A Search after WIT; OR, A VISITATION OF THE AUTHORS: IN ANSWER TO The late Search AFTER CLARET; Or VISITATION of the VINTNERS.  
By an Vnder-Drawer at the— ' s-Head-Tavern in— Gate-Street.  
London, Printed for E. Hawkins, 1691.   

THE DRAWER's DEDICATION.  

TO you the chief Grievance and Plague of the Time,  
Heavy Thrashers of Prose, and Tormentors of Rhyme.  
You Play-Wights and Authors, with all their Attendance,  
The Locusts of Egypt were a civiller Vengeance.   

From him who each Action o'th' Public misconstrues,  
To the Makers of Devils, and Sermons, and Monsters;  
Than whom there's no Vulture discover can further,  
By Instinct, the Approach of Dire Battle and Murder.   

To each politic Stroker, or hungry Backbiter,  
From the Bawdy Song-Scribler, to the Godly Book-Writer:  
Be their Works or their Fortunes, or lucky, or scurvy;  
From great Mr. Bays down to little Mr. D— y.   

To Satyrical Dick, who has used us so kindly,  
Though I hope, Mr. Author, too bened far behind you:  
And 'twere best that your Back you'd prepare for a humming,  
The Drawer most humbly pray— 
* He would have said Presents, but the Bell ringing on the sudden, unluckily stopped him in the middle of the Word.    
Coming, Sir, Coming!   

A Search after WIT: OR, A VISITATION OF THE AUTHORS. By a. DRAWER, etc.  

I.  
FAther Ben! For thy gentle Assistance I call,  
Now Toping above in Apollo's Whitehall,  
Where Sack, the true Nectar, for ever you drink:  
And though the fair nimble heeled Ganymede skink,  
On us, mortal Drawers, you sometimes do think.   

II.  
As there from bad Wines, and dull Critics you're safe.  
As ever you loved our Progenitor Ralph, 
* A Drawer that Ben Johnson used to remember in his Prayers.   
Look down for a Moment, and help me to swinge  
The Blasphemers of Taverns with a lusty Revenge.   

III.  
The King of Morocco ' s, and Bantam' s Relation,  
Has plagued us of late with a damned Visitation:  
We'll appeal to the World, if it isn't very fit;  
Since he'll seurch for our Chariot, we should search for his Wit.   

iv  
First observe but his Sign— but not gaze unaware  
On Sir Courtly's sweet Face— so killing, so fair,  
That with his Reputation it well may compare.  
If he has Wit, sure he has not enough on't to spare it;  
For who ever searched a Black Jack to find Claret?   

V  
But lest we should our Disappointment deplore,  
He has Singing, and Dancing, and Stories good store:  
But Wit from Jack-Pudding, as well you might hope:  
Come pierce t'other Hogshead; for here's not a drop.   

VI  
Not Wit, Sir— No, Wit, Sir! How that, Sir, d'ye prove?  
Here's Sylvia's Revenge, Sir, and the Follies of Love:  
Sure these you ne'er read, Sir, if no Wit you e'er saw there.  
‛ Nouns! cries out St. Ph— ps, little Dick too turned Author:   

VII.  
Then firing a Volley of half Oaths, and complete Ones;  
He hearty swears both by little and great Ones;  
They may talk what they will, but there ne'er was a satire  
Since His against Hypocrites writ, would hold Water.   

VIII.  
But Dragon grows old, and his Wits he has lost;  
Speak softly, or you'll find he is young to your Cost:  
He has yet a Colt's Tooth, whate'er you suppose,  
And something besides— a Jolly-Red— Jolly Red-Nose.   

IX.  
I'd fain in some Method my Subject pursue;  
But that I'm afraid I never shall do:  
For your Authors, like Tartars, are as light as a Feather,  
And vanish like Jack-a-Lent's, Satan knows whither.   

X.  
No Lodging they use, but true Brethren o'th' Road,  
Like Pilgrims and Gypsies, they all lie abroad,  
Unless if for Nothing the Landlord will spare it,  
Now and then they Pig into a Barn, or a Garret.   

XI.  
Mr. Reader may smile as he pleases, or grumble;  
But must take 'em like Faggots, as out they will tumble:  
Stand clear of their Dulness, and their Wit won't surprise us;  
And who first should Trump up, but the Parabolizers?   

XII.  
Poor B—aw, thy Magpye's of late gone astray,  
And for fear of a Cage, is hopped out of the way;  
Nor is it so strange, though Puppies will scoff,  
That for fear of the Mousetrap the Shark is rubbed off.   

XIII.  
Who for Wit in a Ballad of Top-knots would seek,  
Tho' the Author, like Hudibrass, rattles out Greek?  
Who e'er heard a Toad sing, or a Nightingale croak;  
Or one single wise Word that a Raven e'er spoke,  
Though the Capitol once was preserved by a Gander?   

XIV.  
And 'troth well remembered;— How is't Mr. Ʋander?  
There's your Man— if there be Wit in the City, he has it  
In two Bushels of Letters a Week for his 
* Athenian Gazett.  Gazett   

XV.  
He must be an Alderman by his Invention;  
For he keeps the Ten Quires of Authors in Pension:  
This Brother, that Kinsman, this Friend, and that Cousin;  
Tell 'em out he that can,— One,- Two,- Three,- and a Dozen.   

XVI  
First enter Sir Astrophel, Plodding, and Drudging,  
In Answering of Levi, and Mauling of T— n;  
Still adoring his Stella's fair Hand, and fair Glove;  
Tho' thereby but a Coxcomb himself he will prove:  
For who that has Wit, would be ever in Love?   

XVII.  
Next comes the Athenian Invisible Author,  
With his Face in a Veil, like the Jews Legislator;  
Among Ten Thousand more, I One Query would make him,  
That's, Where were his Brains at this Task's Undertaking?   

XVIII.  
Not a Fool, or a Wit, let him do what he can, Sir,  
But will send him more Questions than e'er he can answer;  
Though like other Case-splitters of the selfsame Community,  
He'll refer what's too hard till another Opportunity.   

XIX.  
Nay prithee Friend Ʋander,— thou dost not do fairly,  
Thus to take away Trade from B—ss, and Shirley;  
This ne'er will hear more from his Cases of Conscience,  
And the tother's Peny-Sermons will all be flat Nonsense.   

XX.  
Now thou'rt right Jack of all Trades, tho' the lasts but a mean one  
To be Groom of the Stool to the oraculous Athenian;  
And when e'er he'll be pleased his Butt-End to discover,  
Bring him Paper sufficient to wipe him all over.   

XXI.  
Step to the next Door if you'd hear a good Lecture,  
Or Ichabod's Groans from the famous Reflecter;  
But he'll not be disturbed for any Occasion,  
Since he's busy in Bills for the Good of the Nation.   

XXII.  
He had lately a Call, though the Step was o'th' longest,  
To watch all the Motions of the Princes in Congress;  
So grave, and so old, and so full of the Matter,  
And amongst his hot Brains the Notions so clatter,  
That he rather deserves our Pity than Laughter.   

XXIII.  
When Lud first built London, old Stories declare  
The Sacks stood at Cornhill, and Wheat was sold there;  
Stock-market for Apples, and Herbs, and such Ware;  
And the Poultry a Hen-Coop for the Shrieves, and Lord Mayor.   

XXIV.  
The First long ago its Office did lose;  
But the Last of old Customs yet something will use;  
Against all the rest, and each other still pecking  
As well the old Cock, as the sprightly young Chicken;  
Nor e'er will be quiet while 've left Spur or Neck on.   

XXV.  
Sure no single Dulness on Earth will suffice  
For such blessed Writers as there Authorised;  
How they order the Matter, I cannot devise,  
Except one finds the Nonsense, and t'other finds Lies.   

XXVI.  
But I'll fairly rub off, for sear e'er I go  
They should take their Leaves of me with a kind Starring-Blow:  
And who next should I meet, or my Eyesight is fasse,  
But the little new Authoress, Poetical Alce?   

XXVII.  
And is't all come to this— When at Oxford she's undone,  
With whole Dung-Carts of Doggrel to plague us at London:  
Yet like a true Wit in great things she miscarried;  
For who but a Wit such a Wit would have married?   

XXVIII.  
Calling in at St. Paul's, I a certain Shop harped on,  
Where lay 20 Plays that were printed for K—ton;  
But unless by the Title you chanced to discern 'em,  
For their Wit, you'd mistaken a Play for a Sermon:  
But what's that to the purpose, if Estates they can get;  
Their Search is for Money, and mine is for Wit.   

XXIX.  
Then farewell old Bellarmine, Pasquez and Suarez!  
Farewell you old Glosses and new Commentaries!  
Farewell all at once, since your Brains are no quicker,  
From the ragged Verse-Tagger, to the rich Country-Vicar.   

XXX.  
We'll even to the Playhouse— there sure we shall find it;  
For they tell us,— they live by their Wits, if you mind it. 
* Alluding to the Motto at the Playhouse, Viviter Ingenio.   
No wonder, cries one, they then are as poor  
As a modest faced Bully, or an ugly old Whore.   

XXXI.  
Let's begin with Squire Laureate, since sure 'twould be strange,  
If to so many Guts, Nature gave him no Brains:  
And lest Nonsense and Noise for true Wit should o'erpow'r us,  
We'll step in for Relief, to his Play, called the Scowrers.   

XXXII.  
This 'tis to turn Rhymer without Nature's leave.  
And the Town with Poetical Titles deceive;  
Since he left honest Prose, the old Struck he ne'er hit,  
And is equally admired for his Shape and his Wit.   

XXXIII.  
And was it for him, that old de Jure— Bays,  
With his Horus, and his Panthers▪ was turned out to graze?  
He had better have stayed, and both writ at a Time,  
That one might find Wit, and t'other find Rhyme.   

XXXIV.  
What Dryden want Wit! cries a huffing old Spark?  
Thus Curs at Dame Luna for Envy will bark,  
Or Glow-worm's pretend that the Sunshine is dark?—  
Your Pardon, and Thanks for your courteous Remark.   

XXXV.  
I am better informed, or I spoke it in Haste,  
A Poet, like a Disputant's sometimes too fast:  
If there ever was Wit in the Times that are past  
Or present, in Poems, in Books, or on Stages,  
In the eloquent Roman, or Grecian Ages.   

XXXVI.  
In Johnson, or Davenant, or Boileau, or Donne,  
He has it, he Books it, Slapdash 'tis his own:  
Nor is't his Religion alone that surprises;  
For his Wit is like that of all Nations and Size●.   

XXXVII.  
At D—'s New Play I next thought fit to call,  
Where the Masters of Legs 
* Dancing Masters, who are well enough exposed in his last new Comedy.  he sans merry does mawl:  
So nimble, so clever, so Aapper an Elf,  
I always till now thought he had been one himself.   

XXXVIII.  
There's no Man upon Earth, that can please a Lass better  
With an easy soft Billet, fine Song, or fine Letter.  
But if you ask him for Wit, he must still be your Debtor.  
Fa, lafoy, lafoy, he replies, pray expect no Wit from us;  
For we spend all our Stock every Wednesday on Momus.   

XXXIX.  
Poor Mortals! What different Fortunes befall us,  
Poor Authors! Hard Fate! so unkindly to maul us  
Rouse, Elkanah; rouse in the Name of Crimhallaz:  
Since thy Guts are still croaking, and thy Brains are still chiming,  
Plague the Stage yet again with thy huffing and rhyming.   

XL.  
None will ask* thee for Wit; for all know that the Creature  
Had never yet any such thing in his Nature:  
But what will take more from the Gazette Purloyn-a,  
Some raw Head and bloody Bones Tales of Amboyna! 
* The History of Amboyna— reprinted at the than Prince's landing.    

XLI.  
If the Brats of the Brain for Damnation are fated;  
And if e'er they are born, they are all reprobated:  
There's a Trick too for that; and were't my Case, I'd rather  
Hire one of the Players to stand for their Father.   

XLII.  
Poor Nat, thou hast lost both thy Reason and Wit;  
Yet the happiest Author for Bread that cler writ▪  
Let the Critics fret on;— if they snarl, thou canst growl;  
If they bark, thou canst by't; if they hiss, thou canst howl.   

XLIII.  
Thy Fortune, whatever they think of the Matter,  
Is what they'll all come to, or sooner, or later;  
Upon a mad Subject to make a mad Play,  
And write for a Third House 
* Bedlam.  without any Third Day.   

XLIV.  
Thou hast told what Wit is, in thy Princess of Cleve, 
* In the Epilogue.   
But thyself and the Reader doth only deceive:  
Our longing, in vain, thou attemptest to save,  
And instead of being witty, dost nothing but rave:  
So didst thou not once, when Fortune was kinder,  
And the Theatre rung with thy brave Alexander.   

XLV.  
Scarce Rascius himself could Goodman outdo;  
He spoke it as well as 'twas written by you.   

XLVI.  
Let's dispatch to the Mud-house poor Lunatic not,  
And proceed to the Cream of Sobriety, T— t●,  
As modest as Virgin that knows not what's what,  
Nor dares venture beyond his Pint, or his Pot.   

XLVII.  
He others Foundations has oftentimes built on;  
For he has writ more Epistles than Tully, or Milton.   

XLVIII.  
A good Second-Rate-Poet, and Faithful Translator;  
And if you ask him for Wit, he knows something o'th' Matter.   

XLIX.  
For this must be said, for his Credit and Profit,  
He has chosen a Patron that has enough of it;  
Great Pollio, who Judge of Parnassus does sit,  
And has, spite of his Quality, Learning and Wit..   

L.  
On the Shepherd he smiled when so sweetly he sung,  
And the Woods and the Plains with his Pastorals rung:  
How Natural each Stroke, and how easy and fine;  
How curious the Opening, how vast the Design  
Of the Glories of William, and Wonders o'th' Boyn!   

LI.  
Go on, happy Bard, on so Glorious a Theme;  
Go on to the Rhine's or the Sambre's fair Stream;  
Still rise with thy Subject, and greaten thy Name,  
And ravish the Laurels from S—ll and Fame.   

LII.  
Great William, our Honour, our Safety, and Pride,  
With all the English Heroes that fight by his side,  
(If they are not past Number—) so generous, so kind,  
All those who are gone, or who tarry behind.   

LIII.  
Had C— n but had any kind Prophet's Advice,  
And ne'er scribbled a Line but his Comical Nice,  
He'd not pestered the World, nor pestered his Writing  
With Nonsense and Blasphemy, Roaring and Fight.   

LIV.  
Would he had known while 'twas well, his Siege 
* Of Jerusalem.  to give over;  
Content with one Part, and not crammed us with more!  
But twice on the same dull Subject to write,  
Is like Jimminy Gemminy every Night.   

LV.  
If the Plays of true Wit have so little to spare,  
'Tis unlikely to find any more in a Player:  
Yet is it no wonder when the Authors want Sense,  
The Players turn Writers in their own defence.   

LVI.  
Since their Business lies more in their Tongues, than their Brains,  
We expect no great Matter from M— d, or H—nes.  
Damn our Play while you will, if tooth Third Day it tarries,  
We'll forgive you, quoth Pow— ll, and Ca—, and Ha'— is.   

LVII.  
The Theatres flourished when Quality writ,  
For they always had Money, and sometimes had Wit;  
But now they for nothing but Statesmen are fit:  
No— not one single Line, tho' the whole House beseeches,  
Since from making of Plays, they're turned Makers of Speeches.   

LVIII  
From them to the Critics, at last let's repair;  
'Tis their Trade, and we sure shall find somewhat on't there;  
But they, like the rest, knew nothing o'th' Matter;  
Tho' the want on't was richly supplied with ill-Nature.   

LIX.  
'Tis true, Mr. Ry— r long passed for a Wit,  
And still might have done so, if he never had writ;  
His Stationer may for his Profit go whistle:  
But he swears all's not Gospel that's in his 
* Vid. Title Pag.  Epistle.   

LX.  
If you think't worth the while, and twoned give ill example,  
Let's next search for Wit with the Students o'th' Temple?  
But they hearty vow they have never a Rag;  
For Counsellor Gripe has it all in his Bag.   

LXI.  
Nay then we shall find it;— good Sir, not too fast!  
These Authors ne'er part with their Writings in haste;  
As dear as old Coins, or old Manuscripts sell 'em;  
For they writ like the Monks, with great Letters on Velom.   

LXII.  
Yet there's no Ballad-Singer, that louder can bawl  
Than they at the Sizes, or Westminster-Hall:  
A Customer seldom of their Dulness complains;  
No matter for the Text, so they bawl, and take pains:  
Hold out Brow and Lungs, there's no need of any Brains.   

LXIII.  
If, as there's no Lawyer e'er doubted it yet,  
'Tis getting of Money's the only true Wit;  
Let him write what he will, by Rote, or by Ruse,  
In Prose, or in Verse, little At—d's a Fool.   

LXIV.  
But whether old Prophecies he will unveil,  
Or cracks your grave Doctors like Nits, with his Nail.  
He's the Civilest Author that you meet with e'er can, Sir,  
For he'll ne'er write a thing that another can't answer.   

LXV.  
I was just a concluding, when, who should I meet,  
But two Ballad-Singers, that stunned all the Street;  
Whose Tails still kept Time to their Mouth's Modulation,  
Whose Hats were both fixed to the right, Elevation.   

LXVI.  
I know not how 'twas, but my Business they knew,  
And fain would for Wits have been registered too;  
No Answer they'd take, tho' I laughed at the Fancy,  
And asked 'em, if any thing for't they can say?   

LXVII.  
At which one gravely cries;— since such, Sir, your Will is,  
May I never more rattle Philander or Phillis:  
If we cannot say more for our own Occupation,  
Than all th' Haberdashers of Wit in the Nation.   

LXVIII.  
No Author unless he's crammed full of Iniquity,  
And Falsehood, can ever deny our Antiquity:  
We only, how much now seever they slight us,  
Were the Primitive Rise of all Poets and Writers.   

LXIX.  
Old Homer, as 've heard that old Histories tell,  
Went begging about with a Dog and a Bell:  
He sung, his Dog danced, not a Wake or a Fair  
Through Greece, but the jolly blind Beggar was there.   

LXX.  
Now at Smyrna, or Athens, perhaps, his Abodes;  
Then a Sculler he'd take, and cross over to Rhodes.  
From Tithing to Tithing, still strolling about,  
Where ever he comes in his Way he's not out.   

LXXI.  
Till once out of the Road he unluckily strays— a;  
With a Nipperkin fuddled of Chios 
* Rich Wines which anciently grew there.  or Gaza; 
* Rich Wines which anciently grew there.   
And as the Bankside he would fain have surrounded,  
His Dog with the Sight of the Water confounded,  
They sell over the Key, and were both on 'em drounded.   

LXXII.  
Thus he died without Trouble of Burial or Hearse;  
There's an end of the Poet,— but not of his Verse:  
For his Ballads were rescued from the Moth, and the Mouse,  
And pasted up safely in every good House.   

LXXIII.  
Well rest his sweet Bones, while ours are still jogging,  
Every Night we his Memory treat with a Noggin;  
Though the Poets, to cheat us of the Honour design,  
'Tis we are his Successors in the right Line.   

LXXIV.  
How proud is this Age, and how silly too grown,  
When Men their own Trades are ashamed to own:  
There's none we need blush for, if we get Money by it;  
And were I a Tom T— d-man, I'd certainly cry it.   

LXXV.  
The Doctor, Forsooth, thinks his Fingers 'twould blister,  
To make up a Bolus, or squirt up a Clyster:  
And whilst in his Coach his Pleasure he takes,  
He out of his Footman a ‛ apothecary makes.   

LXXVI.  
Thus the Poet pretends, by his prudent Advices,  
When first he had brought them to a dangerous Crisis,  
To cure Men's Minds of Follies and Vices:  
But to act in't himself, after all, he's too proud;  
'Tis we with the Medicines must travel abroad.   

LXXVII.  
Thus entered, I thought he would ne'er have give over,  
Till one asked for a Ballad, and I heard him no more.  
Quite tired with my Search, I home again trotted,  
And had no more Wit than when I first sought it.   

LXXVIII.  
Thus weary of doing nothing, to my Garret I come;  
And since I lost it abroad, would seek it at home:  
But for Fear I there too should happen to miss,  
I'll first make a modest Enquiry what ' 'tis.   

LXXIX.  
'Tis a Thing that's more easy to know than express;  
'Tis all the Creation in its Holyday-Dress:  
'Tis a pleasant gay Humuor, not sullen, nor proud,  
Ridiculous, fawcy, or noisy, or loud.   

LXXX.  
'Tis not made of New Banter, or merry Old Tales,  
Like his, who late lashed the poor Curate of Wales;  
If that, or if Simidies either were it,  
The Old Woman, or School Boy might pass for a Wit..   

LXXXI.  
'tis not Hunting, or Hawking, or Riding, or Fencing,  
Or Cringing, or Riping, or Singing, or Dancing,  
'Tis not breaking Windows, nor Scouring, nor Roaring,  
Nor Felling a Watchman, nor Swearing, nor Whoring.   

LXXXII.  
It does what it pleases, is Proof against Fate,  
Can a thousand new Forms in a moment create;  
The Philosopher's-Stone, for no Price to be sold,  
Which all things it touches, converts into Gold.   

LXXXIII.  
Not a cool Summer-Evening, nor a warm Winters-Day,  
Nor a Mistress herself is so pleasing, and gay;  
Nor Empire, for which the Ambitious contend,  
For these must all fail; but Wit's Charms never end.   

LXXXIV.  
'Tis not when two Syllables jangle, or chime,  
Nor puzzling, dull Anagrammatical Rhyme,  
Hard Words, or wise Sentences, spoke by old Sages,  
To help at Dead-Lifts in all future Ages.   

LXXXV.  
For this strange Chameleon where then shall we seek;  
'Tis not Bawdy, nor Banter, nor Latin and Greek;  
'Tis not Oaths, nor ill Nature, the Blood's sour Disease,  
Nor Language as ill, though that better will please.   

LXXXVI.  
'Tis all that is lovely, and sprightly, and fair;  
'Tis a Flash when the Soul comes abroad to take Air;  
'Tis a Flame can the Sun's paler Splendour outshine;  
'Tis unhounded, eternal, immortal, divine.   

LXXXVII.  
No Monarch so blessed, or so happy as me,  
While thus, my dear Horace, I hug it in thee:  
Admire it in loftier Virgil, or Smile  
When with Waggish Catullus my Cares I'd beguile.   

LXXXVIII.  
When with thee, Ariosto, or Tasso, I sport,  
Or go with our Spencer to his Fairy-Court,  
Or Cowley, or Oldham, or Davenant pursue,  
Or spend a few Hours, neat Waller, with you.   

LXXXIX.  
Here I read till I'm quite into Ecstasies carried,  
Assoon as the Sun peeps into my Garret;  
There, out of the reach of ill Fate, and Disaster,  
I sit; and the Drawer's as great as his Master.   
FINIS.