Classic Poem

THE SCRIBLERS LASHED.

That I thus prostitute my muse
On theme so low, may gain excuse;
When following motives shall be thought on,
Which have this doggrel fury brought on.
I 'm call'd in honour to protect
The fair when treat with disrespect;
Besides, a zeal transports my soul,
Which no constraint can e'er control;
In service of the government,
To draw my pen and satire vent,
Against vile mungrels of Parnassus,
Who through impunity oppress us.
'Tis to correct this scribbling crew,
Who, as in former reigns, so now
Torment the world, and load our time
With jargon cloth'd in wretched rhyme;
Disgrace of numbers! — earth! I hate them:
And as they merit, so I 'll treat them.

And first, these ill-bred things I lash,
ThaThated authors of the trash,
In public spread with little wit,
Much malice, rude, and bootless spite,
Against the sex who have no arms
To shield them from insulting harms,
Except the lightning of their eye,
Which none but such blind dolts defy.

Ungen'rous war! t' attack the fair:
But, ladies, fear not; ye 're the care
Of ev'ry wit of true descent,
At once their song and ornament:
They 'll ne'er neglect the lovely crowd;
But 'spite of all the multitude
Of scribbling fops, assert your cause,
And execute Apollo 's laws:
Apollo, who the bard inspires
With softest thoughts and divine fires;
Than whom, on all the earth, there 's no man
More complaisant to a fine woman.
Such veneration, mixt with love,
Points out a poet from above.
But Zanies, void of sense and merit,
Love, fire, or fancy, wit, or spirit;
Weak, frantic, clownish, and chagreen,
Pretending, prompt by zealous spleen,
T' affront your head-dress, or your bone-fence,
Make printers' presses groan with nonsense:
But while Sol's offspring lives, as soon
Shall they pull down his sister moon.

They with low incoherent stuff,
Dark sense, or none, lines lame and rough,
Without a thought, air, or address,
All the whole loggerhead confess.
From clouded notions in the brain,
They scribble in a cloudy strain;
Desire of verse they reckon wit,
And rhyme without one grain of it.
Then hurry forth in public town
Their scrawls, lest they should be unknown:
Rather than want a fame, they choose
The plague of an infamous muse.
Unthinking, thus the sots aspire,
And raise their own reproach the high'r;
By meddling with the modes and fashions
Of women of politest nations.
Perhaps by this they 'd have it told us,
That in their spirit something bold is,
To challenge those who have the skill,
By charms to save, and frowns to kill.

If not ambition, then 'tis spite
Which makes the puny insects write:
Like old and mouldy maids turn'd sour,
When distant charms have lost their pow'r,
Fly out in loud transports of passion,
When aught that 's new comes first in fashion;
'Till by degrees it creeps right snodly,
On hips and head-dress of the g — y:
Thus they to please the sighing sisters,
Who often beet them in their misters,
With their malicious breath set sail,
And write these silly things they rail.
Pimps! such as you can ne'er extend
A flight of wit, which may amend
Our morals; that 's a plot too nice
For you, to laugh folks out of vice.
Sighing " Oh hey! " ye cry, " Alas!
" This fardingale 's a great disgrace! "
And all, indeed, because an ancle
Or foot is seen, might monarchs mancle;
And makes the wise, with face upright,
Look up, and bless Heav'n for their sight.

In your opinion nothing matches —
O horrid sin! the crime of patches! —
'Tis false, ye clowns; I 'll make 't appear,
The glorious sun does patches wear:
Yea, run thro' all the frame of nature,
You 'll find a patch for ev'ry creature:
Ev'n you yourselves, you blacken'd wretches,
To Heliconians are the patches.

But grant that ladies' modes were ills
To be reform'd, your creeping skills,
Ye rhymers never would succeed,
Who write what the polite ne'er read.
To cure an error of the fair,
Demands the nicest prudent care;
Wit utter'd in a pleasant strain,
A point so delicate may gain:
But that 's a task as far above
Your shallow reach, as I 'm from Jove.

No more then let the world be vexed
With baggage empty and perplexed;
But learn to speak with due respect
Of Peggie's breasts and ivory neck.
Such purblind eyes as yours, 'tis true,
Shou'd ne'er such divine beauties view.
If Nellie's hoop be twice as wide,
As her two pretty limbs can stride;
What then? will any man of sense
Take umbrage, or the least offence,
At what e'en the most modest may
Expose to Phaebus' brightest ray?
Does not the handsome of our city,
The pious, chaste, the kind, and witty,
Who can afford it great and small,
Regard well-shapen fardingale?
And will you, magpyes, make a noise?
You grumble at the ladies' choice!
But leave 't to them, and mothers wise,
Who watch'd their conduct, mien, and guise,
To shape their weeds as fits their ease,
And place their patches as they please.
This should be granted without grudging,
Since we all know they 're best at judging,
What from mankind demands devotion,
In gesture, garb, free airs, and motion.
But you, unworthy of my pen!
Unworthy to be class'd with men!
Haste to Caffar', ye clumsy sots,
And there make love to Hottentots.

Another set with ballads waste
Our paper, and debauch our taste
With endless 'larums on the street,
Where crowds of circling rabble meet.
The vulgar judge of poetry,
By what these hawkers sing and cry;
Yea, some who claim to wit amiss,
Cannot distinguish that from this:
Hence poets are accounted now,
In Scotland, a mean empty crew,
Whose heads are craz'd, who spend their time
In that poor wretched trade of rhyme:
Yet all the learn'd discerning part
Of mankind own the heav'nly art
Is as much distant from such trash
As 'lay'd Dutch coin from sterling cash.

Others in lofty nonsense write,
Incomprehensible 's their flight;
Such magic pow'r is in their pen,
They can bestow on worthless men
More virtue, merit, and renown,
Than ever they cou'd call their own.
They write with arbitrary power,
And pity 'tis they should fall lower;
Or stoop to truth, or yet to meddle
With common sense, for crambo diddle.

But none of all the rhyming herd
Are more encourag'd and rever'd,
By heavy souls to theirs ally'd,
Than such who tell who lately died.
No sooner is the spirit flown
From its clay cage to lands unknown,
Than some rash hackney gets his name,
And thro' the town laments the same:
An honest burgess cannot die,
But they must weep in elegy:
Even when the virtuous soul is soaring
Thro' middle air, he hears it roaring.

These ills, and many more abuses,
Which plague mankind, and vex the muses,
On pain of poverty shall cease,
And all the fair shall live in peace:
And every one shall die contented,
Happy when not by them lamented.
For great Apollo, in his name,
Has order'd me thus to proclaim:

" Forasmuch as a grov'ling crew,
" With narrow mind, and brazen brow,
" Wou'd fain to poet's title mount,
" And with vile maggots rub affront
" On an old virtuoso nation,
" Where our lov'd Nine maintain their station;
" We order strict, that all refrain
" To write, who learning want, and brain;
" Pedants, with Hebrew roots o'ergrown,
" Learn'd in each language but their own;
" Each spiritless half-starving sinner,
" Who knows not how to get his dinner;
" Dealers in small ware, clinks, whim-whams,
" Acrostics, puns, and anagrams;
" And all who their productions grudge,
" To be canvass'd by skilful judge,
" Who can find out indulgent trip,
" While 'tis in harmless manuscript:
" But to all them who disobey,
" And jog on still in their own way,
" Be 't kend to all men that our will is,
" Since all they write so wretched ill is,
" They must dispatch their shallow ghosts
" To Pluto's jakes, and take their posts,
" There to attend till Dis shall deign
" To use their works — the use is plain. "

Now know, ye scoundrels, if ye stand
To huph and ha at this command,
The furies have prepar'd a halter,
To hang, or drive ye helter skelter,
Thro' bogs and moors, like rats and mice,
Pursu'd with hunger, rags, and lice,
If e'er ye dare again to croak,
And god of harmony provoke:
Wherefore pursue some craft for bread,
Where hands may better serve than head;
Nor ever hope in verse to shine,
Or share in Homer's fate or — — .