A satire AGAINST WIT. The Second Edition. LONDON: Printed for Samuel Crouch, at the Corner of Pope's-Head-Alley, over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1700. A satire against WIT. WHO can forbear, and tamely silent fit, And see his Native Land undone by Wit? Boast not, Britannia, of thy happy Peace, What if Campaigns and Sea-Engagements cease, Wit, a worse Plague, does mightily increase? Some monstrous Crimes to Ages past unknown, Have surely pulled this heavy Judgement down. Fierce Insect-Wits draw out their noisy Swarms, And threaten Ruin more than Foreign Arms. O'er all the Land the hungry Locusts spread, Gnaw every Plant, taint every flowery Bed, And crop each tender Virtue's tender Head. How happy were the old unpolished Times, As free from Wit as other modern Crimes? As our Forefathers vigorous were and Brave; So they were Virtuous, Wise, Discreet and Grave, Detesting both alike the Wit and Knave. They justly Wits and Fools believed the same, And Jester was for both the common Name. Their Minds for Empire formed would never quit Their noble Roughness, and dissolve in Wit. For Business born and bred to Martial Toil. They raised the Glory of Britannia's Isle. Then she her dreadful Ensigns did advance, To curb Iberia, and to conquer France. But this degenerate, lose and foolish Race Are all turned Wits, and their great Stock debase. Our Learning daily sinks, and Wit is grown The senseless Conversation of the Town. Enervated with this our Youth have 〈◊〉 That stubborn Virtue, which we once could boast. The Plague of Wit prevails, I fear 'tis vain Now to attempt its Fury to restrain. It takes Men in the Head, and in the Fit They lose their Senses, and are gone in Wit. By various ways their Frenzy they express, Some with lose Lines run haring to the Press, In Lewdness some are Wits, some only Wits in Dress. Some seized like Gravar, with Convulsions strain Always to say fine Things, but strive in vain, Urged with a dry Tenesmus of the Brain. Had but the People scared with Danger run To shut up Wills, where first this Plague begun: Had they the first infected Men conveyed Straight to moorfield's, the Pest-house for the Head; The wild Contagion might have been suppressed, Some few had fallen, but we had saved the rest. An Act like this had been a good Defence Against our great Mortality of Sense. But now th' Infection spreads, the Bills run high, At the last Gasp of Sense ten thousand die. We meet fine Youth in every House and Street, With all the deadly Tokens out, of Wit. Vannine that looked on all the Danger past, Because he scaped so long, is seized at last. By Pox and Hunger and by D— ● bitten He grins and snarls, and in his dogged Fit Froths at the Mouth, a certain Sign of Wit. Craper runs madly midst the sickest Crowd, And fain would be infected, if he could. Under the Means he lies, frequents the Stage, Is very lewd, and does at Learning rage. Pity that so much Labour should be lost By such a healthful Constitution crossed. Against th' Assaults of Wit his Make his proof, Still his strong Nature works the Poison off. He still escapes, but yet is wondrous pleased Wit to recite, and to be thought Diseased. So Hypocrites in Vice in this vile Town To Wickedness pretend, that's not their own. A Bantring Spirit has our Men possessed, And Wisdom is become a standing Jest. Wit does of Virtue sure Destruction make; Who can produce a Wit and not a Rake? Wise Magistrates lewd Wit do therefore hate, The Bane of Virtue's Treason to the State. While Honour fails and Honesty decays, In vain we beat our Heads for Means and Ways What well-formed Government or State can last, When Wit has laid the People's Virtue waste? The Mob of Wits is up to storm the Town, To pull all Virtue and right Reason down. Quite to subvert Religion's sacred Fence, To set up Wit, and pull down common Sense. Our Libraries they gut, and shouting bear The Spoils of ruin'd Churches in the Air. Their Captain Tom does at their Head appear, And S— ● in his Gown brings up the Rear. Aloud the Church and Clergy they condemn, Curse all their Order, and their God blaspheme. Against all Springs of Learning they declare, Against Religion's Nurseries, and swear They will not All— e, M—ll or Ch— t spare: But the lewd Crew affirm by all that's good They'll ne'er disperse unless they've B— ly' Blood. For that ill-natured Critic has undone The rarest Piece of Wit that e'er was shown. Till his rude Strokes had threshed the empty Sheaf, We thought there had been something else than Chaff. Crowned with Applause this Master Critic sits, And round him lie the Spoils of ruin'd Wits. How great a Man! What reverence were his due, Can he suppress the Critic's Fastus too? As certain Words will Lunatics enrage, Who just before appeared sedate and sage. So do but Lock or Books or Bentley name, The Wit's in clammy Sweats, or in a Flame. Horror and Shame! What would the Madmen have? They dig up learned Bernard's peaceful Grave. The Sacred-Urn of famous Stilling fleet, We see profaned by the lewd Sons of Wit. The skilful Tie— n Name they dare invade, And yet they are undone without his Aid. Tie— n with base Reproaches they pursue, Just as his moorfield's Patients use to do. For next to Virtue, Learning they abhor, Laugh at Discretion, but at Business more. A Wit's an idle, wretched Fool of Parts, That hates all Liberal and Mechanic Arts. Wit does enfeeble and debauch the Mind, Before to Business or to Arts inclined. How useless is a fauntring empty Wit, Only to please with Jests at Dinner fit? What hopeful Youths for Bar and Bench designed, Seduced by Wit have learned Coke declined? For what has Wit to do with Sense or Law? Can that in Titles find or mend a Flaw? Can Wit supply great T— by's nervous Sense? Or S—r's more than Roman Eloquence? Which way has H—lt gained Universal Fame? What makes the World thy Praises, F—ch, proclaim? And charming P—s what advanced thy Name? 'Twas Application, Knowledge of the Laws, And your vast Fund of Sense, gained you Applause. The Law will ne'er support the bant'ring Breed, A Slightall— may sometimes there, but Wits can ne'er succeed. R— t— ffe has Wit, and lavishes away More in his Conversation every Day, Than would supply a modern Writer's Play. But 'tis not that, but the great Master's Skill, Who with more Ease can cure, than C—h kill, That does the grateful Realm with his Applauses fill. Thy Learning G—ns, and thy Judgement H—w, Make you in envied Reputation grow. This drew Invectives on you, all agree, From the lean Small-craft of your Faculty. Had you been Wits you had been both secure From Business, and for satire too Obscure, Ill-natured, Arrogant, and very Poor. But let Invectives still your Names assail, Your Business is to Cure, and theirs to Rail. Let 'em proceed and make your Names a Sport In lewd Lampoons, they've Time and Leisure for't. Despise their Spite, the Thousands whom you raise From threatened Death will bless You all their Days, And spend the Breath you saved, in just and lasting Praise. But Wit as now 'tis managed would undo The Skill and Virtues we admire in You. In G— the Wit the Doctor has undone, In S— d the Divine, heavens guard poor Admetus— son. An able Senator is lost in M— l, And a fine Scholar sunk by Wit in B— l. After his foolish Rhimes both Friends and Foes Conclude they know, who did not write his Prose. Wit does our Schools and Colleges invade, And has of Letters vast Destruction made. Has laid the Muse's choicest Gardens waste, Broke their Enclosures and their Groves defaced. We strive in Jests each other to exceed, And shall e'er long forget to Write or Read. Unless a Fund were settled once that could Make our deficient Sense and Learning good, Nothing can be expected, for the Debt By this lose Age contracted, is so great, To set the Muse's mortgaged Acres free, Our Bankrupt Sons must sell outright the Fee. The present Age has all their Treasure spent, They can't the Interest pay at Five per Cent. What to discharge it can we hope to raise From D— fy's, or from Poet D— n— 's Plays, Or G—th's Lampoon with little in't but Praise? O S—er, T—bot, D—set, M—gue, Gr Gr —y, Sh—ld, C— d— should, P—ke, V— n, you Who in Parnassus have Imperial Sway, Whom all the Muse's Subjects here obey, Are in your Service and receive your Pay; Exert your Sovereign Power, in Judgement sit To regulate the Nation's Grievance, Wit. Pity the cheated Folks that every Day For Copper Wit good Sterling Silver pay. If once the Muse's Chequer would deny To take false Wit, 'twould lose its currency. Not a base Piece would pass, that passed before Just washed with Wit, or thinly plated over. Set forth your Edict, let it be enjoined That all defective Species be recoyned. St. E— m— t and R—r both are fit To oversee the Coining of our Wit. Let these be made the Masters of Essay, They'll every Piece of Metal touch and weigh, And tell which is too light, which has too much Allay. 'Tis true, that when the course and worthless Dross Is purged away, there will be mighty Loss. Even C—e, S— n, Manly W—ly, When thus refined will grievous sufferers be. Into the melting Pot when D— n comes, What horrid Stench will rise, what noisome Fumes? How will he shrink, when all his lewd Alloy, And wicked Mixture shall be purged away? When once his boasted Heaps are melted down, A Chest full scarce will yield one Sterling Crown. Those who will D— n— s melt and think to find A goodly Mass of Bullion left behind, Do, as th' Hibernian Wit, who as 'tis told, Burnt his gilt Leather to collect the Gold. But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear Th' Examination of the most severe. 'Twill S—r's Scales and T— bots' Test abide, And with their Mark please all the World beside. But when our Wit's called in, what will remain The Muse's learned Commerce to maintain? How pensive will our Beaus and Ladies sit? They'll mutiny for want of ready Wit. That such a failure no Man may incense, Let us erect a Bank for Wit and Sense. A Bank whose current Bills may Payment make, Till new Milled Wit shall from the Mint come back. Let S—er, D—set, Sh—ld, M—gue, Lend but their Names, the Project than will do. The Bank is fixed if these will underwrite, They pay the vastest Sums of Wit at fight. These are good Men, in whom we all agree, Their Notes for Wit are good Security. Duncombs and Claytons in Parnassus all, Who cannot sink unless the Hill should fall. Their Bills, tho' ne'er supported by trusties, Will through Parnassus circulate with ease. If these come in, the Bank will quickly fill, All will be scrambling up Parnassus Hill. They'll crowd the Muse's Hall and throng to write Great Sums of Wit, and will be Gainers by't. V— e and C—e both are Wealthy, they Have Funds of Standard-Sense, need no Alloy, And yet mixed Metal oft they pass away. The Bank may safely their Subscriptions take, But let 'em for their Reputation's sake, Take care their Payments they in Sterling make. Codron will underwrite his Indian Wit, Far-fetched indeed, so 'twill the Ladies fit. By Hearsay he's a Scholar, and they say The Man's a sort of Wit too in his way. Let 'em receive whatever P— r brings, In nobler Strains no happy Genius sings. 'Tis Complaisance when to divert his Friends, He to facetious Fancies condescends. T— e will subscribe, but set no Payment-Day, For his slow Muse you must with Patience stay, He's honest, and as Wit comes in, will pay. But how would all this new Contrivance Prize, How high in value would their Actions rise? Would Fr—k engraft his solid, manly Sense, His Learning L— k, Fl— d his Eloquence. The Bank when thus established will supply Small Places, for the little, loitt'ring Fry That follow G—th, or at Will Vr— 's ply. Their Station will be low, but ne'ertheless For this Provision they should Thanks express: 'Tis sad to be a Wit and Dinnerless. T— n the great Wit-Jobber of the Age, And all the Muse's Brokers will engage Their several Friends to cry the Actions up, And all the railing Mouths of Envy stop. Ye Lords who o'er the Muse's Realm preside, Their interests manage and their Empire guide; Regard your Care, regard the sacred State Laid by Invaders waste and desolate. Tartars and Scythians have in barbarous Bands Riffled the Muses and o'er-run their Lands. The Native Subjects who in Peace enjoyed The happy Seat, are by the Sword destroyed. Gardens and Groves Parnassus did adorn, Condemned to Thistles now, and cursed with Thorn. Instead of Flowers and Herbs of wholesome use, It does rank Weeds and poisonous Plants produce. Fit to be for Witches a Retreat, Owls, Satyrs, Monkeys, than the Muses Seat. Even these debauched by D— n and his Crew, Turn Bawds to Vice and wicked Aims pursue. Therefore some just and wholesome Laws ordain, That may this wild Licentiousness restrain. To Virtue and to Merit have regard, To punish learn, you know how to reward. Let those Correction have, and not Applause, That Heaven affront and ridicule its Laws. No sober Judge will Atheism e'er permit To pass for Sense, or Blasphemy for Wit. Declare that what's Obscene shall give Offence, Let want of Decency be want of Sense. Roscom. Send out your Guards to scow'r the Ways and seize The Footpads, Outlaws, Rogues and Rapparees, That in the Muse's Country rob and kill, And make Parnassus worse than Shooter's Hill. Poetic Justice should on these be shown, Or soon the Muse's State must be undone. For now an honest Man can't peep abroad, And all chaste Muses dread the dangerous Road. If in Parnassus any needy Wit Should filch and Petty Larceny commit, If he should riffle Books, and Pilferer turn, An Inch beside the Nose the Felon burn. Let him distinguished by this Mark appear, And in his Cheek a plain Signetur wear. Chastise the Poets who our Laws invade, And hold with France for Wit an Owling Trade. Felonious G— pursuing this Design, Smuggles French Wit, as others Silks and Wine. But let his Sufferings doubly be severe, For he both steals it there, and runs it here. Condemn all those who against the Muse's Laws Solicit Votes, and canvas for Applause. When Torman writes he rattles up and down, And makes what Friends he can, to make the Town. By Noise and Violence they force a Name, For this lewd Town has Setters too for Fame: It is not Merit now that recommends, But he's allowed most Sense, that makes most Friends In Panegyric let it be a Rule, That for the Sense none praise a Wealthy Fool. D— n condemn who taught Men how to make Of Dunces Wits, an Angel of a Rake. By Treats and Gifts our Youth may now commence, Wits without Brains, and Scholars without Sense. They cry up Darfel for a Wit, to treat Let him forbear, and they their Words will eat. Great Atticus himself these Men would curse, Should Atticus appear without his Purse. Of any Price you may bespeak a Name, For Characters they cut, and retail Fame. Bounty's the Measure of a Patron's Mind, For they have still most Sense, that prove most kind. Fame on Great Men's a Charge that still goes on, For Wits, like scriveners, take for Pro and Con. Without his Gold what generous Oran writ, Had ne'er been Standard, sheer Athenian Wit. Those who by satire would reform the Town, Should have some little Merit of their own, And not be Rakes themselves below Lampoon. For all their Libels Panegyrick's are, They're still read backward like a Witch's Prayer. Ell— t'tis Reproofs who does not make his Sport? Who'll e'er repent that S— d does exhort? Therefore let Satyr-Writers be suppressed, Or be reformed by cautious D— set's Test. 'Tis only D— set's Judgement can command, Wit the worst Weapon in a Madmans' Hand. The Biting Things by that great Master said, Flow from rich Sense, but theirs from want of Bread. Whatever is by them in satire writ Is Malice all, but his excess of Wit. To lash our Faults and Follies is his Aim, Theirs is good Sense and Merit to defame. In D—set Wit (and therefore still 'twill please) Is Constitution, but in them Disease. Care should be taken of the Impotent, That in your Service have their Vigour spent. They should have Pensions from the Muse's State, Too Old to Write, too Feeble to Translate. But let the lusty Beggar-Wits that lurk About the Hill, be seized and set to Work. Besides some Youths Debauches will commit, And surfeit by their undigested Wit. Th' intoxicating Draught they cannot bear, It takes their Heads before they are ware. Weak Brothers by Excesses it appears Have oft been laid up Months, and some whole Years. By one Debauch a tender Wit was tried, And he 'tis known was likely to have died. That neither Sick nor Poor you may neglect, For all the Muse's Invalids erect, An Hospital upon Parnassus' Hill, And settle Doctors there of Worth and Skill. This Town can numbers for your Service spare, That live obscure and of Success despair. Fracar has many sour Invectives said, And Jests upon his own Profession spread, And with good Reason, 'twill not find him Bread. And some such Doctors, sure you may persuade To labour at th' Apothecary's Trade. They'll Medicines make, and at the Mortar sweat, Let 'em pound Drugs, they have no Brains to beat. FINIS.