[Footnote 128: 'Old fanatic:' Century White, a vehement writer on the Puritan side.]

[Footnote 129: 'Toby's:' Tobit; see Apocrypha.]

[Footnote 130: 'A plain good man:' a character of King James II.]

[Footnote 131: 'Doves:' the clergy of the Church of England, and other religions dissenting from that of Rome.]

[Footnote 132: 'Another farm,' &c.: this alludes to the Popish priests, whom the king particularly favoured.]

[Footnote 133: 'Chanticleers:' friars.]

[Footnote 134: 'Partlet:' nuns.]

[Footnote 135: 'A law:' penal laws against Popish recusants.]

[Footnote 136: 'Wicked weed:' the Test Act.]

[Footnote 137: 'Buzzard:' Bishop Burnet.]

[Footnote 138: 'College of the bees:' College of Physicians.]

MAC FLECKNOE.[139]

All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long; In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.

This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase; Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state: 10 And, pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, Cried, 'Tis resolved; for nature pleads, that he Should only rule, who most resembles me.

Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years: Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 20 Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.

Heywood and Shirley[140] were but types of thee, Thou last great prophet of tautology. 30 Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, Was sent before but to prepare thy way; And, coa.r.s.ely clad in Norwich drugget, came To teach the nations in thy greater name.

My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung, When to king John of Portugal I sung, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way, With well-timed oars before the royal barge, Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40 And big with hymn, commander of an host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.

Methinks I see the new Arion sail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.

At thy well-sharpen'd thumb, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e The trebles squeak for fear, the ba.s.ses roar: Echoes from p.i.s.sing-Alley, Shadwell call, And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.

About thy boat the little fishes throng, As at the morning toast that floats along. 50 Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.

St Andre's[141] feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's[142] rhyme: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology, they fell, That, pale with envy, Singleton[143] forswore The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

Here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept for joy, 60 In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.

All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, That for anointed dulness he was made.

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind (The fair Augusta much to fears inclined), An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight, There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: A watch-tower once; but now, so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains: From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, 70 Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep.

Near these a Nursery[144] erects its head, Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred; Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry, Where infant punks their tender voices try, And little Maximins the G.o.ds defy.

Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; 80 But gentle Simkin[145] just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: Pure clinches the suburban muse affords, And Panton[146] waging harmless war with words.

Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne.

For ancient Decker[147] prophesied long since, That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense: To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe, 90 But worlds of Misers[148] from his pen should flow; Humourists and hypocrites it should produce, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.[149]

Now Empress Fame had publish'd the renown Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.

Roused by report of fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street.

No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: From dusty shops neglected authors come, 100 Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the b.u.m.

Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby[150] there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way.

Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepared, And Herringman[151] was captain of the guard.

The h.o.a.ry prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.

At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.

His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, 110 And lambent dulness play'd around his face.

As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his fire, a mortal foe to Rome; So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dulness would maintain; And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.

The king himself the sacred unction made, As king by office, and as priest by trade.

In his sinister hand, instead of ball, 120 He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; Love's Kingdom[152] to his right he did convey, At once his sceptre and his rule of sway; Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young, And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung.

His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head.

Just at the point of time, if fame not lie, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.

So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, 130 Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.

The admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take.

The sire then shook the honours of his head, And from his brows damps of oblivion shed, Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, Repelling from his breast the raging G.o.d; At length burst out in this prophetic mood:

Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140 Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne; Beyond Love's kingdom let him stretch his pen!-- He paused, and all the people cried, Amen.

Then thus continued he: My son, advance Still in new impudence, new ignorance.

Success let others teach, learn thou from me Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.

Let Virtuosos[153] in five years be writ; Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 150 Let gentle George[154] in triumph tread the stage, Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; Let Cully, c.o.c.kwood, Fopling, charm the pit, And in their folly show the writer's wit.

Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, And justify their author's want of sense.

Let them be all by thy own model made Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid; That they to future ages may be known, Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 160 Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, All full of thee, and differing but in name.

But let no alien Sedley[155] interpose, To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.[156]

And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull, Trust nature, do not labour to be dull; But write thy best, and top; and, in each line, Sir Formal's[157] oratory will be thine: Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, And does thy northern dedications fill. 170 Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame, By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.

Let Father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part: What share have we in nature, or in art?

Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, And rail at arts he did not understand?

Where made he love in prince Nicander's[158] vein, Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain? 180 Where sold he bargains, whip-st.i.tch, kiss my a--e, Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce?

When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?

But so transfused, as oil and waters flow, His always floats above, thine sinks below.

This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, New humours to invent for each new play: This is that boasted bias of thy mind, By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined: 190 Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.

A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.

Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.

With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write, Thy inoffensive satires never bite. 200 In thy felonious heart though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.

Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command, Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.

There thou mayst wings display and altars[159] raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.

Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. 210

He said; but his last words were scarcely heard: For Bruce and Longville[160] had a trap prepared, And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.

Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.

The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 139: 'Mac Flecknoe:' Richard Flecknoe, from whom this poem derives its name, was an Irish priest, and author of plays.]