When Shakespeare, Jonson, Fletcher ruled the stage,
They took so bold a freedom with the age
That there was scarce a knave or fool in town
Of any note but had his picture shown.
And without doubt, though some it may offend,
Nothing helps more than satire to amend
Ill manners, or is trulier virtue's friend.
Princes may laws ordain, priests gravely preach,
But poets most successfully will teach.
For as a passing bell frights from his meat
The greedy sick man that too much would eat,
So when a vice ridiculous is made,
Our neighbor's shame keeps us from growing bad.
But wholesome remedies few palates please:
Men rather love what flatters their disease.
Pimps, parasites, buffoons, and all the crew
That under friendship's name weak man undo,
Find their false service kindlier understood
Than such as tell's bold truths to do us good.
Look where you will and you shall hardly find
A man without some sickness of the mind.
In vain we wise would seem, while ev'ry lust
Whisks us about, as whirlwind doth the dust.
Here for some needless gain a wretch is hurled
From pole to pole and slaved about the world,
While the reward of all his pains and care
Ends in that despicable thing, his heir.
There a vain fop mortgages all his land
To buy that gaudy plaything, a command,
To ride on cockhorse, wear a scarf at's arse,
And play Jack-pudding in a May-day farce.
Here one whom God to make a fool thought fit,
In spite of Providence will be a wit,
But wanting strength t'uphold his ill-made choice,
Sets up with lewdness, blasphemy, and noise.
There at his mistress' feet a lover lies,
And for a tawdry painted baby dies,
Falls on his knees, adores, and is afraid
Of the vain idol he himself has made.
These and a thousand fools unmentioned here
Hate poets all because they poets fear.
" Take heed! " they cry. " Yonder mad dog will bite.
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit.
Come but in's way, and straight a new lampoon
Shall spread your mangled fame about the town. "
But why am I this bugbear to you all?
My pen is dipped in no such bitter gall.
He that can rail at one he calls his friend,
Or hear him absent wronged, and not defend,
Who for the sake of some ill-natured jest
Tells what he should conceal, invents the rest,
To fatal midnight frolics can betray
His brave companion and then run away,
Leaving him to be murdered in the street,
Then put it off with some buffoon conceit,
This, this is he you should beware of all,
Yet him a witty, pleasant man you call.
To whet your dull debauches up and down,
You seek him as top fiddler of the town.
But if I laugh, when the court coxcombs show,
To see that booby Sotus dance provoe,
Or chatt'ring Porus from the side box grin,
Tricked like a lady's monkey new made clean,
To me the name of railer straight you give,
Call me a man that knows not how to live.
But wenches to their keepers true shall turn,
Stale maids of honor proffered husbands scorn,
Great statesmen flattery and clinches hate,
And, long in office, die without estate,
Against a bribe court-judges shall decide,
The City knavery want, the clergy pride,
E'er that black malice in my rhymes you find
That wrongs a worthy man or hurts his friend.
But then perhaps you'll say, " Why do you write?
What you call harmless mirth the world calls spite.
Why should your fingers itch to have a lash
At Simius the buffoon, or Cully bash?
What is't to you if Alidore's fine whore
F — with some fop while he's shut out of door?
Consider, pray, that dang'rous weapon, wit,
Frightens a million where a few you hit.
Whip but a cur as you ride through a town,
And straight his fellow curs his quarrel own.
Each knave or fool that's conscious of a crime,
Though he 'scapes now, looks for't another time. "
" Sir, I confess all you have said is true,
But who has not some folly to pursue?
Milo turned Quixote fancied battles fights,
When the fifth bottle has increased the heights.
Warlike, dirt pies our hero Paris forms,
Which desp'rate Bessus without armor storms.
Cornus, the kindest husband e'er was born,
Still courts the spark that does his brows adorn,
Invites him home to dine and fills his veins
With the hot blood which his dear doxy drains.
Grandio thinks himself a beau garçon,
Goggles his eyes, writes letters up and down,
And with his saucy love plagues all the town,
Whilst pleased to have his vanity thus fed,
He's caught with Gosnell, that old hag, abed.
But why should I the crying follies tell
That rouse the sleeping satyr from his cell,
I to my reader should as tedious prove
As that old spark Albanus making love,
Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth flam
He gravely on the public tries to sham.
Hold then, my Muse, 'tis time to make an end,
Lest taxing others thou thyself offend.
The world's a wood in which all lose their way,
Though by a diff'rent path each goes astray. "
They took so bold a freedom with the age
That there was scarce a knave or fool in town
Of any note but had his picture shown.
And without doubt, though some it may offend,
Nothing helps more than satire to amend
Ill manners, or is trulier virtue's friend.
Princes may laws ordain, priests gravely preach,
But poets most successfully will teach.
For as a passing bell frights from his meat
The greedy sick man that too much would eat,
So when a vice ridiculous is made,
Our neighbor's shame keeps us from growing bad.
But wholesome remedies few palates please:
Men rather love what flatters their disease.
Pimps, parasites, buffoons, and all the crew
That under friendship's name weak man undo,
Find their false service kindlier understood
Than such as tell's bold truths to do us good.
Look where you will and you shall hardly find
A man without some sickness of the mind.
In vain we wise would seem, while ev'ry lust
Whisks us about, as whirlwind doth the dust.
Here for some needless gain a wretch is hurled
From pole to pole and slaved about the world,
While the reward of all his pains and care
Ends in that despicable thing, his heir.
There a vain fop mortgages all his land
To buy that gaudy plaything, a command,
To ride on cockhorse, wear a scarf at's arse,
And play Jack-pudding in a May-day farce.
Here one whom God to make a fool thought fit,
In spite of Providence will be a wit,
But wanting strength t'uphold his ill-made choice,
Sets up with lewdness, blasphemy, and noise.
There at his mistress' feet a lover lies,
And for a tawdry painted baby dies,
Falls on his knees, adores, and is afraid
Of the vain idol he himself has made.
These and a thousand fools unmentioned here
Hate poets all because they poets fear.
" Take heed! " they cry. " Yonder mad dog will bite.
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit.
Come but in's way, and straight a new lampoon
Shall spread your mangled fame about the town. "
But why am I this bugbear to you all?
My pen is dipped in no such bitter gall.
He that can rail at one he calls his friend,
Or hear him absent wronged, and not defend,
Who for the sake of some ill-natured jest
Tells what he should conceal, invents the rest,
To fatal midnight frolics can betray
His brave companion and then run away,
Leaving him to be murdered in the street,
Then put it off with some buffoon conceit,
This, this is he you should beware of all,
Yet him a witty, pleasant man you call.
To whet your dull debauches up and down,
You seek him as top fiddler of the town.
But if I laugh, when the court coxcombs show,
To see that booby Sotus dance provoe,
Or chatt'ring Porus from the side box grin,
Tricked like a lady's monkey new made clean,
To me the name of railer straight you give,
Call me a man that knows not how to live.
But wenches to their keepers true shall turn,
Stale maids of honor proffered husbands scorn,
Great statesmen flattery and clinches hate,
And, long in office, die without estate,
Against a bribe court-judges shall decide,
The City knavery want, the clergy pride,
E'er that black malice in my rhymes you find
That wrongs a worthy man or hurts his friend.
But then perhaps you'll say, " Why do you write?
What you call harmless mirth the world calls spite.
Why should your fingers itch to have a lash
At Simius the buffoon, or Cully bash?
What is't to you if Alidore's fine whore
F — with some fop while he's shut out of door?
Consider, pray, that dang'rous weapon, wit,
Frightens a million where a few you hit.
Whip but a cur as you ride through a town,
And straight his fellow curs his quarrel own.
Each knave or fool that's conscious of a crime,
Though he 'scapes now, looks for't another time. "
" Sir, I confess all you have said is true,
But who has not some folly to pursue?
Milo turned Quixote fancied battles fights,
When the fifth bottle has increased the heights.
Warlike, dirt pies our hero Paris forms,
Which desp'rate Bessus without armor storms.
Cornus, the kindest husband e'er was born,
Still courts the spark that does his brows adorn,
Invites him home to dine and fills his veins
With the hot blood which his dear doxy drains.
Grandio thinks himself a beau garçon,
Goggles his eyes, writes letters up and down,
And with his saucy love plagues all the town,
Whilst pleased to have his vanity thus fed,
He's caught with Gosnell, that old hag, abed.
But why should I the crying follies tell
That rouse the sleeping satyr from his cell,
I to my reader should as tedious prove
As that old spark Albanus making love,
Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth flam
He gravely on the public tries to sham.
Hold then, my Muse, 'tis time to make an end,
Lest taxing others thou thyself offend.
The world's a wood in which all lose their way,
Though by a diff'rent path each goes astray. "