The 10th Satyr of the 1st Book
Nempe incomposito dixi pede, etc.
Well, sir, 'tis granted I said Dryden's rhymes
Were stol'n, unequal, nay dull, many times.
What foolish patron is there found of his
So blindly partial to deny me this?
But that his plays, embroidered up and down,
With wit and learning justly pleased the town,
In the same paper I as freely own.
Yet having this allowed, the heavy mass
That stuffs up his loose volumes must not pass.
For by that rule I might as well admit
Crowne's tedious scenes for poetry and wit.
'Tis therefore not enough when your false sense
Hits the false judgment of an audience
Of clapping fools, assembling a vast crowd,
Till the thronged playhouse crack with the dull load.
Though e'en that talent merits in some sort
That can divert the rabble and the court,
Which blund'ring Settle never could attain,
And puzzling Otway labors at in vain.
But within due proportion circumscribe
Whate'er you write, that with a flowing tide
The style may rise, yet in its rise forbear
With useless words t' oppress the wearied ear.
Here be your language lofty, there more light;
Your rhetoric with your poetry unite.
For elegance' sake sometimes allay the force
Of epithets: 'twill soften the discourse.
A jest in scorn points out and hits the thing
More home than the morosest satire's sting.
Shakespeare and Jonson did herein excell
And might in this be imitated well,
Whom refined Eth'rege copies not at all,
But is himself a sheer original,
Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipped with loose reins.
When Lee makes temp'rate Scipio fret and rave,
And Hannibal a whining, am'rous slave,
I laugh and wish the hot-brained fustian fool
In Busby's hands, to be well lashed at school.
Of all our modern wits none seems to me
Once to have touched upon true comedy
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley.
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of nature, none of art.
With just, bold strokes he dashes here and there,
Showing great mastery with little care,
And scorns to varnish his good touches o'er
To make the fools and women praise 'em more.
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains.
He wants no judgment nor he spares no pains.
He frequently excels, and at the least
Makes fewer faults than any of the best.
Waller, by nature for the bays designed,
With force and fire and fancy unconfined,
In panegyrics does excel mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things
To praise great conquerors or to flatter kings.
For pointed satires I would Buckhurst choose,
The best good man with the worst-natured muse,
For songs and verses mannerly obscene
That can stir nature up by springs unseen
And without forcing blushes warm the queen.
Sedley has that prevailing gentle art
That can with a resistless charm impart
The loosest wishes to the chastest heart,
Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire,
Betwixt declining virtue and desire,
Till the poor vanquished maid dissolves away
In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day.
Dryden in vain tried this nice way of wit,
For he to be a tearing blade thought fit,
But when he would be sharp he still was blunt,
To frisk his frolic fancy he'd cry " c — ! "
Would give the ladies a dry, bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab.
But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found,
His excellencies more than faults abound,
Nor dare I from his sacred temples tear
That laurel which he best deserves to wear.
But does not Dryden find e'en Jonson dull,
Fletcher and Beaumont incorrect and full
Of lewd lines (as he call them); Shakespeare's style
Stiff and affected, to his own the while
Allowing all the justness that his pride
So arrogantly had to these denied?
And may not I have leave impartially
To search and censure Dryden's works and try
If those gross faults his choice pen does commit
Proceed from want of judgment or of wit;
Or if his lumpish fancy does refuse
Spirit and grace to his loose slattern muse?
Five hundred verses every morning writ
Prove you no more a poet than a wit.
Such scribbling authors have been seen before:
Mustapha, The English Princes , forty more,
Were things perhaps composed in half an hour.
To write what may securely stand the test
Of being well read over, thrice at least
Compare each phrase, examine ev'ry line,.
Weigh ev'ry word, and ev'ry thought refine.
Scorn all applause the vile rout can bestow
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain, mistaken thing
To wish thy works might make a playhouse ring
With the unthinking laughter and poor praise
Of fops and ladies, factious for thy plays?
Then send a cunning friend to learn thy doom
From the shrewd judges in the drawing room.
I've no ambition on that idle score,
But say with Betty Morrice, heretofore,
When a court lady called her Bulkeley's whore,
" I please one man of wit, am proud on 't, too!
Let all the coxcombs dance to bed to you. "
Should I be troubled when the purblind knight,
Who squints more in his judgment than his sight,
Picks silly faults and censures what I write?
Or when the poor-fed poets of the town,
For scraps and coachroom cry my verses down?
I loathe the rabble: 'tis enough for me
If Sedley, Shadwell, Sheppard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And some few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my sense. I count their censure fame.
Nempe incomposito dixi pede, etc.
Well, sir, 'tis granted I said Dryden's rhymes
Were stol'n, unequal, nay dull, many times.
What foolish patron is there found of his
So blindly partial to deny me this?
But that his plays, embroidered up and down,
With wit and learning justly pleased the town,
In the same paper I as freely own.
Yet having this allowed, the heavy mass
That stuffs up his loose volumes must not pass.
For by that rule I might as well admit
Crowne's tedious scenes for poetry and wit.
'Tis therefore not enough when your false sense
Hits the false judgment of an audience
Of clapping fools, assembling a vast crowd,
Till the thronged playhouse crack with the dull load.
Though e'en that talent merits in some sort
That can divert the rabble and the court,
Which blund'ring Settle never could attain,
And puzzling Otway labors at in vain.
But within due proportion circumscribe
Whate'er you write, that with a flowing tide
The style may rise, yet in its rise forbear
With useless words t' oppress the wearied ear.
Here be your language lofty, there more light;
Your rhetoric with your poetry unite.
For elegance' sake sometimes allay the force
Of epithets: 'twill soften the discourse.
A jest in scorn points out and hits the thing
More home than the morosest satire's sting.
Shakespeare and Jonson did herein excell
And might in this be imitated well,
Whom refined Eth'rege copies not at all,
But is himself a sheer original,
Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipped with loose reins.
When Lee makes temp'rate Scipio fret and rave,
And Hannibal a whining, am'rous slave,
I laugh and wish the hot-brained fustian fool
In Busby's hands, to be well lashed at school.
Of all our modern wits none seems to me
Once to have touched upon true comedy
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley.
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of nature, none of art.
With just, bold strokes he dashes here and there,
Showing great mastery with little care,
And scorns to varnish his good touches o'er
To make the fools and women praise 'em more.
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains.
He wants no judgment nor he spares no pains.
He frequently excels, and at the least
Makes fewer faults than any of the best.
Waller, by nature for the bays designed,
With force and fire and fancy unconfined,
In panegyrics does excel mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things
To praise great conquerors or to flatter kings.
For pointed satires I would Buckhurst choose,
The best good man with the worst-natured muse,
For songs and verses mannerly obscene
That can stir nature up by springs unseen
And without forcing blushes warm the queen.
Sedley has that prevailing gentle art
That can with a resistless charm impart
The loosest wishes to the chastest heart,
Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire,
Betwixt declining virtue and desire,
Till the poor vanquished maid dissolves away
In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day.
Dryden in vain tried this nice way of wit,
For he to be a tearing blade thought fit,
But when he would be sharp he still was blunt,
To frisk his frolic fancy he'd cry " c — ! "
Would give the ladies a dry, bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab.
But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found,
His excellencies more than faults abound,
Nor dare I from his sacred temples tear
That laurel which he best deserves to wear.
But does not Dryden find e'en Jonson dull,
Fletcher and Beaumont incorrect and full
Of lewd lines (as he call them); Shakespeare's style
Stiff and affected, to his own the while
Allowing all the justness that his pride
So arrogantly had to these denied?
And may not I have leave impartially
To search and censure Dryden's works and try
If those gross faults his choice pen does commit
Proceed from want of judgment or of wit;
Or if his lumpish fancy does refuse
Spirit and grace to his loose slattern muse?
Five hundred verses every morning writ
Prove you no more a poet than a wit.
Such scribbling authors have been seen before:
Mustapha, The English Princes , forty more,
Were things perhaps composed in half an hour.
To write what may securely stand the test
Of being well read over, thrice at least
Compare each phrase, examine ev'ry line,.
Weigh ev'ry word, and ev'ry thought refine.
Scorn all applause the vile rout can bestow
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain, mistaken thing
To wish thy works might make a playhouse ring
With the unthinking laughter and poor praise
Of fops and ladies, factious for thy plays?
Then send a cunning friend to learn thy doom
From the shrewd judges in the drawing room.
I've no ambition on that idle score,
But say with Betty Morrice, heretofore,
When a court lady called her Bulkeley's whore,
" I please one man of wit, am proud on 't, too!
Let all the coxcombs dance to bed to you. "
Should I be troubled when the purblind knight,
Who squints more in his judgment than his sight,
Picks silly faults and censures what I write?
Or when the poor-fed poets of the town,
For scraps and coachroom cry my verses down?
I loathe the rabble: 'tis enough for me
If Sedley, Shadwell, Sheppard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And some few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my sense. I count their censure fame.