Classic Poem

And shall it still be so? nor ist more hard
To repaire Pauls than to mend Pauls Churchyard?
Shall still the Youths that walke the Middle .
To what their stomacks before meales, compile
Their sudden volumes, and be neuer barr'd.
From scattering their Bastards through the Yard?
Shall still such fopperie fill vp each Stall,
And neuer come to a due Funerall
In so conuenient a place? It is no wonder
That Pauls so often hath beene strucke with Thunder:
T'was aimed at these Shops, in which there lie
Such a confused World of Trumpery.
Whose Titles each Terme on the Posts are rear'd,
In such abundance, it is to be fear'd
That they in time if thus they goe on, will
Not only Little but Great Britaine fill.
With their infectious Swarmes; whose guilty sheetes,
I haue obserued walking in the streets;
Still lurking neere some Church, as if hereby
They had retired to a Sanctuarie.
For murdring Paper so; as in old time
Persons that had committed some foule crime
Thus sau'd their liues: Each driueling Lozel now
That hath but seene a Colledge , and knows how
To put a number to Iohn Setons Prose,
Starts vp a sudden Muse-man , and streight throws
A Packe of Epigrams into the light,
Whose vndigested mish-mash would affright
The very Ghost of Martiall, and make
Th' Authors of th' Anthologie to quake
Others dare venter a diuiner straine,
And Rime the Bible whose foule Feet profane
That holy ground, that wise-men may decide,
The Bible ne're was more Apochryphide ,
Than by their bold Excursions: ( Bartas, thee ,
And thy Translatours, I absolue thee free
From this my impuration: who in lines,
(Deseruing to be studied by Diuines,)
Didst maske thy Sacred Furie , whose rare wit,
Did make the same another Holy Writ,
Who, be it spoken to thy lasting praise,
Gau'st Sunday rayment to the Working Dayes
Others that ne're search'd new borne Vice at all.
But the seuen deadly Sinnes in generall.
Drawne from the Tractate of some cloyster'd Frier
Will needs write Satyrs, and in raging fire
Exasperate their sharpe Poeticke straine,
And thinke they haue toucht it, if they raile at Spaine,
The Pope and Deuill; and while thus they vrge
Their stinglesse gall, there's none deserue the scourge
More than themselues, whose weaknesse might suffice
To furnish Satyrs and poore Elegies
To runne through all the Pamphlets and the Toyes
Which I haue seene in hands of Victoring Boyes,
To raile at all the merrie Wherrie-Bookes .
Which I haue found in Kitchen-cobweb-nookes:
To reckon vp the verie Titles, which
Doe please new Prentices, the Maids, and rich
Wealth witti'd Loobles, would require a Masse
And Volume, bigger than would load an Asse:
Nor ist their fault alone, they wisely poyse,
How the blinde world doth onely like such Toyes —
A generall Folly reigneth, and harsh Fate
Hath made the World it selfe insatiate:
It hugges these Monsters and deformed things
Better than what Iohnson or Drayton sings:
As in North Villages, where euery line
Of Plumpton Parke is held a worke diuine .
If o're the Chymney they some Ballads haue
Of Cheuy-Chase , or of some branded slaue
Hang'd at Tyborne, they their Mattins make it
And Vespers too, and for the Bible take it.
If a Choise Piece should come into their hand.
T'would be as hatefull as a yellow-band
Was at the first; so if vpon the Wall
They see an Antique in base Postures fall:
As, a Frier blowing wind into the taile
Of a Baboone, or an Ape drinking Ale,
They admire that, when to their view perhaps
If yee should set one of Mercalors Mapps
Or a rare piece of Albert Durer , they
Would hardly sticke to throw the toy away.
And curse the botching Painter; see, alas
The doting world is come vnto this passe.
England is all turn'd Yorkeshire , and the Age
Extremely sottish , or too nicely sage .
To passe a thousand other, doe but looke
Of late how they abus'd the Noble Duke .
What steeled patience could behold those Dawes
Praeuaricate the Muses sacred Lawes,
And blabber forth His Funerall, in Rimes,
I needs must say, much like these wretched Times?
To heare the noselesse Ballad-woman raise
Her sauffling throat to His ill-penned praise:
Or the oft beaten fellow make his mone,
who in the streets is wont to reade Pope Ioane
To see each Wall and publike Post defil'd
With diuers deadly Elegies , compil'd
By a foule swarme of Cuckoes of our Times,
In Lamentable Lachrymentall Rimes:
By this I hope, y'haue wrongd him what you can
By those abortiue Broods of Barbican,
And such like Maguzines of wofull things
Such as I nor the sober Poet sings.
Haue yon yet not to soile His spotlesse life
Ended those begging Chartells to His Wife?
Who, could she but haue rais'd her wofull Eies,
Had thought them Libells and not Elegies
And yee who with more secrecie did write
Lines which you thought too precious for the light
In rescru'd Manuscripts, for shame giue o're
Your hard-strain'd numbers, and disperse no more
Your heauy Rimes, which seeme by quicker Eie
Would make one quite abiure all Poetrie.
And studie Stow and Hollinshed , and make
Tractates of Trauells, or an Almanake:
But sure the names were falsified, nor can
I thinke a Schollar or a Gentleman,
Would doe His Memorie so foule abuse:
Sure t'was some Ballad-broker did traduce
Their Fame, or th' one-leggd varlet who doth sing
His roaring Non-sence , to a triuiall Ring
Of Prentices, about some arrant sent,
Or Boies, who, then leaue a Iacke a Lent
To heare the noise, or women who stand there
And at O-Hone ring forth a readle teare.
Touching the State, Ambassadors or Kings,
My Satyre shall not touch such sacred things;
Nor list I purchase penance at that rate,
As some Spoile-Papers haue deerely done of late
And such as these, whose names are iustly spred
Vnto their shame, are to be pittied.
Rather than blam'd; But to behold the wals
Batter'd with weekely Newes compos'd in Pauls
By some Decaied Captaine , or other Rooks ,
Whose hungry braines compile prodigious Books
Of Bethlem Gabors preparations, and
How termes betwixt him and th' Emperor stand:
Of Denmarke, Swede, Poland and of this and that.
Their Wars, Iars, Stirs and I wote not what:
The Duke of Brunswicke Mansfield and Prince Maurice .
Their Expeditions and what else but true is
Yea of the Belgique state , yet scarcely know
Whether Brabanl be in Christendome or no:
To see such Batter euerie weeke besnieare
Each publike post, and Church dore, and to heare
These shamefull lies , would make a man in spight
Of Nature, turne Satyrist , and write
Reuenging lines, against these shamelesse men ,
Who thus torment both Paper, Presse , and Pen .
Th Impostors that these Trumperies doe vtter
Are, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and ( ... )
Who if they doe not soone these matters meud .
I'le shortly into th' world, a Satyre send,
Who shall Them lash with fierie rods of Steele
That euer after They my ierks may feele.