A SATIRE.
ONE night, as I was pondering of late
On all the miseries of my hapless fate,
Cursing my rhyming stars, raving in vain
At all the powers which over poets reign,
In came a ghastly shape, all pale and thin,
As some poor sinner who by priest had been,
Under a long Lent's penance, starved and whipped,
Or parboiled lecher, late from hothouse crept.
Famished his looks appeared, his eyes sunk in,
Like morning gown about him hung his skin,
A wreath of laurel on his head he wore,
A book, inscribed the Fairy Queen, he bore.
By this I knew him, rose, and bowed, and said,
'Hail reverend ghost! all hail most sacred shade!
Why this great visit? why vouchsafed to me,
The meanest of thy British progeny?
Comest thou, in my uncalled, unhallowed muse,
Some of thy mighty spirit to infuse?
If so, lay on thy hands, ordain me fit
For the high cure and ministry of wit;
Let me, I beg, thy great instructions claim,
Teach me to tread the glorious paths of fame;
Teach me, for none does better know than thou,
How, like thyself, I may immortal grow.'
Thus did I speak, and spoke it in a strain
Above my common rate and usual vein,
As if inspired by presence of the bard,
Who, with a frown, thus to reply was heard
In style of satire, such wherein of old
He the famed tale of Mother Hubbard told.
'I come, fond idiot, ere it be too late.
Kindly to warn thee of thy wretched fate;
Take heed betimes, repent, and learn of me
To shun the dangerous rocks of poetry;
Had I the choice of flesh and blood again,
To act once more in life's tumultuous scene,
I’d be a porter, or a scavenger,
A groom, or anything, but poet here.
Hast thou observed some hawker of the town,
Who through the streets with dismal scream and tone,
Cries matches, small-coal, brooms, old shoes and boots,
Socks, sermons, ballads, lies, gazettes, and votes?
So unrecorded to the grave I'd go,
And nothing but the register tell who;
Rather that poor unheard-of wretch I'd be,
Than the most glorious name in poetry,
With all its boasted immortality;
Rather than he, who sung on Phrygia's shore,
The Grecian bullies fighting for a whore;
Or he of Thebes, whom fame so much extols
For praising jockeys and Newmarket fools.
'So many now, and bad, the scribblers be,
'Tis scandal to be of the company;
The foul disease is so prevailing grown,
So much the fashion of the court and town,
That scarce a man well-bred in either's deemed,
But who has killed, been drunk, and often rhymed.
The fools are troubled with a flux of brains,
And each on paper squirts his filthy sense;
A leash of sonnets and a dull lampoon
Set up an author, who forthwith is grown
A man of parts, of rhyming, and renown.
Even that vile wretch, who in lewd verse each year
Describes the pageants and the good Lord Mayor,
Whose works must serve the next election day
For making squibs, and under pies to lay,
Yet counts himself of the inspired train,
And dares in thought the sacred name profane.[1]
'But is it nought,' thou'lt say, 'in front to stand,
With laurel crowned by White, or Loggan's hand?[2]
Is it not great and glorious to be known,
Marked out, and gazed at through the wondering town,
By all the rabble passing up and down?'
So Oates and Bedloe have been pointed at,
And every busy coxcomb of the state;
The meanest felons who through Holborn go,
More eyes and looks than twenty poets draw.
If this be all, go, have thy posted name
Fixed up with bills of quack, and public shame,
To be the stop of gaping 'prentices,
And read by reeling drunkards, when they pass;
Or else to lie exposed on trading stall,
While the bilked owner hires Gazettes to tell,
'Mongst spaniels lost, that author does not sell.
’Perhaps, fond fool, thou soothest thyself in dream,
With hopes of purchasing a lasting name?
Thou think'st, perhaps, thy trifles shall remain,
Like sacred Cowley, or immortal Ben;
But who of all the bold adventurers,
Who now drive on the trade of fame in verse,
Can be ensured in this unfaithful sea,
Where there so many lost and shipwrecked be?
How many poems writ in ancient time,
Which thy forefathers had in great esteem,
Which in the crowded shops bore any rate,
And sold like news-books, and affairs of state,
Have grown contemptible, and slighted since,
As Pordage,[3] Flecknoe,[4] or the British Prince?[5]
Quarles, Chapman, Heywood, Wither had applause,
And Wild, and Ogilby in former days;
But now are damned to wrapping drugs and wares,
And cursed by all their broken stationers.[6]
And so mayst thou, perchance, pass up and down,
And please awhile the admiring court and town,
Who after shalt in Duck-lane[7] shops be thrown,
To mould with Silvester,[8] and Shirley[9] there,
And truck for pots of ale next Stourbridge fair,
Then who'd not laugh to see the immortal name
To vile Mundungus made a martyr flame?
And all thy deathless monuments of wit,
Wipe porters’ tails, or mount in paper kite?
’But, grant thy poetry should find success,
And, which is rare, the squeamish critics please;
Admit it read, and praised, and courted be
By this nice age, and all posterity;
If thou expectest aught but empty fame,
Condemn thy hopes and labours to the flame.
The rich have now learned only to admire;
He, who to greater favours does aspire,
Is mercenary thought, and writes for hire.
Wouldst thou to raise thine, and thy country's fame,
Choose some old English hero for thy theme,
Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater son,
Or our fifth Harry, matchless in renown;
Make Agincourt and Cressy fields outvie
The famed Lavinian shores, and walls of Troy;
What Scipio, what Maecenas wouldst thou find,
What Sidney now to thy great project kind?
'Bless me! how great his genius! how each line
Is big with sense! how glorious a design
Does through the whole, and each proportion shine!
How lofty all his thoughts, and how inspired!
Pity, such wondrous thoughts are not preferred;’
Cries a gay wealthy sot, who would not bail,
For bare five pounds, the author out of jail,
Should he starve there, and rot; who, if a brief
Came out the needy poets to relieve,
To the whole tribe would scarce a tester give.
But fifty guineas for a punk—good hap!
The peer's well used, and comes off wondrous cheap;
A poet would be dear, and out o’ th' way,
Should he expect above a coachman's pay!
For this will any dedicate, and lie,
And daub the gaudy ass with flattery?
For this will any prostitute his sense
To coxcombs void of bounty as of brains?
Yet such is the hard fate of writers now,
They're forced for alms to each great name to bow;
Fawn, like her lap-dog, on her tawdry Grace,
Commend her beauty, and belie her glass,
By which she every morning primes her face;
Sneak to his Honour, call him witty, brave,
And just, though a known coward, fool, or knave;
And praise his lineage and nobility,
Whose arms at first came from the Company.
'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore
The blind old bard, with dog and bell before,
Was fain to sing for bread from door to door:
The needy muses all turned gipsies then,
And of the begging trade e'er since have been.
Should mighty Sappho in these days revive,
And hope upon her stock of wit to live,
She must to Creswell's[10] trudge to mend her gains,
And let her tail to hire, as well as brains.
What poet ever fined for sheriff] or who
By wit and sense did ever Lord Mayor grow?
'My own hard usage here I need not press,
Where you have every day before your face
Plenty of fresh resembling instances.
Great Cowley's muse the same ill treatment had,
Whose verse shall live for ever to upbraid
The ungrateful world, that left such worth unpaid.
Waller himself may thank inheritance
For what he else had never got by sense.
On Butler who can think without just rage,
The glory, and the scandal of the age?
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to town,
Met everywhere with welcomes of renown,
Courted, and loved by all, with wonder read,
And promises of princely favour fed;
But what reward for all had he at last,
After a life in dull expectance passed?
The wretch at summing up his misspent days
Found nothing left, but poverty and praise;
Of all his gains by verse he could not save
Enough to purchase flannel and a grave;
Reduced to want, he in due time fell sick,
Was fain to die, and be interred on tick;
And well might bless the fever that was sent,
To rid him hence, and his worse fate prevent.
’You've seen what fortune other poets share;
View next the factors of the theatre,
That constant mart, which all the year does hold,
Where staple wit is bartered, bought, and sold;
Here trading scribblers for their maintenance
And livelihood trust to a lottery-chance;
But who his parts would in the service spend,
Where all his hopes on vulgar breath depend?
Where every sot, for paying half-a-crown,[11]
Has the prerogative to cry him down?
Sedley indeed may be content with fame,
Nor care should an ill-judging audience damn;
But Settle, and the rest, that write for pence,
Whose whole estate's an ounce or two of brains,
Should a thin house on the third day appear,
Must starve, or live in tatters all the year.
And what can we expect that's brave and great,
From a poor needy wretch, that writes to eat?
Who the success of the next play must wait
For lodging, food, and clothes, and whose chief care
Is how to spunge for the next meal, and where?
'Hadst thou of old in flourishing Athens lived,
When all the learnèd arts in glory thrived,
When mighty Sophocles the stage did sway,
And poets by the state were held in pay;
'Twere worth thy pains to cultivate thy muse,
And daily wonders then it might produce;
But who would now write hackney to a stage,
That's only thought the nuisance of the age!
Go, after this, and beat thy wretched brains,
And toil to bring in thankless idiots' means;
Turn o'er dull Horace, and the classic fools,
To poach for sense, and hunt for idle rules;
Be free of tickets, and the playhouses,
And spend thy gains on tawdry actresses.
’All trades and all professions here abound,
And yet encouragement for all is found;
Here a vile empiric, who by licence kills,
Who every week helps to increase the bills,
Wears velvet, keeps his coach, and jade beside,
For what less villains must to Tyburn ride.
There a dull trading sot, in wealth o'ergrown
By thriving knavery, can call his own
A dozen manors, and, if fate still bless,
Expects as many counties to possess.
Punks, panders, bawds, all their due pensions gain,
And every day the great men's bounty drain;
Lavish expense on wit, has never yet
Been taxed amongst the grievances of state.
The Turkey, Guinea, India gainers be,
And all but the poetic company;
Each place of traffic, Bantam, Smyrna, Zante,
Greenland, Virginia, Seville, Alicant,
And France, that sends us vices, lace, and wine,
Vast profit all, and large returns bring in;
Parnassus only is that barren coast,
Where the whole voyage and adventure's lost.
’Then be advised, the slighted muse forsake,
And Coke and Dalton for thy study take;
For fees each term sweat in the crowded hall,
And there for charters, and cracked titles bawl;
Where Maynard[12] thrives, and pockets more each year
Than forty laureats of the theatre.
Or else to orders, and the church betake
Thyself, and that thy future refuge make;
There fawn on some proud patron to engage
The advowson of cast punk and parsonage.
Or soothe the court, and preach up kingly right,
To gain a prebend or a mitre by't.
In fine, turn pettifogger, canonist,
Civilian, pedant, mountebank, or priest,
Soldier or merchant, fiddler, painter, fencer,
Jack-pudding, juggler, player, or rope-dancer;[13]
Preach, plead, cure, fight, game, pimp, beg, cheat, or thieve;
Be all but poet, and there's way to live.
’But why do I in vain my counsel spend
On one whom there's so little hope to mend?
Where I perhaps as fruitlessly exhort,
As Lenten doctors, when they preach at court;
Not gamesters from the snares they once have tried,
Not fops and women from conceit and pride,
Not bawds from impudence, cowards from fear,
Nor seared unfeeling sinners past despair,
Are half so hard and stubborn to reduce,
As a poor wretch when once possessed with muse.
’If, therefore, what I've said cannot avail,
Nor from the rhyming folly thee recall,
But, spite of all, thou wilt be obstinate,
And run thyself upon avoidless fate;
Mayst thou go on unpitied, till thou be
Brought to the parish, bridge, and beggary;
Till urged by want, like broken scribblers, thou
Turn poet to a booth, a Smithfield show,
And write heroic verse for Bartholomew;
Then slighted by the very Nursery,[14]
Mayst thou at last be forced to starve, like me.'
- ↑ Jordan, who, in 1671, succeeded Tatham as 'city poet,' and continued to produce the annual pageants till 1682, when the usual show was dropped, and not resumed till 1684, in consequence of the suspension of the charter of the city by Charles II. This Satire was published in 1683. Notwithstanding the severity with which he is, justly upon the main, treated by Oldham, Jordan had some merit as a writer of pageants, especially in the after-dinner glorification, a part of the entertainment in which he excelled all his predecessors. 'He is the most humorous of city poets,' says Mr. Fairholt, 'and his songs, in some of the pageants, are extremely good.' See Lord Mayors' Pageants, published by the Percy Society.
- ↑ 'And in the front of all his senseless plays,
Makes David Loggan crown his head with bays.'
Dryden.
David Loggan, a native of Dantzig, who settled in England before the Restoration, was an engraver in high repute at this period. Robert White was one of his pupils; and 'no man,' says Walpole, 'perhaps exceeded him in the multiplicity of English heads.' Lists of the portraits they executed, collected by Vertue, will be found in Walpole's Catalogue of Engravers. - ↑ Samuel Pordage, a writer of wretched doggrel, and one of the swarm of verse-mongers that attacked the Absalom and Achitophel of Dryden. —See ante, p. 183.
- ↑ The Irish priest immortalized by Dryden in his Satire on Shadwell.
- ↑ An epic poem by the Hon. Edward Howard.
- ↑ The term by which booksellers and publishers were designated.
- ↑ Duck-lane, lying between Little Britain and Smithfield, and now called Duke-street, was as celebrated for book-stalls and second-hand book shops as Grub-street for starving authors.
- ↑ Joshua Silvester, the translator of Du Bartas.
- ↑ James Shirley, the dramatist. These allusions are curious, as showing the popular opinion entertained at this time of several writers who had enjoyed celebrity in their own day, but were treated, under the Restoration, with contempt, from which some of them have since been rescued.
- ↑ Mother Creswell, a notorious personage.
- ↑ The price to the pit of the theatre.
- ↑ Sir John Maynard, King's Sergeant, who is said to have made a larger income at the bar than any of his contemporaries.
- ↑ Such people were lavishly patronized by the nobility. Ladies of rank were in the habit of inviting jugglers and conjurers to their houses to amuse their company. Richardson, the fire eater, was one of the most popular of these performers; and Jacob Hall, the rope-dancer, occupies so conspicuous a position in the social annals of the time, that he may be regarded as a sort of spurious historical character.
- ↑ The Nursery stood in Barbican. It was a theatre established under letters patent for training boys and girls in the art of acting. See Dryden's Poems, Ann. Ed. ii. 28, note.