And coarsely 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-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of a 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 shore to shore
The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar:

About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time†
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme;
Though they in number as in sense excel :
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton 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
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. [joy,
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 inclin'd,)
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,
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 erects its head, [bred;
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy,
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds;

And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came] And coarsly cloth'd in rusty drugget came. MS. T. St. Andre's feet ne'er kept, &c.] A French dancing master, at this time greatly admired. D.

1 Sinkin just reception finds] Simkin is a character of a cobbler in an interlude. Panton, who is mentioned soon after, was a famous punster. D.

Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords, And Panton waging harmless war with words.

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

But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;

Humorists and Hypocrites it should produce, Whole Raymond families and tribes of Bruce. Now empress Fame had publish'd the re

nown

Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rous'd 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,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way,
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,
And Herringman was captain of the guard.
The hoary 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,
And lambent dulness play'd around his face..
As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Swore by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome;
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vows bo-
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

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 god ;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him
reign

To far Barbadoes on the western main;
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 paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen.
Then thus continu'd 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 in five years be writ;t
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, 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.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name.
But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.‡
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst
Trust nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd, 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 't is inclin'd
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.
In thy felonious art 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. [mand
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy com-
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.
There thou may'st Wings display and Altars
raise,

And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit,

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.

• Beyond Love's Kingdom, &c.] This is the name of that one play of Flecknoe's which was acted, but miscarried in the representation. D.

↑ Let Virtuosos in five years be writ] Shadwell's play of the Virtuoso, in which Sir Formal Trifle, a florid coxcomical orator, is a principal character, was first acted in 1676; and he tells the Duke of Newcastle, in the dedication, 'that here he has endeavoured at humour, wit, and satire.' D.

1 To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prosel Alluding to Shadwell's comedy, called Epsom Wells. D.

He said; but his last words were scarcely

heard:

For Bruce and Longvil¶ had a trap prepar'd,
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.

§ Prince Nicander's vein] A character of a lover in the opera of Psyche. D.

Nor let thy mountain-belly, &c.] Allading to Shadwell's form, who was pretty lust. D.

For Bruce and Longvil, &c.] Two very heavy characters in Shadwell's Virtuoso, whom he calls gentlemen of wit and good sense. D

EPISTLES.

EPISTLE THE FIRST.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND *SIR ROBERT HOWARD, ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS.

As there is music uninform'd by art
In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,.
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less:
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames composure, and its art excels
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,

Their even calmness does suppose them deep;
Such is your muse: no metaphor swell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.

• Sir Robert Howard, a younger son of Thomas, Earl of Berkshire, and brother to Mr. Dryden's lady, studied for some time in Magdalen College. He suffered many oppressions on account of his loyalty, and was one of the few of King Charles the Second's friends, whom that monarch did not forget. Perhaps he had his present ends in it; for Sir Robert, who was a man of parts, helped him to obtain money in parliament, wherein he sate as burgess, first for Stockbridge, and afterwards for Castle Rising in Norfolk. He was, soon after the Restoration, made a knight of the bath, and one of the auditors of the exchequer, valued at £3000 per annum. Notwithstanding that he was supposed to be a great favourer of the Catholics, he soon took the oaths to King William, by whom he was made a privy-counsellor in the beginning of the year 1689; and no man was a more open or inveterate enemy to the Nonjurors.

Several of his pieces, both in prose and verse, were published at different times; among which are, the Duel of the Stags, a celebrated poem; the comedy of the Blind Lady; the Committee, or the Faithful Irishman; the Great Favourite, or the Duke of Lerma; the Indian Queen, a tragedy, written in conjunction with our author; the Surprizal, a tragi comedy; and the Vestal Virgin, or the Roman Ladies, a tragedy; the last has two different conclusions, one tragical and the other, to use the author's own words, comical. The last five plays were collected together, and published by Tonson, in a small 12mo volume, in 1722. The Blind Lady was printed with some of his poems.

Langbaine speaks in very high terms of Sir Robert's merit, in which he is copied by Giles Jacob. See their Lives of the Poets.

This gentleman was, however, extremely positive, remarkably overbearing, and pretending to universal knowledge; which failings, joined to his having then been of an opposite party, drew upon hm the censure of Shadwell, who has satirized him very severely in a play, called The Sullen Lovers, under the name of Sir Positive At-all, and his lady. whom he first kept, and afterwards married, under that of Lady Vain. D.

So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet. [bear,
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your art hides art, as stoics feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain
And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be;
Or 't is some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head,
The curious net that is for fancies spread
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all: this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
T is your strong genius then which does not feel
As would destroy the providence of wit.
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit
carry weight, and run so lightly too, [reel.
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our instruction make their second end:
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that

Το

WOO

At once a beauty and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like illguardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their

charge.

Like some brave captain, your successful pen
Restores the exil'd to her crown again :
And gives us hope that having seen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
A sober prince's government is best.
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make the improvement of the richest ground,
That soil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.
Elisa's griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your muse so justly has discharged those,
Elisa's shade may now its wand'ring cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;

+ The curious net, &c.] A compliment to a poem of Sir Robert's, entitled Rete Mirabile. D.

Who, dress'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin robes he took.
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's,

view:

Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure stiff, as if design'd in buff:
His colours laid so thick on every place,
As only show'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perspective we beauties see,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;
So here our sight obligingly mistakes
That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks disguis'd,
More for their dressing than their substance
priz'd.

Your curious notes so search into that age,
When all was fable but the sacred page, [stray,
That since in that dark night we needs must
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But what we most admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you saw great Charles his morning
break.

So skilful seamen ken the land from far,
Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.
To Charles your muse first pays her duteous
As still the ancients did begin from Jove. [love,
With Monk you end, whose name preserv'd
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory, [shall be,
Who thought it greater honour to obey

His country's interest, than the world to sway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen :
Yet let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture in your right to prophesy.
This work, by merit first of fame secure,
Is likewise happy in its geniture: [throne,
For, since 't is born when Charles ascends the
It shares at once his fortune and its own.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND DR. CHARLE*

ΤΟΝ, ON HIS LEARNED AND USEFUL WORKS; BUT MORE PARTICULARLY HIS TREATISE OF STONEHENGE, BY HIM RESTORED TO THE TRUE FOUNDER.

The longest tyranny that ever sway'd,
Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd

The book that occasioned this epistle made its appearance in quarto in 1663. It is dedicated to King Charles II. and entitled, 'Chorea Gigantum; or, The most famous Antiquity of Great Britain Stone-Henge, standing on Salisbury-plain, restored

Their free-born reason to the Stagirite,
And made his torch their universal light.
So truth, while only one supplied the state,
Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
Still it was bought, like empiric wares or charms,
Hard words seal'd up with Aristotle's arms.
Columbus was the first that shook his throne,
And found a temperate in a torrid zone :
The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze,
The fruitful vales set round with shady trees;
And guiltless men, who danc'd away their time,
Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime.
Had we still paid that homage to a name,
Which only God and nature justly claim;
The western seas had been our utmost bound,
Where poets still might dream the sun was
drown'd:

And all the stars that shine in southern skies
Had been admir'd by none but savage eyes.

Among the asserters of free reason's claim,
Our nation's not the least in worth or fame.
The world to Bacon does not only owe
Its present knowledge, but its future too.
Gilbert shall live, till loadstones cease to draw,
Or British fleets the boundless ocean awe.
And noble Boyle, not less in nature seen,
Than his great brother read in states and men.
The circling streams, once thought but pools of
blood,

(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food,)
From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall save;
While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.
Nor are you, learned friend, the least renown'd;
Whose fame, not circumscrib'd with English

ground,

Flies like the nimble journeys of the light;
And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.
Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,
Redeem'd from error, or from ignorance,
Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,
Your works unite, and still discover more.
Such is the healing virtue of your pen,
To perfect cures on books, as well as men.
Nor is this work the least: you well may give
To men new vigour, who make stones to live.
Through you, the Danes, their short dominion
A longer conquest than the Saxons boast. [lost,
Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have
found
[crown'd;

A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were Where by their wond'ring subjects they were [mien.

scen,

Joy'd with their stature, and their princely to the Danes, by Dr. Walter Charleton, M. D. and Physician in Ordinary to his Majesty.' It was written in answer to a treatise of Inigo Jones's, which attributed this stupendous pile to the Romans, supposing it to be a temple, by them dedicated to the god Cœlum, or Cœlus.