• Of Shakespear's nature, and of Cowley's wit; 'How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher ' writ ;
How Shadwell hasty, Wycherly was slow; 85 But, for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe! These, only these, support the crowded stage From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.' All this may be; the people's voice is odd; It is, and it is not, the voice of God. To Gammer Gurton, if it give the bays, And yet deny the Careless Husband praise, Or say our fathers never broke a rule, Why then, I say, the public is a fool,
But let them own that greater faults than we 95 They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree.
Spenser himself affects the obsolete,
And Sydney's verse halts ill on Roman feet Milton's strong pinion now not heav'n can bound, Now, serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground; In quibbles angel and archangel join,
And God the Father turns a school-divine.
Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book,
Like slashing Bentley with his desp'rate hook;
Or damn all Shakespeare, like th' affected fool
At court, who hates whate'er he read at school.
But for the wits of either Charles's days,
The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease;
Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more,
(Like twinkling stars the miscellanies o'er) 11
One simile, that solitary shines
In the dry desert of a thousand lines,
Or lengthen'd thought, that gleams through many Has sanctify'd whole poems for an age.
I lose my patience, and I own it too,
When works are censur'd, not as bad, but new;
While if our elders break all Reason's laws,
These fools demand not pardon, but applause.
On Avon's bank, where flow'rs eternal blow,
If I but ask if any weed can grow?
One tragic sentence if I dare deride,
Which Betterton's grave action dignify'd,
Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims, (Though but perhaps a muster-roll of names) How will our fathers rise up in a rage,
And swear all shame is lost in George's age!
You'd think no fools disgrac'd the former reign,
Did not some grave examples yet remain ;
Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill,
And, having once been wrong, will be so still.
He, who to seem more deep than you or I,
Extols old bards, or Merlin's Prophecy,
Mistake him not; he envies, not admires,
And to debase the sons exalts the sires.
Had ancient times conspir'd to disallow
What then was new, what had been ancient now
Or what remain'd, so worthy to be read
By learned critics, of the mighty dead?
In days of ease, when now the weary sword Was sheath'd, and Luxury with Charles restor❜d;
In ev'ry taste of foreign courts improv'd,
All, by the King's example, liv'd and lov'd.' Then peers grew proud in horsemanship t' excel, Newmarket's glory rose, as Britain's fell;
The soldier breath'd the gallantries of France, 145
And ev'ry flow'ry courtier writ romance.
Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm,
And yielding metal flow'd to human form;
Lely on animated canvass stole
The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul. 150
No wonder then, when all was love and sport,
The willing Muses were debauch'd at Court;
On each enervate string they taught the note
To pant, or tremble, through an eunuch's throat.
But Britain, changeful as a child at play, 155
Now calls in princes, and now turns away.
Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate;
Now all for pleasure, now for church and state;
Now for prerogatives, and now for laws;
Effects unhappy! from a noble cause.
Time was, a sober Englishman would knock His servants up, and rise by five o'clock; Instruct his family in ev'ry rule,
And send his wife to church, his son to school.
To worship like his fathers, was his care;
To teach their frugal virtues to his heir;
prove that luxury could never hold; And place on good security his gold.
Now times are chang'd, and one poetic itch
Has seiz'd the Court and City, poor and rich : 170
Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, Our wives read Milton, and our daughters, plays; To theatres and to rehearsals throng,
And all our grace at table is a song.
I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie,
Not-self e'er tells more fibs than I.
When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore,
And promise our best friends to rhyme no more;
We wake next morning in a raging fit,
And call for pen and ink, to show our wit. 180
He serv'd a 'prenticeship, who sets up shop;
Ward try'd on puppies, and the poor, his drop;
Ev'n Radcliff's doctors travel first to France,
Nor dare to practice till they've learn❜d to dance.
Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile?
(Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile:)
But those who cannot write, and those who can,
All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
Yet, Sir, reflect; the mischief is not great;
These madmen never hurt the church, or state :
Sometimes, the folly benefits mankind,
And rarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind.
Allow him but his plaything of a pen,
He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men:
Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind, 195
And knows no losses while the Muse is kind.
To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter;
The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre ;
Enjoys his garden, and his book in quiet;
And then a perfect hermit in his diet.
Of little use the man you may suppose Who says in verse what others say in prose; Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, And (though no soldier) useful to the state. What will a child learn sooner than a song? 205. What better teach a foreigner the tongue ?
What's long, or short, each accent where to place,
And speak in public with some sort of grace?
I scarce can think him such a worthless thing,
Unless he praise some monster of a king;
Or virtue, or religion, turn to sport,
To please a lewd, or unbelieving Court.
Unhappy Dryden !—In all Charles's days
Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays;
And in our own (excuse some courtly strains) 215
No whiter page than Addison remains :
He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth,
And sets the passions on the side of truth;
Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art,
And pours each human virtue in the heart.
Let Ireland tell how Wit upheld her cause,
Her trade supported, and supply'd her laws,
And leave on Swift this grateful yerse engrav'd,
The rights a court attack'd-a Poet sav'd.'
Behold the hand, that wrought a nation's cure,
Stretch'd to relieve the idiot, and the poor,
Proud vice to brand, or injur'd worth adorn,
And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn.
Not but there are who merit other palms;
Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms ;
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