Classic Poem

Readers, prepare your Fayth; who truly tells
His History, must needs write miracles.
Hee lisp'd Wit worthy th'Presse, as if that hee
Had us'd his Cradle as a Librarie.
Some of these Fruits had birth, when other Boyes
(His Elders) play'd with Nuts; Books were his Toyes.
Hee had not long of Playes Spectatour beene
But his small Feete wore Socks fit for the Scene.
Hee was not like those costive Wits, who blot
A quire of paper to contrive a Plot.
And e're they name it, crosse it, till it look
Rased with wounds like an old Mercers Book.
What pleas'd this yeare, is next in peices torne,
It suffers many deaths e're it be borne.
For Humours to lye leidger they are seene
Oft in a Taverne, and a Bowling-greene.
They doe observe each place, and company,
As strictly as a Traveller or Spie.
And deifying dunghills, seeme t'adore
The scumme of people, Watchman, Changling, Whore.
To know the vice, and ignorance of all,
With any Ragges they'le drink a pot of Ale;
Nay, what is more (a strange unusuall thing
With Poets) they will pay the reckoning;
And sit with patience an houre by th' Heeles
To learne the Non-sence of the Constables.
Such Jig-like flim-flams being got to make
The Rabble laugh, and nut-cracking forsake,
They goe Home (if th' have any) and there sit
In Gowne and Night-cap looking for some wit.
E're they compose, they must for a long space
Be dieted, as Horses for the race.
They must not Bacon, Beefe, or Pudding eate,
A jest may chance be starv'd with such grosse meate.
The Good Houre come, and their Braine tun'd, they write,
But slow as dying men their Wills indite.
They pen by drams and scruples, from their quill
Words (although dreggy) flow not, but distill.
They stare, and sowre their faces; nay to vent
The Braines they eate their fingers excrement;
And scratch their Heads, as if they were about
(Their wit so hide-bound is) to pull it out.
Ev'ry bald speech though Comicall it bee
To their rack'd members proves a Tragaedie .
When they have had the Counsell of some friend
And of their begging Epilogue made an end,
Their Play salutes the world, and claimes the Stage
For its inheritance, being now of Age.
But while they pump't their Phansy day and night;
Hee nothing harder found then not to write.
No dyet could corrupt, or mend his straine;
All tempers were the best to his sure Braine.
He could with raptures captivate the King,
Yet not endanger Button, or Bandstring.
Poems from him gush'd out so readily
As if they'd only been in's Memory;
Yet are they with as marble fancies wrought,
As theirs whose pen waits for the thirteenth thought.
They erre who say things quickly done soone fade;
Nature and Hee all in an Instant made.
Those that doe measure Fansies by the glasse,
And dote on such as cost more time, may passe
In rank with Gulls, whom folly doth entice
To thinke that best which has the greatest price.
Who poreing on, their Spungy Braine still squeeze,
Neglect the creame, and only save the Lees.
Stopping their flying quill, they clip Fames wing,
Make Helicon a puddle that's a Spring.
Nor was his Hast hoodwinkt; his Rage was wise,
His Fury counsell had, his rashnesse eyes.
Though hee (as Engines arrowes) shot forth wit,
Yet aim'd with all the proper marks to hit.
His Inke ne're stain'd the Surplice; he doth right
That sometimes takes a care to misse the White .
Hee turn'd no Scripture phrase into a jest;
Hee was inspir'd with raptures, not possest.
Some Divelish Poets thinke their Muse does ill
Unlesse their verses doe prophane or kill.
They boldly write what I should feare to thinke,
Words that doe pale their paper, black their Inke.
The Titles of their Satyrs fright some, more
Then Lord have mercy writ upon a doore.
Although his wit was sharp as others, yet
It never wounded; thus a Razer set
In a wise Barbers hand tickles the skin,
And leaves a smooth not carbonaded chin.
So soveraigne was his Phansy, that you'd think
His quickning pen did Balsam drop not Inke.
Read's Elegies and you will see his praise
Doth many soules 'fore th' Resurrection raise.
No venom's in his Book; his very Snake
You may as safely as a Flower take.
There's none needs feare to surfet with his phrase,
He has no Gyant raptures to amaze
And torture weake capacities with wonder:
He (by his Laurell guarded) ne're did Thunder
As those strong bumbast Wits, whose Poetrie
Sounds like a Charme, or Spanish Pedigree.
Who with their Phancy towring 'bove the Sun,
Have in their stile Babells confusion.
If puny eyes doe read their verses, they
Will think 'tis Hebrew writ the English way.
His Lines doe runne smooth as the feet of time;
Each leafe though rich, swells not with gouty rime.
Here is no thrum, or knot; Arachne ne're
Weav'd a more even webb; and as they are
Listed for smoothnesse, so in this againe
That each Thread's spun, and warp'd by his own braine.
We have some Poetasters , who although
They ne're beyond the writing-Schoole did goe,
Sit at Apollo's Table, when as they
But midwives are, not Parents to a Play.
Were they betray'd, they'd be each Coblers scoffe,
Laught at, as one whose Periwig's blown off.
Their Braines lye all in Notes; Lord! how they'd looke
If they should chance to loose their Table-book!
Their Bayes, like Ivy, cannot mount at all
But by some neighbouring tree, or joyning wall.
With what an extasy shall we behold
This Book, which is no Ghost of any old
Wormeaten Authour; heres no jest, or hint,
But had his Head both for it's Ore an' mint.
Wer't not for some Translations, none could know
Whether he had e're look'd in Book or no.
He could discourse of any subject, yet
No cold premeditated sence repeat;
As he that nothing as the Table talkes,
But what was cook'd in's study or the walkes;
Whose wit (like a sun-diall) only can
Goe true in this, or that Meridian .
Each Climate was to him his proper Spheare;
You'd think he had been brought up every where.
Was he at Court? his Complements would be
Rich wrought with Phansies best embroderie;
Which the spruse Gallants Echo like would speake
So oft, as they'd be thread-bare in a weeke.
They lov'd even his Abuses, the same jeere
So witty 'twas, would sting and please their eare.
Read's flowry Pastoralls , and you will sweare
Hee was not Johnsons only, but Pans Heire.
His smooth Amyntas would perswade even me
To think he alwaies liv'd in Sicilie .
Those happier Groves that shaded him, were all
As Trees of knowledge , and Propheticall:
Dodon's were but the type of them, Leaves were
Books in old time, but became Schollers here.
Had he liv'd till Westminster Hall was seen
In Forrest Townes , perhaps he fin'd had been.
Whilst others made Trees Maypoles , he could doe
As Orpheus did, and make them Dancers too.
But these were the light sports of his spare time;
He was as able to dispute, as rime.
And all (two gifts ne're joyn'd before) outwent
As well in Syllogisme as Complement.
Who looks within his clearer Glasse , will say
At once he writ an Ethick Tract and Play .
When he in Cambridge Schooles did moderate ,
(Truth never found a subtler Advocate)
He had as many Auditours, as those
Who preach, their mouths being Silenc'd , through the Nose.
The Grave Divines stood gazing, as if there
In words was colour, or in th' eye an eare:
To heare him they would penetrate each other,
Embrace a Throng, and love a noysome smother.
Though plodding Pates much time and oyle had spent
In beating out an obscure Argument;
He could untie, not break, the subtlest knot
Their puzling Art could weave; nay he had got
The trick on 't so, as if that he had been
Within each Braine, and the nice folding seen.
Who went to th' Schooles Peripateticks , came,
If he disputed, home in Plato's name.
His Oppositions were as Text ; some le'd
With wonder, thought he had not urg'd but read.
Nor was his Judgment all Philosophy;
He was in points of deepe Divinitie
Only Not Doctor; his true Catho'lique Braine
The Learning of a Councell did containe.
But all his Works are lost, his Fire is out;
These are but's Ashes, which were throwne about
And now rak'd up together; all wee have
With pious sacriledge snatch'd from his Grave
Are a few meteours; which may make it se'd
That Tom is yet alive, but Randolph's dead.
Thus when a Merchant posting o'er the sea
With his rich loaden shippe is cast away;
Some light small Wares doe swim unto the shore,
But th' great and solid Prizes ne're rise more.