Classic Poem

An epistle to the Right Honourable Phillip, Earl of Chesterfield, Occasion'd by “THE HONEST YORKSHIREMAN” being rejected at Drury Lane Playhouse and since acted at other Theatres with Universal Applause

 O Chesterfield, my patron and my pride,
In whom does all that's great and good reside;
Noble by birth, by liberal arts refin'd,
Delight of Heav'n, and darling of mankind;
The publick patriot and the private friend,
To curb th'oppressor and th'oppress'd defend,
To hated indolence no more impute
The muse's silence, if hereafter mute;
She quits her former toils for future ease,
And checks that genius which, perhaps, might please.

 'Tis time my fruitless labours to decline,
When all men's work can climb the stage but mine;
When, in my stead, behold a motley herd
Of upstart witlings to myself preferr'd.

 Not so when Booth, Wilks, Cibber rul'd the stage,
Dramatick ornaments of this our age;
My small attempts to please were then approv'd,
And not for ev'ry trifling farce remov'd.
Booth ever shew'd me friendship and respect,
And Wilks would rather forward than reject.
Ev'n Cibber, terror of the scribbling crew,
Would oft solicit me for something new.

 Now younger rulers younger authors take,
Not for their merit, but for cheapness' sake;
These handy hirelings can, in half a day,
Steal a new Ballad Farce from some old play,
To mangl'd scraps of many an ancient tune
Tagg feetless jingle, jarring and jejune;
The jaded players with equal haste rehearse,
Till sing-song limps to horrid, hobbling verse.

 Tho' blunder follows blunder, line by line,
The squire is taught to think 'tis wond'rous fine.
It suits his taste, he gives his plaudit voice,
And shows his understanding in his choice,
Framing conceptions both of men and things
Just as Sir Figg directs his leading strings.

 Sir Figg, grand master of the double sneer,
Who, when he most deceives, seems most sincere;
Dissembler born, but much improv'd by art,
A friendly aspect, an infernal heart;
The mischievous, the busy go-between,
Easy squire Amb's-Ace, and fly Harlequin;
Who, like two wrangling counsellers at bar,
In publick seem to contradict and jar,
But yet in private like dear friends caress,
And form designs poor players to distress.

 Woe to the stage if once their schemes succeed;
Actors will then be abject slaves indeed:
Poets had better lay their pens aside
Than tamely truckle to stage tyrants' pride.
Who, vain and partial, keep old authors down,
To force their own low trump'ry on the town.

 Why to such wretches should I yield my cause,
So lately honour'd with so much applause?
My little ballads still on ev'ry tongue
Are in politest conversation sung;
Nor can severest censure trace one line
That tends to vice in any verse of mine.
To please and yet instruct is all my aim,
Let venal poetasters boast the same,
Whose utmost views are to corrupt the taste,
To sooth the vicious, and to shock the chaste,
And quite estrang'd from any sense of shame,
Make women speak what rakes wou'd blush to name;
Then in excuse plead nothing else goes down—
A wretched compliment upon the town.

 Wretched as false—The town's not so deprav'd,
Were authors and were actors less enslav'd;
Could one good piece be suffer'd to appear
The town would gladly lend a candid ear;
Prefer pure nature and the simple scene
To all the monkey tricks of Harlequin:
The Man of Taste proves this assertion true;
We want what's rational as well as new.

 But this declension of the British stage
Booth, Britain's Roscius, justly did presage;
That rules dramatick, humour, taste, and wit
Must to that monster Pantomime submit;
Yet Pantomime, in all its grandeur drest,
Is but a pompous puppet show at best.

 Then farewell stage! Be business now my boast,
With what was irksome, once delighted most;
Pleas'd and contented with my little store,
I scorn to prostitute my muse for more.

 Alas! what fame, what gain can I propose,
When others father fast as I compose?
To such a pitch is pert presumption grown,
'Tis well if this poor piece be thought my own.
So, when long since, in simple sonnet lays,
I made the 'prentice sing his Sally's praise
Tho' rude numbers, yet the subject mov'd;
Immortal Addison the lay approv'd;
Then prejudice with envy did combine;
Because 'twas good, 'twas thought too good for mine.

 So common fate did various authors chuse
To Namby-Pamby , offspring of my muse,
Till Pope, who ever prov'd to truth a friend,
With gen'rous ardour did my cause defend;
Trac'd me obscure, and in detraction's spite,
Display'd me in a more conspicuous light.

 To mention more wou'd prove a needless task.
Why should they not be mine? that's all I ask.
Because I'm chearful, unreserv'd, and free,
Can nothing good or new proceed from me?
What have I done injurious to mankind,
My works must be to other men assign'd?

 Well, let 'em go, I all my right resign,
Entirely easy had they not been mine;
Yet this reflection consolates my fate,
I see my error e'er it proves too late.

 No more half maz'd I hurry thro' the town,
With magazines of projects in my crown,
While pyrate printers rob me of my gain,
And reap the labour'd harvest of my brain.
Like other men I walk a common pace,
Nor run thro' London one continu'd race;
But know when, where, and what I am to do;
You'll think it strange, my Lord, but yet 'tis true.

 Thrice welcome, sweet tranquillity of mind!
I now a measure in contentment find;
Can labour or relax whene'er I please,
And boast I've once enjoy'd a moment's ease;
Of all a mod'rate man can wish possest,
But most in such a godlike patron blest,
Beneath the sacred sanction of whose name,
I build my present peace, my future fame.