Classic Poem

Happy are they in Amorous Fields, that Rove
And Sing no other Songs then those of love;
Whose Verses treat of nought but careless ease,
And in their Sonnets only strive to please:
Nature at first to men ne're arts did give,
But all untaught knew only how to live;
That word call'd Faction in a sullen Mood
Did hide its Face, or 'twas not understood:
But fleeting fate doth various Faces show,
And seasons change: and why mai'nt Mortals too?
To Fame or Infamy all men are born
And he's an Asse let's slip the lucky turn.
But who to power by Fate were ne're design'd,
And yet endued with ambitious Mind
Will Natures precept break, and Gods wont own
Will ransack Temples, pull the Alters down,
Slander the Subject, and abuse the Crown.
So to our Plague a Factious Party's come,
The infantry of old Rebellious Rome ,
And 'cause the Whelps for Hells intrigues should bawl,
The Devil came and dub'd them Tories all;
A party in the dismal Book of doom
Was damn'd e're made for all their sins to come.
This numerous Progeny doth fill our Thames
As Frogs and Toads abound in Nilus streams,
And just like those the same effect they bring;
They Crawl from thence to Chambers of our King ;
That was a single plague on Egypts men,
But this on us may vye with all their Ten .
This party first by close designs did rise,
By Plots, by Shams, and other forgeries,
'Til by immortal lies, immortal made
Sweetly sat down in Royal favours shade,
Where they their canting dirges sit and sing,
And every Puny Tory is a King .
Their Plot found out and dying 'gan to fail,
Oeths would not do; and shams would not prevail:
Now for a Cordial all begin to strive,
To fetch their dying Plot again to life:
Their former Evidences were dull tools,
And all their subtle Jesuites were but fools,
But next to the keen Wits thev do address,
And they must Charm it up again in Verse.
The first they do Petition' s Mr. Bays ,
So much extoll'd by Fools and vulgar Praise;
By lewd lascivious Verses, bawdy Rhymes,
Dubb'd the sweet singing Poet of the times;
He the black Paths of Sin had travell'd o're
And found out Vices all unknown before,
To sins once hid in shades of gloomy Night,
He gave new Lustre and reduc'd to Light.
His Muse was prostitute upon the Stage,
And' s Wife was Prostitute to all the age:
The Wife is Rich although the Husband Poor,
And he not honest, and she is a Whore,
An ill, deformed, senceless earthly load,
And he the Monster of the Muses road;
His shapeless Body hangs an hundred ways
The Poet looks just like a heap of Plays;
You shall not find through all the buzzing Town
So Ungentile, Unmannerly a Clown:
Though ugly, yet he vents a pleasing strain
For Nature never made a thing in vain.
If not for Priest, for States-man he may do;
Bless us! are Poets Polititians too?
Or are the Muses mad and in their Heat
Send out their Poets Officers of State?
Or are the Lawyers Drunk and think it fit
That reason yeild to that lewd thing, a Wit?
But private factious Plotters never heed
If their designs go on, who do the deed:
So engine Bays , the Tory-Plot to save
He first turns Fool , and then commences Knave ;
But yet (methinks) I hear him e're he chuse
In private parley with his Fustian Muse ,
Base Muse! he says, with impudence can'st sing?
In scornful lines can'st thou revile a King?
With inky Clouds of lyes, can'st thou obscure
An Hero's Glory infinitely pure?
Can'st thou call Politicians Fops and Fools?
Can'st ridicule the Arts of learned Schools?
Can'st dress up folly in a Garb so fit
That amongst Madmen it may pass for wit?
His Muse accustom'd to such tricks as these
Gave her consent by holding of her Peace.
But he replied, — — —
Base abject slave to any of the Town
Who e're but Fops and Fools gave thee renown?
Can'st thou abuse that youthful Hero's fame,
That wide as the vast World hath spread his name?
When he from Mastricht warlike Trophies bore,
Vollies of Praises eccho'd on the Shoar;
Then every Brave his Offering did prepare
And Sacrifices to this God of War,
Then Jo Peans by our Swains were sung,
And Peals of Triumph through our Cities rung;
But now his honour' s sullied and forgot
And all his Glory poyson'd with a Plot,
Here hold, ingrate, recal his love to thee,
When fleg'd with Guynies he did let thee fly,
Impt with his favour thou didst dare the brave
And every other Poet was thy Slave;
Think! with indulgent Grace 'tis he hath been
The only Patron of thy Maximin;
Where then thine accents lies or didst thou feign,
And only complement to draw in Coin;
So when to Damn was in her graces power,
She kindly smil'd on th' Indian Emperor
Though drest in silly Fustion he did go
In ugglier Cloaths then e're at Mexico;
So basely scratcht by thy corroding Pen,
The Indians would scarce know their Prince again,
Poor Montezuma in no hands secure
Creeps to her Alcove for a perfect cure,
There having Scan'd the sence of every line
She hug'd the nasty Indian 'cause 'twas thine
Then cheering up he ended the dispute;
Muses like Monarchs still are absolute;
Tempted by Gold, he lets his Satyr fly,
And swears that all within its Tallons dye;
He Huffs; and Struts, and Cocks an hundred ways,
And damns the Whiggs 'cause they did damn his Plays.
So raging once 'twas thought himself he'd stab'd
'Cause Rochester Baptis'd him Poet Squab .
And he had don't but that he'd vow'd before
After R ose-alley drubs he'd ne're use weapon more
When Coin is spent he sooths the baser Cit;
And lives on his old stock his mother wit;
Rubs up his rusty Muse and looks as big
As Crow in Gutter or ten penny Pig.
A Common-wealth he cryeth up to day,
To morrow Preacheth Arbitrary sway;
Lampoons the Prince , praises a Tyrants Laws
And giveth Lust and Zeal the same applause;
And in one Breath, so quick his fancies be
He can speak Treason, and fart Loyalty;
From such fleet wills kind Heaven deliver me!
Read but his Plays and what else e're he writ
You'l find but little Judgment and less Wit;
If he dull Ravenscroft by chance excel
Thanks to old Nokes that humours it so well;
Thanks to the Scenes and Musick for his Wit
Thanks to the Whores lie squeeking in the Pit,
That Bullies cannot hear, yet praise the Fact
And bravely Clap the Actor not the Act .
Shadwel and Settle are both Fools to Bays ,
They have no bawdy Prologues to their Plays;
These silly Villains under a pretence
Of wit, deceive us and like men write sence.
Alas! says Bays , what are your Wits to me?
Chapman's a sad dul Rogue at Comedy ;
Shirley's an Ass to write at such a rate
But I excel the whole Triumverate:
In all my worthy Plays shew if you can
Such a rough Character as Solyman;
But though I have no Plot, and Verse be rough,
I say 'tis Wit, and that sure is enough.
The Lawrel makes a Wit; a Brave, the Sword;
And all are wise men at a Councel board;
S — le's a Coward, 'cause fool Ot — y fought him,
And Mul — ve is a Wit because I taught him.
So Hectors Bay 'til one would think 'twas fit
That none but Fools should write or judge of Wit;
His pigmie wit, and little infant sence
Rightly defin'd is nought but impudence;
His lines are weak, though of lewd Catches full
And naught is strong about him but his Scull.
The brave defensive headpeice of a Fool.
Of all mean Hackney Jades, 'de never use
This Mercenary party couler'd Muse,
Who e're beholds he strait must needs confess
She' s clad at once in home and forreign dress.
Read Dry — ns plays, and read Corneille 's too,
You'l swear the Frenchman speaks good English now,
'Mongst borrowed Sense some airy flashes drop,
To please the feeble Females and the Fop,
So soft and gentle flourishes do move,
The weak admiring Maid, and fire Love;
Quickens the dizzy Soul with Love beset,
And tamely draws it to the Golden Net,
Stupid it lies, and senceless of its pain,
And kindly kisses the bewitching Chain;
Cupid 's the God; and Love is all the Song
The blest Elyfium of the sportful young,
But eas'd of this so kind, so grateful pain,
And brought unto it's former sense again,
The glimmering Lamp is lustre once so bright,
Looks like the Torches of eternal night,
The amorous paths with sweets inchanted strown,
Looks like Acyna when her paint was gone:
That wit upon the Stage cry'd up to day,
To morrow in the Closet's thrown away;
Wit, tho with glory it may chance to rise,
And mounting seem to kiss the very skies,
Yet if above the bounds of Sense it get,
It is all wind, and is no longer wit:
But Bay in all his wit is stanch and sound,
Tho in it all there's no proportion found;
But what he speaks or writes, or does amiss,
It is all wit; but why? because 'tis his;
'Tis wit in him, if he all Sense oppose,
'Twas wit in D'avenant too to lose his Nose,
If so, then Bays is D'avenants wisest Son,
After so many claps to keep his on.

But who but Fools would praise dull Ot — ys strains,
Compos'd with little wit and lesser pains;
Whose fiery face doth dart as hot a ray,
As the fierce warmer of a Summers day,
Whose very looks would drive the Fiends away.
He may so painted with the juice of Vines,
Turn his Invectives to the praise of Wines,
Love is a piteous God, and Honour's grown,
To such a height it is almost unknown;
Immortal beauty drown'd in quiet lies,
And spends all its charms on its owners Eyes;
But Wine do's now the Poets breast inspire,
Wine, that doth kindle all our youthful fire
Wine; that makes Ot — y write and Fools admire,
His Verse of Wine stinks worse than bawdy Punk
For he never writes a Verse but when he is drunk;
Sure thou wast drunk, when in Pindarick strain,
'Gainst Libels didst thy dull Muse complain:
But why didst term it Satyr? Satyr tart
And piercing Verse, that wounds unto the heart;
But thou got dully drunk ore a Pint Pot,
Forget's thy Subject like a drunken Sot,
And 'stead of Satyr didst unto the praise
Of those that beat the Dutch a Poem raise;
The drowzy, heavy Hollander as well
May chant his Poems, and his Fortunes tell,
Their Fleet as good, their men as strong as ours,
The difference lyes but in the Governors,
Theirs only win by Guns, by Ships, by might,
Ours grew Politicians in the fight;
And with their tricks at Land did them perplex,
By building awful Sconces on their decks,
Environ'd round with sturdy Cable stood,
Defying bullets still maintain'd the fight;
Thy brains immur'd with a thick Scull as good,
As bravely dost this bravest act recite:
As Castlemain the Victory doth rehearse
In falsest Prose, thou dost confirm in Verse:
So when 'twas in Dispute in lowest shades,
(Where the foyl'd Seamen in new Rivers wades)
Who justly should the warlike Trophies bear,
Whether the English or the Hollander .
Some Ships of ours did meerly out of spight
Dive down to prove it was our lawful right
Kind hearted Ot — y , that does Garlands give
To beaten Seamen, while thy self dost greive
Languish and Pine and no man will allow
Nought; but a wreath of Hemp t'adorn thy brow
Ah! but with bawdy Plays and Prologues lewd
Thou hast the art to please the multitude;
The claping rable that on your third days
Come to extol and clap your silly Plays,
Worse then a Sodoms Farce or Smithfield Droll ,
Nothing so Beastly, Baudy, or so dull:
If Ignoramus Juries once be nam'd
(That thredbare Subject on the Stage so fam'd)
'Tis tost about with Claps and praiseful knocks
'Til't bound from Knaves in Pit , to Fools in Box .
Such stupid humours now the Gallants seize
Women and Boys may write and yet may please
Poetess Afra though she's damn'd to day
To morrow will put up another Play;
And Ot — y must be Pimp to set her off,
Lest the enraged Bully scoul and scoff,
And hiss, and laugh, and give not such applause
To th' City-heresie as the good Old Cause .
You're baulkt worse there then at a City Feast
To part with stolen half-Crown for — — no jest;
Sham treats you may have paid for o're and o're,
But who e're paid for a Sham-Play before?
Tories are just, and give the Devil his due,
Won't damn a Poets Play, because 'tis new,
Because it treats of Whiggs and tells fine stories
To please the monkey Courtiers little Tories
Tells how the Whiggs with might and force repair
To build damn'd stony Castles in the air
From whence the Court Hobgoblings they will slay
With Guns-invented since full many a day;
How by their necromantick arts they raise
Fortyfied Cetadels in all by-ways,
Millions of Souldiers lodg in hives like Bees,
And many millions more in hollow trees,
Where for a fit occasion they do wait
To break the pocky Courtiers maggot-pate;
The Poet by such Tales gets coin for Writing
And makes the Coward Tory think of Fighting,
For fear of which he stoutly falls to shiting
Tis well for you, ye Poets of the Stage?
You live in so nonsensical an Age,
When every Pun is Term'd a lucky hit,
The happy product of a Tories Wit;
Base awkard Age! accurst by Destiny
When wit does cease and Piety do's dy,
Your Zeal is cold, your Frolicks all are mad,
Nay your Debauches sottishly as bad:
The former age, that vices all pursu'd,
Conniv'd at Sins and wickedly ran lewd,
Tho drown'd in lewdness, and their Pastimes had
As much of Lust, they wittily were mad.
Did but Ben. Johnson know how Follies rise
Swell and look big, how Poets do despise
The lawful charms of wit, and spend their days
In bawdy Prologues and licentious Plays,
He'd bid adieu to th' Elysian Field,
Gay with the splendour that the Muses yield,
And to the dusky world again repair,
To suck the thicker blasts of earthly air,
He'd leave his softer Rhymes, and would dispense
A hoarser sound, he'd Satirist commence
And try to lash the Ideots into Sence.
Such Vices now amongst the Poets Reign,
The very Fops do of their Faults complain:
Dead POETS Ashes in their Tombs do grieve,
And to rebuke their crimes do seem to live.
Spencers old bones about do toss and turn
With Indignation kicks his rusty Urn.
When great Cowly 's Tomb the Ladies walk
And of the modern Poesie do talk,
His stately Urn doth bow its drooping Head,
And modest blushes ore the Marble spread,
As if asham'd of his Posterity,
A base, degenerate, sottish Progeny.

D — fey comes next in Verse ten thousand strong,
A Devillish Poet for a bawdy Song;
Begot when lecherous Planets rul'd the skies,
And Madam Venus bright did tyranize:
When Civil Wars produc'd a monstrous Birth,
And dismal Discord triumph'd ore the Earth;
For pray, what vice atchiev'd by Cains curst Stem,
Or deadly Sin, that is not found in him;
As Toads spue poyson he doth Libels vent,
Of Villany the very Excrement;
A brave Court mixture; for he is at once,
A Debauchee, Buffoon , a Knave , a Dunce ,
Here hold my Muse! the Task's too hard for thee,
To bow so low, even below Infamy:
Thou never yet to write with dirt hadst skill,
Or from a Dunghill tookst a stinking quill;
Of three base silly Poets thou hast sung,
A minute on their borders is too long,
Retire unto thy pleasant former lays,
While these like peevish asps keep on their ways;
And briskly bear unto th' Elysian shades,
One Ounce of Brains in three great Loggerheads.
Desist I say! while some old Bard relate,
Their baser facts, and of their actions prate.
Let Fop the Courtier, Negroe paint the Moor ,
The Fool , the Fidler , and the Bawd , the Whore .
Like Vice Reformers weary of the pain,
Of Lashing still and yet they lash in vain,
My Muse the Court will leave, contemn the Stage,
A long Farewell to so prophane an Age:
Debaucht to Lust, to Avarice and Pride,
Who'de be condemn'd to Court or City Pews,
Be damn'd to nonsence and the stink of Stews;
To wait for Pensions who would take delight,
And be at last but a sham'd Favourite,
Who'de purchase Favour by perfidious Oaths,
Or pawn his Conscience for to buy him cloaths,
And when at brightest shine but like the light
Of Ignis fatuus in a misty night,
Caught with the Glory of the spangl'd skies,
Starts up from earth and in a moment dies.
When on immortal woods! Shall I be made
The Joyous Tenant of your happy shade,
Where Envy and Ambition are kept down,
And harmless Innocence doth wear the Crown;
Where heads of sturdy Oakes do courtly bow,
And stooping Pines do make their Honours too;
Where gladsom Poets with the Muses sing,
While all the beauteous Nymphs daunce in a ring;
Where all alike enjoy the Rural sport,
Free from those painted Cares, that do attend a Court.