Commendatory verses on the author of The two Arthurs and the Satyr against wit / by some of his particular friends. 1700 Approx. 54 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 17 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A34124 Wing C5547 ESTC R29312 11073289 ocm 11073289 46238 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A34124) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 46238) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1420:13) Commendatory verses on the author of The two Arthurs and the Satyr against wit / by some of his particular friends. Brown, Thomas, 1663-1704. 28 p. [s.n.], London : 1700. Attributed by Harvard (NUC pre-1956 imprints) to Thomas Brown and others. Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors. 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Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng Blackmore, Richard, -- Sir, d. 1729 -- Poetry. 2002-09 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2002-10 SPi Global Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2002-11 Mona Logarbo Sampled and proofread 2002-11 Mona Logarbo Text and markup reviewed and edited 2002-12 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion Commendatory VERSES , ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS , AND THE Satyr against Wit ; By some of his particular Friends . Insanit Scaevola factus Eques . Innocuos permitte Sales ; cur ludere nobis Non liceat , licuit si jugulare tibi ? Mart. LONDON : Printed in the Year MDCC . To all the Honourable CITIZENS within the Bills of Mortality , below the Dignity of Common-council-men . Fellow CITIZENS , I Am no Orator , I own it , nor ever made a Speech in my Life , but once in the Vestry , about choosing a Lecturer , and new Lettering the Church-Buckets : but this I 'll be bold to say , That no Man is a heartier Well-wisher to the Prosperity of this Protestant City than my self . Now I must tell you , Gentlemen , that you don't take so much Notice of a certain Author , who does you the Honour to reside among you , as his great Qualities deserve . You only consult him as a Physician ; and indeed I must needs say he is a pretty Physician ; He has eas'd many of you of those heavy Burdens , call'd Wives and Children ; and , out of his Zeal to the Publick , has helpt to thin the overstock of Traders : But still you must give me leave to tell you , that you overlook his principal Talent , for Physick is what he values himself least upon . He is a Poet , pray be not scandalized at the Word , he is a Poet , I say , but of sober solid Principles , and as hearty an Enemy to Wit as the best of you all : he has writ twenty thousand Verses and upwards without one Grain of Wit in them ; nay , he has declar'd open War against it , and , despising it in himself , is resolved not to endure it in any one else . When he is in his Coach , instead of pretending to read where he can't see , as some Doctors do ; or thinking of his Patient's Case , which none of them do , he is still listning to the Chimes , to put his Ear in tune , and stumbles upon a Distich every Kennel he is jolted over . Nay , even in Coffee-houses , when other People are cleansing Chester-Harbour , banishing Popish Priests , disposing the Crown of Spain , repairing Dover-Peer , pitying the poor Scots at Darien , or settling the Affairs of Poland , he is enditing Heroics on the back of a News-Paper with his Pencil , and wou'd give more for a Rhime to Radziouski than a Specific for the Gout . Those flashy Fellows , your Covent-garden Poets , are good for nothing , but to run into our Debts , lye with our Wives , and break unmannerly Iests upon us Citizens ; then , like a parcel of Sots , they write for Fame and Immortality ; but this Gentleman is above such Trifles , and , as he prescribes , so he writes for the Good of Trade . He 's a particular Benefactor to the Manufacture of the Nation ; and , at this present Minute , to my certain knowledge , keeps Ten Paper-mill a going with his Job and Habakkuk , and his other Hebrew Heroes . There 's scarce a Cook , Grocer , or Tobacconist within the City-Walls but is the better for his Works ; nay , one that is well acquainted with his Secret History , has assured me , that his main design in writing the two Arthurs , whatever he pretended in his Preface , was only to help the poor Trunk-makers at a Pinch , when Quarles and Ogilby were all spent , and they wanted other Materials . Above all , you can't imagine what a singular Deference he pays to a golden Chain ; 't is impossible for a rich Man with him , either to be a Knave or a Blockhead : he never sees the Cap of Maintenance , but is ready to worship it ; and , in compliment to the Sword-bearer , wou'd , I dare engage for him , sooner write a Panegyric upon Custard , than any of the Cardinal Virtues , tho' he pretends to be their Champion . This may serve , Fellow-Citizens , to give you some Idea of the Man ; but what we most want his Assistance in , is to reform several enormous Abuses that have crept in among us . The Poetry of our Bell-men , which in its first Institution contain'd many excellent Lessons of Piety , is grown very loose and immoral , and gives our Wives and Daughters wicked Ideas , when it awakes them at Midnight . The Tobacco-boxes too seem engag'd in a general Confederacy to bring Vice into esteem ; their lewd Inscriptions charge Religion with desperate Resolution , and have given it many deep and ghastly Wounds . Our Posies for Rings are either immodest , or irreligious ; and we see few Verses on our Ale-house Signs , but have some spiteful and envious Strokes at Sobriety and Good-manners , whence the Apprentices of this Populous City have apparently received very bad Impressions . 'T is great Pity that our Magistrates , in whose Power it is , have not yet restrained the Licentiousness of these Rhimes , and obliged the Writers of them to observe more Decorum . But , since they are so remiss in their Duty , retain this Gentleman on the side of Religion , and you 'll soon see these Enormities Vanish . Besides , being of a goodly Person , if you desired him now and then , upon a Solemn Occasion , to walk before a Pageant , or march at the Head of the Blew-coat Infantry , at the Burial of one of his own Patients , with how much more Decency and Gravity wou'd those Public Ceremonies be perform'd ? And then who so proper to inflame the Courages of our City-Militia , as our Parson tells me , one Tyrtaeus did of old , by the Repetition of his own Lines ? Well , cou'd I but be so happy as to see him once appear in the Front of our Finsbury-Squadrons , or animate with his noble Compositions the Wrestlers in Moor-fields , I shou'd not doubt to see our ancient Military Genius come in Play , and every London 'Prentice able to worst his Brace of Lions . Therefore , Fellow-Citizens , for mine , for your own , and your Families sakes , hug and cherish this worthy Gentleman , make him free of all your Companies , for he 's as well qualified for any of them as his own ; carry him to all your Entertainments , nay even to your private Deliberations over Brawn and Quest-ale , and when any foreign Ambassador is treated by the City , get him to pay the Compliment in Verse , and the R-c-rd-r may second him in Prose ; put the entire Management of Smithfield into his Hands , and make him absolute Monarch of all the Booths and Poppet-shews . Above all , let him endeavour by the Melody of his Rhimes ( and what can withstand ' em ? ) to call back our fugitive Mercers from Covent-garden to Ludgate-hill and Pater-noster-row . Since we are for new Painting our City-gates , why should we not Furbish up our old Heroes in new Metre ? Why should poor King Lud and his two trusty Sons , Temancus and Androgeus , be forgotten ? Or what harm have the Giants at Guild-hall and Whittington's Cat done to be buried in oblivion ? There are a thousand other Subjects to employ his Muse , wherein he may discreetly intersperse some notable Precepts against Trusting , some pretty Touches in defence of Vsury , and some handsom Consolations for Cuckoldom , all which might be of admirable use to season and confirm our City-Youth in the true Principles of their Ancestors : And what if you cou'd perswade him to write a few pacifying Strains to calm the distemper'd Spirits of our Car-men and the Oyster-women at Bilingsgate ? In short , these are some of the Topics you may recommend to him . Let him make Verses for us Citizens , and prescribe Physic to the Fools without Temple-bar . I am , Your Loving Friend , O. S. Commendatory VERSES , ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHURS , AND THE Satyr against Wit. A Short and True History of the Author of the Satyr against Wit. BY Nature meant , by Want a Pedant made , Bl — re at first profess'd the Whipping Trade ; Grown fond of Buttocks , he wou'd Lash no more , But kindly Cur'd the A — he Gall'd before . So Quack commenc'd ; then , fierce with Pride , he swore , That Tooth-ach , Gripes , and Corns shou'd be no more . In vain his Druggs as well as Birch he try'd , His Boys grew Blockheads , and his Patients dy'd . Next he turn'd Bard , and , mounted on a Cart , Whose hideous Rumbling made Apollo start , Burlesqu'd the Bravest , Wisest SON of Mars In Ballad-rhimes , and all the Pomp of Farce . Still he chang'd Callings , and at length has hit On Bus'ness for his matchless Talent fit , To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit. Vpon the Author of the Satyr against Wit. A Grave Physician , us'd to write for Fees , And spoil no Paper , but with Recipe's , Is now turn'd Poet , rails against all Wit , Except that Little found among the Great . As if he thought true Wit and Sence were ty'd To Men in Place , like Avarice , or Pride . But in their Praise so like a Quack he talks , You 'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box . With mangled Names old Stories he pollutes , And to the present Time past Action suits , Amaz'd we find , in ev'ry Page he writes , Members of Parliament with Arthur's Knights . It is a common Pastime to write Ill ; And Doctor , with the rest e'en take thy fill . Thy Satyr's harmless : 'T is thy Prose that kills , When thou Prescrib'st thy Potions , and thy Pills . To that Incomparable Panegyrist , the Author of the Satyr upon Wit. HEnceforth no more in thy Poetick Rage Burlesque the God-like Heroes of the Age ; No more King Arthurs be with Labour writ , But follow Nature , and still rail at Wit. For this thy mighty Genius was design'd , In this thy Cares a due Success may find . Opinions we more easily receive From Guides that practise by those Rules they give : So Dullness thou may'st write into Esteem , Thy great Example , as it is thy Theme . Hope not to joyn , ( like G-rth's Immortal Lays , ) The keenest Satyr with the finest Praise . Thy Satyrs bite not , but like Aesop's Ass Thou kick'st the Darling whom thou would'st caress . Would'st thou our Youth from Poetry affright , 'T is wisely done , thy self in Verse to write ? So drunken Slaves the Spartans did design Should fright their Children from the Love of Wine . Go on , and rail as thou hast done before , Thus Lovers use when piqu'd in an Amour : The Nymph they can't enjoy , they call a Whore. The Quack Corrected : or , Advice to the Knight of the Ill-favour'd Muse. LEt Bl — re still , in good King Arthur's Vein , To Fleckno's Empire his just Right maintain . Let him his own to common Sence oppose , With Praise and Stander maul both Friends and Foes Let him great Dr-d-n's awful Name profane ; And learned G-rth with envious Pride disdain . Codron's bright Genius with vile Punns lampoon , And run a Muck at all the Wits in Town : Let the Quack scribble any thing but Bills , His Satyr Wounds not ▪ but his Physick Kills . To the Merry Poetaster at Sadlers-hall , in Cheapside . UNweildy Pedant , let thy awkward Muse With Censures praise , with Flatteries abuse . To lash and not be felt , in Thee 's an Art , Thou ne're mad'st any , but thy School-boys smart . Then be advis'd , and scribble not agen , Thou' rt fashion'd for a Flail and not a Pen. If B — l's immortal Wit thou woud'st decry , Pretend 't is He that writ Thy Poetry . Thy feeble Satyr ne're can do him wrong , Thy Poems , and thy Patients live not long . An Equal Match : or , A Drawn Battle . A Monument of Dullness to erect , B — y shou'd Write , and Bl — re shou'd Correct ; Like which no other Piece can e're be wrought , For Decency of Stile , and Life of Thought . But that where B — y shall in Judgment sit To pare Excrescencies from Bl — re's Wit. To the Mirrour of British Knighthood , the Worthy Author of the Satyr against Wit ; Occasion'd by the Hemystick , P. 8. — Heav'ns Guard poor A — n. MUst I then passive stand ! and can I hear The Man I Love , abus'd , and yet forbear ? Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend , 'T was some Remorse thou didst not him commend . Thou dost not all my Indignation raise , For I prefer thy Pity to thy Praise ; In vain thou woud'st thy Name , dull Pedant , hide , There 's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside . If Caesar's Bounty for your Trash you 've shar'd , You 're not the first Assassine he has spar'd . His Mercy , not his Justice , made thee Knight , Which P-rt-r may demand with equal Right . Well may'st thou think an useless Talent Wit , Thou who without it hast three Poems Writ : Impenetrably dull , secure thou' rt found , And can'st receive no more , than give a Wound ; Then , scorn'd by all , to some dark Corner fly , And in Lethargic Trance expiring lie , Till thou from injur'd G-rth thy Cure receive , And S — d only Absolution give . To the Cheapside Knight , on his Satyr against Wit. SOme scribling Fops so little value Fame , They sometimes hit , because they never Aim . But thou for Erring , hast a certain Rule , And , aiming , art inviolably ▪ Dull . Thy muddy Stream no lucid Drop supplies , But Punns like Bubbles on the Surface rise . All that for Wit you cou'd , you 've kindly done , You cannot write , but can be writ upon . And a like Fate does either side befit , Immortal Dullness , or Immortal Wit : In just Extreams an equal Merit lies , And B — le and G-rth with thee must share the Prize , Since thou canst sink , as much as they can rise . To the Indefatigable Rhimer . OS — rs , T — t , D — ett , M — gue , G — y , S — ld , C — sh , P — ke , V — n , you Who suffer Bl — re to insult your tast , And tamely hear him bluster in bombast . Bid him before he dares to write agen , Resign his own , and take some other Pen. D — n , shall Numbers , C — ve Wit inspire , Dr — ke nicest Rules , but B — le and Codron Fire . Then G-rth shall teach him , and his witless Tribe First to write Sence , and after to Prescribe ; The unlearn'd Pedant , thus may please the Town , But his own nauseous Trash will ne're go down . For naught can equal , what the Bard has writ , But R — ff's Scholarship , and G — n's Wit. A modest Request to the Poetical Knight . SInce , B — y's Nonsence to outdo , you strive , Vain to be thought the Dullest Wretch alive , And such Inimitable Strains have writ , That the most famous Blockheads must submit : Long may you Reign , and long unenvy'd Live , And none Invade your great Prerogative . But in Return , your Poetry give o're , And Persecute poor Iob , and us no more . Wholesome Advice to a City Knight , Over-run with Rhimes and Hypocrisie : Occasion'd by his Satyr against Wit. WE bid thee not give o're the Killing Trade : Whilst Fees come in , 't is fruitless to diswade . Religion is a Trick , you 've practis'd long , To bring in Pence , and gull the gaping Throng . But all thy Patients now perceive thy Aim , They find thy Morals , and thy Skill the same . Then , if thou would'st thy Ignorance redress , Prythee mind Physick more , and Rhiming less . To a thrice Illustrious Quack , Pedant , and Bard , on his Incomparable Poem call'd , A Satyr against Wit. By a LADY . THou fund of Nonsence , was it not enough That Cits and pious Ladies lik'd thy Stuff , That as thou Copy'dst Virgil , all might see Judicious Bell-men Imitated thee . That to thy Cadence Sextons set their Chimes , And Nurses skimming Possets hum'd thy Rhimes . But thou must needs fall foul on Men of Sence , With Dullness equal to thy Impudence . Are D — n , C — dr — n , G — th , V — k , B — le , Those Names of Wonder , that adorn our Isle , Fit Subjects for thy vile Pedantick Pen ? Hence sawcy Usher to thy Desk again : Construe Dutch Notes , and pore upon Boys A — es , But prithee write no more Heroick Farces . Teach blooming Blockheads by thy own try'd Rules To give us Demonstration that they 're Fools . Let 'em by N — 's Sermon-stile refine Their English Prose , their Poetry by thine . Let W — sl — y's Rhimes their Emulation raise , And Arw-k-r , Instruct 'em how to Praise . That , when all Ages in this Truth agree , They 're finish'd Dunces , they may rival thee , Thou only Stain to Mighty WILLIAM's Sword ! Old Iemmy never Knighted such a T — d. For the most nauseous Mixture GOD can make , Is a dull Pedant , and a busy Quack . To Sir R — Bl — re , on the Report of the Two Arthurs being condemn'd to be hang'd . ONce more take Pen in Hand , Obsequious Knight , For here 's a Theme thou canst not underwrite , Unless the Devil ow's thy Muse a Spite . To Prince and King thy Dullness Life did give , Let then these Arthurs too in Dogg'rel live . Occasion'd by the News that Sir R — Bl — 's Paraphrase upon Job was in the Press . WHen Iob , contending with the Devil , I saw , It did my Wonder , but not Pity draw : For I concluded , that without some Trick , A Saint at any time cou'd match Old Nick. Next came a fiercer Fiend upon his Back , I mean his Spouse , and stunn'd him with her Clack . But still I cou'd not pity him , as knowing A Crabtree-cudgel soon wou'd send her going . But when the Quack engag'd with Iob I spy'd , The Lord have Mercy on poor Iob , I cry'd . What Spouse and Satan did attempt in vain , The Quack will compass with his murdring Pen , And on a Dunghil leave poor Iob again . With impious Dogg'rel he 'll pollute his Theme , And make the Saint against his Will Blaspheme . A TALE . POems and Prose of different Force lay Claim With the same Confidence to Tully's Name . And shallow Criticks were content to say , Prose was his Bus'ness , Poetry his Play. Thus Caesar thought , thus Brutus and the rest , Who knew the Man , and knew his Talent best . Maurus arose , sworn Foe to Health and Wit , Who Folio Bills and Folio Ballads writ . Who bustled much for Bread , and for Renown , By Lyes and Poison scatter'd through the Town . To Roman Wives with Veneration known , For Roman Wives were very like our own . And Husbands then we find in Latin Song Wou'd Love too little , and wou'd Live too long . Tully , says he , 't is plain to Friends and Foes , Writes his own Verse , but borrows all his Prose . He Fearless was , because he was not Brave , A Noble Roman wou'd not beat a Slave . The Consul smiling , said , Judicious Friend , Thy shining Genius shall thy Works defend . Inimitable Stroaks defend thy Fame , Thy Beauties and thy Force are still the same . And I must yield with the consenting Town , Thy Ballads , and thy Bills , are all thy own . Vpon the Character of Codron , as 't is drawn by the Bungling Knight in his Satyr against Wit. HOw kind is Malice manag'd by a Sot , Where no Design directs the Embrio Thought , And Praise and Satyr stumble out by Lot. The Mortal Thrust to Codron's Heart design'd , Proves a soft wanton Touch to charm his Mind . Can M — nt-gue or D-rs-t higher soar ! Or can Immortal Sh-ff — ld wish for more ? Brightness , Force , Justness , Delicacy , Ease , Must form that Wit , that can the Ladies please . No false affected Rules debauch their Taste , No fruitless Toils their generous Spirits wast , Which wear a Wit into a Dunce at last . No lumber-Learning gives an awkward Pride , False Maxims cramp not , nor false Lights misguide . Voiture and W-lsh their easie Hours employ , Voiture and W-lsh oft read will never cloy . With Care they guard the Musick of their Style , They fly from B — ly , and converse with B — le . They steal no Terms , no Notions from the Schools , The Pedant's Pleasure , and the Pride of Fools ; With native Charms their matchless Thoughts surprize , Soft as their Souls , and beauteous as their Eyes . Gay as the Light , and unconfin'd as Air , Chast and Sublime , all worthy of the Fair. How then can a rough artless Indian Wit The faultless Palates of the Ladies fit ? Codron will never stand so nice a Test , Nor is 't with Praise fair Mouths oblige him best . Let others make a vain Parade of Parts , Whilst Codron aims not at Applause , but Hearts . Secure him those , and thou shall 't name the rest , Thy Spite shall choose the worst , thy Taste the best . He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign , He will with Buxtorf and with B — ly shine , And be a Wit in any way , but thine . An Epigram on Job Travesty'd by the City Bard. POor Iob lost all the Comforts of his Life , And hardly sav'd a Potsherd , and a Wife . Yet Iob blest God , and Iob again was blest ▪ His Vertue was Essay'd , and bore the Test. But had Heav'n's Wrath pour'd out its fiercest Vial , Had he been then Burlesqu'd , without denial The patient Man had yielded to that Trial. His pious Spouse with Bl — re on her side Must have prevail'd , and Iob had curst , and dy'd . To the Adventurous Knight of Cheapside , upon his Satyr against Wit. WHat Frenzy has possess'd thy desp'rate Brain , To Rail at Wit in this unhallow'd Strain ? Reproach of thy own Kind ! to slander Sense , The noblest Gift bestow'd by Providence ! Was it Revenge provok'd thee thus to Write , Because thou' rt curs'd to such a Dearth of Wit ? Or was it eager Passion for a Name , To be inroll'd among the Fools of Fame ? Like him , who rather than he 'd live obscure , Would Fire a Church to make his Name secure . Or was it thy Despair at length to find Thy Loads of Chaff the Sport of ev'ry Wind ? To see thy hasty Muse , that loves to roam , Promise such Journies , but come founder'd home ? Just Fate of Sots , who think in their vain Breast , Their Coffee-Rhimes shall stand the Publick Test : Seiz'd with prolifick Dullness , 't is thy Curse To Write still on , and still too for the Worse . Who hates not Wes — y , may Thy Works esteem , Both alike able to Disgrace their Theme . But Thou , thro' wild Conceit aspiring still , Claim'st in Thy Ravings Esculapian-skill . Quack thou art sure in Both , and curs'd is he , Who guided by his adverse Stars to Thee , Employs thy deadly Potions to reclaim His feeble Health , thy Pen to spread his Fame . Vpon the Knighting of Sir R — Bl — re , for his Incomparable Poem call'd , King ARTHVR . BE not puff'd up with Knighthood , Friend of mine , A merry Prince once Knighted a Sir-Loyn . And , if to make Comparisons 't were safe , An Ox deserv'd it better than a Culf . Thy Pride and State I value not a Rush , Thou that art now King Phyz , wast once King * Vsh. Vpon King Arthur , partly written in the Doctor 's Coach , and partly in a Coffee-house . LEt the malicious Criticks Snarl and Rail , Arthur immortal is , and must prevail . In vain they strive to wound him with their Tongue , The Lifeless Faetus can receive no wrong . As rattling Coach once thunder'd through the Mire , Out dropt Abortive Arthur from his Sire . Well may he then both Time and Death defie , For what was never born , can never die . Vpon seeing a Man light a Pipe of Tobacco in a Coffee-house with a Leaf of King Arthur . IN Coffee-house begot , the short-liv'd Brat , By instinct thither hasts to meet his Fate . The Phoenix to Arabia thus returns , And in the Grove , that gave her Birth , she burns . Thus wandring Scot , when through the World he 's past , Revisits ancient Tweed with pious haste , And on Paternal Mountain dies at last . EPIGRAM , Occasion'd by the Passage in the Satyr against Wit , that Reflects upon Mr. Tate , and ends thus , He 's Honest , and , as Wit comes in , will Pay. RAil on , discourteous Knight . If modest Tate Is slow in making Payments , what of that ! So is th' Exchequer , so are half the Lords , On whom thou hast bestow'd such Sugar'd Words . Envy itself must own this Truth of * Nahum , That when the Muses call , he strives to pay ' em . But can we this of thy damn'd Hackney say , Who as she nothing has , can nothing pay ? Then be advis'd ; Rail not at Tate so fast , A Psalm of his may chance to be thy last . A Story of a Greek Chevalier , Predecessor in a direct Line to the British Knight . WHen , fir'd by Glory , Philip's Godlike Son , The Persian Empire like a Storm o'rerun , A worthless Scribbler , Chaerilus by Name , In pompous Dogg'rel soil'd the Hero's Fame . The Grecian Prince , to Merit ever just , ( For Monarchs did not then Reward on Trust ) Read o're his Rhimes , and to chastise such Trash , Gave him for each offending Line a Lash . Thus Bard went off , with many Drubs requited , That 's in plain English , Chaerilus was Knighted . To the Pious and Worthy Author of the Satyr against Wit. BL — re strove long with holy Crafts to please , Some thought him serious , therefore gave him Fees ; Much Sanctity before his Books He shows , But , whom his Preface gains , his Poems lose . No Patients now consult him ; thus we find His Practice with his Poetry's declin'd . Melancholy Reflections on the Deficiency of Vseful Learning . To Sir R — Bl — re . SHort are our Powers , tho' infinite our Will : What Helps to useful Knowledge want we still ! Laborious L-st-r thirty Years employs In painful search of Nature's curious Toys : Yet many a painted Shell , and shining Fly Must still in Dirt , and dark Oblivion lye . Mysterious Sl — ne may yet go on to stun ye With * Cynocrambe , Poppy-pye , Bumbunny ; But from what Records can we hope to know If poor * Will. Matthew's Babe's surviv'd or no ? Aeras from costly Mummeries arose , But who th' important Moment shall disclose 'Till B-ntl-y writes of Grecian Puppet-shows ? Heralds are paid , and Registers are kept Of ancient Knights , who in full Glory slept . But Garter nods ; Garter assigns no Place To three illustrious Knights of English Race : Nor will succeeding Britains hear one Word Of good Sir - Loin , Sir Richard , or Sir T — To the Canting Author of the Satyr against Wit. THe Preacher Maurus cries , all Wit is vain , Unless 't is like his Godliness , for Gain . Of most vain Things he may the Folly own : But Wit 's a Vanity he has not known . Friendly Advice to Dr. Bl — . KNighthood to Hero's only once was due , Now 's the Reward of stupid Praise in you . Why shou'd a Quack be dubb'd , unless it be That pois'ning is an Act of Chivalry ? Thus we must own you have your Thousands slain With the dire Stroks of your resistless Pen. By whipping Boys your Cruelty began , And grew by bolder Steps to killing Man. Just the Reverse of Dionysius Fate , Who fell to flogging Bums from murdering the State. For both these Trades your Genius far unfit , At length with sawcy Pride aspires to Wit. Which by pretending to , you more Disgrace , Than toasting Beaus our ancient British Race . I' th Mountebank the Ass had lain conceal'd , But his loud Braying has the Brute reveal'd . Such vile Heroics , such unhallow'd Strains Were never spawn'd before from Irish Brains . Nor drowsy Mum , no dozing Vsquebaugh Cou'd e're suggest such Lines to Sir Iohn Daw. You weakly Skirmish with the Sins o' th' Age , And are the errant Scavinger o' th' Stage . Why Virtue makes no Progress , now is plain , Because such Knights as you its Cause maintain . If you 'd a Friend to Sense and Virtue be , And to Mankind , for once be rul'd by me , Leave Moralizing , Drugs and Poetry . To Elkanah Settle , the City-Poet . WIlt thou then passive see the Sacred Bays Torn from thy Brows in thy declining Days , And tamely let a Quack usurp thy Place , So near Guild-hall , and in my Lord May'r's Face ? Rouze up for Shame , assert thy ancient Right , And from his City-quarters drive the Knight . Let Father * Iordan Martial Heat inspire , And Unkle * Tubman fill thy Breast with Fire . If Bl — re cries , Both Arthurs are my own ; Quote thou the fam'd Cambyses , and Pope Ioan. Cheapside at once two Bards can ne're allow , But either He must Abdicate , or Thou . Then if the Knight still keeps up his Pretence , E'en turn Physician in thy own Defence . 'T is own'd by all the Criticks of our Time , Thou canst as well Prescribe , as Bl — re Rhime . To the Author of the Satyr against Wit , upon concealing his Name . HE that in Arthur's Trash has Pennance done , Needs not be told who writ this vile Lampoon . In both the same eternal Dullness shines , Inspires the Thoughts , and animates the Lines . In both the same lewd Flattery we find , The Praise defaming , and the Satyr kind . Alike the Numbers , Fashion , and Design , No Checquer-Tallies cou'd more nicely joyn . Thy foolish Muse puts on her Mask too late , We know the Strumpet by her Voice and Gate . On Job newly Travestied by Sir R — Bl — . NEar Lethe's Banks , where the forgetful Stream With lazy Motion creeps , and seems to Dream , Iob with his thoughtful Friends discoursing sate Of all the dark mysterious Turns of Fate : And much they argued why Heaven's partial Care The Good shou'd punish , and the Bad shou'd spare : When Io ! a Shade , new landed , forward prest , And thus himself to listning Iob Addrest : Illustrious Ghost ! ( I come not to upbraid ) Oh summon all thy Patience to thy Aid : A Cheapside Quack , whose vile unhallow'd Pen With equal Licence Murders Rhimes and Men , In rumbling Fustian has burlesqu'd thy Page , And fam'd Iack D-nt-n brings it on the Stage , Was ever Man , the patient Iob did cry , So plagu'd with cursed Messengers , as I ? All other Losses , unconcern'd I bore , But never heard such Stabbing News before . Who can behold the Issue of his Brain Mangled by barbarous Hands , and not complain ? This scribbling Quack ( his Fame I know too well By Thousand Ghosts whom he has sent to Hell ) Dull Satan's feebler Malice will resine , And Stab me through and through in every Line . The Devil more brave , did open War declare , The fawning Poet kills , and speaks me fair . Curs'd be the Wretch , that taught him first to Write , And with lewd Pen and Ink indulg'd his Spite : That fly-blow'd the young Bard with buzzing Rhymes , And fill'd his tender Ears with Grubstreet Chimes . Curs'd be the Paper-Mill his Muse employs , Curs'd be the Sot who on his Skill relies . Thus Iob complain'd , but to forget his Grief , In Lethe's Sov'raign Streams he sought Relief . To Sir R — Bl — upon his Vnhappy Talent at Praising and Railing . THine is the only Muse in British Ground Whose Satyr tickles , and whose Praises wound : Sure Hebrew first was taught her by her Nurse , Where the same Word is used to Bless and Curse . To Dr. Garth , on the Fourth Edition of his incomparable Poem , The Dispensary ; Occasion'd by some Lines in the Satyr against Wit. BOld thy Attempt , in these hard Times to raise In our unfriendly Clime the tender Bays , While Northern Blasts drive from the Neighb'ring Flood , And nip the springing Lawrel in the Bud. On such bleak Paths our present Poets tread , The very Garland withers on each Head. In vain the Critics strive to Purge the Soil , Fertile in Weeds it mocks their busie Toil. Spontaneous Crops of Iobs and Arthurs rise , Whose tow'ring Non-sense braves the very Skies : Like Paper-kites the empty Volumes fly , And by meer force of Wind are rais'd on high . While we did these with stupid Patience spare , And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care , The Muses Garden did small Product yield , But Hemp , and Hemlock over-ran the Field ; 'Till skilful Garth , with Salutary Hand , Taught us to Weed , and Cure Poetic Land , Grubb'd up the Brakes , and Thistles , which he found , And sow'd with Verse , and Wit the Sacred Ground . But now the Riches of that Soil appear , Which Four fair Harvests yields in Half a Year . No more let Critics of the Want complain Of Mantuan Verse , or the Maeonian Strain ; Above them Garth do's on their Shoulders rise , And , what our Language wants , his Wit supplies . Fam'd Poets after him shall strain their Throats , And unfledg'd Muses chirp their Infant-notes . Yes Garth : thy Enemies confess thy Store , They burst with Envy , yet they long for more : Ev'n we , thy Friends , in doubt thy Kindness call , To see thy Stock so large , and Gift so small . But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid , And richest Wines in little Casks convey'd . Let lumpish Bl — re his dull Hackney freight , And break his Back with heavy Folio's weight . His Pegasus is of the Flanders Breed , And Limb'd for Draught , or Burthen , not for Speed. With Cart-horse Trot he sweats beneath the Pack Of Rhiming Prose , and Knighthood on his Back : Made for a Drudge , e'en let him beat the Road , And tug of sensless Rheams th' Heroic Load ; Till overstrain'd the Jade is set , and tires , And sinking in the Mud with Groans expires . Then Bl — re shall this Favour owe to thee , That thou perpetuat'st his Memory . Bavius and Maevius so their Works survive , And in one single Line of Virgil's live . On Sir R — Bl — re's Noble Project to Erect a Bank of Wit. THe Thought was great , and worthy of a Cit , In present Dearth , to erect a Bank of Wit. Thus breaking Trades-men , ready for a Jayl , Raise Millions for our Senate o're their Ale. But thou' rt declar'd a Bankrupt , and thy Note Even in old Grub-street scarce wou'd fetch a Groat . Apollo scorns thy Project , and the Nine With Indignation laugh at thy Design . There 's not a Trader to the Sacred Hill But knows thy Wants , and would Protest thy Bill ; Thy Credit can't a Farthing there Command , Though Fr — ke and R — m — r shou'd thy Sureties stand . To Sir R — Bl — re , on the two Wooden Horses before Sadlers-hall . AS trusty Broom-staff Midnight Witch bestrides , When on some Grand Dispatch of Hell she rides . O're gilded Pinacles , and lofty Towers , And tallest Pines with furious hast she scowrs . Out flies in her Career the lab'ring Wind , And sees spent Exhalations lag behind . Arriving at the Black Divan at last In some drear Wood , or solitary Wast : The Fiend her cheated Senses does delude , With airy Visions of imagin'd Food . Ev'n so , dear Knight , ( my Freedom you 'll Excuse ▪ If to a Witch I have compar'd your Muse ) Ev'n so on Wooden Prancer , mounted high , Your Muse takes nimble Journeys in the Sky . When in her boldest Strains , and highest Flights , She Sings of strange Adventures , and Exploits , Battles , Enchantments , Furies , Devils , and Knights ; When she at Arthur's Fairy Table dines , And high-pil'd Dishes sees , and generous Wines . 'T was kindly done of the good-natur'd Cits To Place before thy Door a Brace of Tits . For Pegasus wou'd ne're endure the weight Of such a Quibbling , Scribbling , Dribbling Knight : That generous Steed , rather than gaul his Back With a Pedantie Bard , and Nauseous Quack , Wou'd kneel to take a Pedlar and his Pack . To a Famous Doctor and Poet at Sadlers-hall . IF Wit ( as we are told ) be a Disease , And if Physicians Cure by Contraries : Bl — re alone the healing Secret knows , 'T is from his Pen the grand Elixir flows . To the Cheapside Quack : occasion'd by this Verse in the Satyr against Wit , Who with more ease can cure than C — ch kill . By a Gentleman whom Dr. C — lb — ch had cur'd of the Gout . HOw durst thy railing Muse , vain Wretch , pretend In base Lampoon thus to abuse my Friend ! Whose Sacred Art has freed me from my Pains , And broke a haughty Tyrant's stubborn Chains ? Keep off , for if thou com'st within my Clutches , I 'll bast thy Knighthood with my Quondam Crutches . The generous Wine that does my Sorrows drown , The charming Caelia that my Nights does crown , The manly Pleasures of the sporting Fields , The gay Delights the pompous Drama yields , All this , and more to his great Skill I owe , Such Blessings can thy Boasted Helps bestow ? The Snuff of Life perhaps thy feeble Art May fondly lengthen to thy Patient's smart . But Health no more 't is in thy Power to give , Than thy dull Muse can make her Heroes live . Ev'n War and Plague of Killing , to arraign In thee , is most nonsensical and vain . Thee , who a branded Killer art declar'd , In both Capacities of Quack and Bard. Whatever Sots to thy Prescriptions fly , For their vain Confidence are sure to die : And whate'er Argument thy Muse employs , Her awkward stupid Management destroys . Death with sure steps thy Doses still attends , And Death too follows whom thy Muse commends . What can escape thy All-destroying Quill , When ev'n thy Cordials , and thy Praises kill ? Thy Mother sure , when in Despair and Pain She brought thee forth , thought of the Murd'rer Cain . To that most incomparable Bard and Quack , the Author of the Satyr against Wit. I Charge thee , Knight , in great Apollo's Name , If thou' rt not dead to all Reproof and Shame , Either thy Rhimes , or Clysters to disclaim . Both are too much one feeble Brain to rack , Besides the Bard will soon undo the Quack . Such Shoals of Readers thy damn'd Fustian kills , Thou 'lt scarce leave one alive to take thy Pills . Epigram upon King Arthur . THe British Arthur , as Historians tell , Deriv'd his Birth from Merlin's Magic Spell . When Vter , taking the wrong'd Husband's Shape , On fair Igerne did commit a Rape . But modern Arthur of the Cheapside Line , May justly boast his Parentage Divine . Wearing thy Phyz , and in thy Habit drest , The God of Dullness his lewd Dam comprest . A merry Ballad on the City Bard , To a New Play-house Tune . IN London City near Cheapside A wondrous Bard does dwell , Whose Epics ( if they 're not bely'd ) Do Virgil's far excell : A sprightly Wit , and Person joyn'd , Both Poet and Physician : Artist as famous in his kind , For ought I know , as Titian . In Coffee-houses purest Air His foggy Lines he Writes : In Fields of Dust and Spittle there His British Heroe Fights . By sudden Motion then o'reta'ne , The Privy-house he chooses : Great are his Thoughts , and great his Pain , And yet no Time he loses . Grip'd in his Guts and Muse , he there Indites , And Praises Arthur most , when most he Sh — . An Epitome of a Poem , truly call'd , A Satyr against Wit ; done for the Vndeceiving of some Readers , who have mistaken the Panegyrick in that Immortal Work for the Satyr , and the Satyr for the Panegyrick . WHo can forbear and tamely silent sit , l. 1. p. 3. And see his Native Land as void of Wit l. 2. As every Piece the City-Knight has Writ ? How happy were the old unpolish'd Times , l. 13. As free from Wit , as other Modern Crimes , l. 14. And what is more from , Bl — re's nauseous Rhimes . As our Fore-Fathers Vig'rous were and Brave , l. 15. So they were Virtuous , Wise , Discreet and Grave , l. 16. And wou'd have call'd our Quack a fawning Slave . Clodpate , by Banks , and Stocks , and Projects bit , l. 5. p. 5. Turns up his Whites , and in his Pious Fit , l. 6. He Cheats and Prays , a certain sign of Cit. l. 7. Craper runs madly ' midst the thickest Crowd , l. 8. Sometimes says nothing , sometimes talks aloud . Under the Means he lies , frequents the Stage , l. 10. Is very lewd , and does at Learning rage ; l. 11. And this vile Stuff we find in every Page . A Bant'ring Spirit , has our Men possest , l. 20. And Wisdom is become a standing Jest , l. 21. Which is a burning Shame I do protest . Wit does of Virtue sure Destruction make , l. 22. Who can produce a Wit , and not a Rake ? l. 23. A Challenge started ne're but by a Quack . The Mob of Wits is up to storm the Town , l. 1. p. 6 To pull all Virtue and right Reason down , l. 2. Then to surprize the Tower , and steal the Crown , And the lewd Crew affirm , by all that 's good , l. 15. They 'll ne're disperse till they have B — re's Blood ; l. 16. But they 'll ne're have his Brains , by good King Lud. For that industrious Bard of late has done l. 16. p. 6. The rarest Piece of Wit that e're was shown , l. 17. And publish'd Dogg'rel he 's asham'd to own . The Skilful T-s-n's Name they dare Invade , l. 31. p. 6. And yet they are undone without his Aid ; l. 2. Did they read thee , I shou'd conclude them Mad. T — s — n with base Reproaches they pursue , l. 1. p. 7. Just as his Moor-fields Patients us'd to do , l. 4. Who give to T — s — n , what is T — s — n's due . Wit does enfeeble and debauch the Mind , l. 7. Before to Business or to Arts inclin'd : l. 8. Then thou wilt never be Debauch'd , I find . Had S — rs , H — t , or T — y , who with awe l. 15 , 16 , 17 , 18. We Name , been Wits , they ne're had learn'd the Law. But sure this Compliment's not worth a Straw . The Law will ne're support the bant'ring Breed , l. 22. Tho' Blockheads may , yet Wits can ne're succeed , l. 23. For which Friend Sl — ne I hope will break thy Head. R — ff has Wit and lavishes away l. 24. So much in nauseous Northern Brogue each Day , As wou'd suffice to Damn a Smithfield-Play . Wit does our Schools and Colleges invade , l. 20. p. 8. And has of Letters vast Destruction made , l. 21. But that it spoils thy Learning , can't be said . That such a Failure no Man may incense , l. 17. p. 10. Let us erect a Bank for Wit and Sense : l. 18. And so set up at other Mens Expence . Let S — r , D — t , S — ld , M — gue l. 21. Lend but their Names the Project then will do : l. 22. What! Lend 'em such a Bankrupt Wretch as you . Duncombs and Claytons of Parnassus all , l. 27. Who cannot sink , unless the Hill shou'd fall , l. 28. Why then , they need but go to Sadlers-hall . St. E — m — t , to make the thing compleat , l. 21. p. 9. No English knows , and therefore is most fit To oversee the Coining of our Wit. l. 22. Nor shall M — rs , W — tt , Ch-rl-tt be forgot , With solid Fr — ke and R — r and who Not ? Then all our Friends the Actions shall cry up , l. 6. p. 12. And all the railing Mouths of Envy stop . l. 7. Wou'd we cou'd Padlock thine , Eternal Fop. The Project then will T — tts Test abide , l. 11. p. 16. And with his Mark please all the World beside . l. 12. But dare thy Arthurs by this Test be tried ? Then what will D — d — n , G — h , or C — ng — ve say l. 27. p. 9. When all their wicked Mixture's purg'd away ? l. 28. Thy Metal 's baser than their worst Allay . What will become of S-th-n , W — ch — y l. 29. Who by this means will grievous Sufferers be ? l. 30. No matter , they 'l ne're send a Brief to Thee . All these debauch'd by D — n and his Crew l. 22. p. 12. Turn Bawds to Vice , and wicked Aims pursue : l. 23. To hear thee Cant wou'd make ev'n B — ss Spew . For now an honest Man can't peep abroad , l. 9. p. 13. Nor a chast Muse , but whip They bring a Rod. l. 16. E'n Atticus himself these Men wou'd Curse , l. 5. p. 14. Shou'd Atticus appear without his Purse , l. 6. If this be Praise , what Libel can say Worse ? Nay Darfell too , shou'd he forbear to treat , l. 7. p. 14. These Men that Cry him up , their Words wou'd Eat , l. 8. And say in Scorn , He had no Brains to beat . FINIS . ADVERTISEMENT . UPon the Publishing of Iob and Habakkuk , an Heroic Poem daily expected , but deferr'd upon Political Reasons , new Subscription-books will be open'd at Will 's Coffee-house in Covent-garden , and all Gentlemen , that are willing to Subscribe , are desired to send in their Quota's . Notes, typically marginal, from the original text Notes for div A34124-e660 * Alluding to the two Kings in the Rehearsal . * Mr. Tate 's Christian Name . * See a late Pamphlet call'd , The Transactioneer . * See a late Pamphlet call'd , The Transactioneer . * Two Famous City-Poets . * Two Famous City-Poets .