets drefs'd your miftrefs Wit before; These draw you on with an old painted whore, And fell, like bawds, patch'd plays for maids twice o'er. Yet they may scorn our house and actors too, Since they have fwell'd fo high to hector you.. They cry, Pox o' these Covent-Garden men, Damn them, not one of them but keeps out ten. Were they once gone, we for those thundering blades Should have an audience of fubftantial trades, Who love our muzzled boys and tearing fellows, My Lord, great Neptune, and great nephew Æolus.
Pfyche, the goddefs of each field and grove.
He cries, I' faith, methinks 'tis well enough; But you roar out and cry, 'Tis all damn'd stuff! So to their houfe the graver fops repair, While men of wit find one another here.
By the Lady ELIZABETH HOWARD.
WIT has of late took up a trick t' appear
Unmannerly, or at the beft, fevere :
And poets fhare the fate by which we fall, When kindly we attempt to please you all. Tis hard your scorn fhould against such prevail, Whofe ends are to divert you, though they fail. You men would think it an ill-natur’d jest,
do your beft. Then rail not here, though you fee reafon for 't;
If wit can find itself no better sport, Wit is a very foolish thing at court.
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