Commendatory VERSES, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHUR'S, AND THE satire against Wit; By some of his particular Friends. Insanit Scaevola factus Eques. Innocuos permit Sales; cur ludere nobis Non liceat, licuit si jugulare tibi? Mart. LONDON: Printed in the Year MDCC. To all the Honourable CITIZENS within the Bills of Mortality, below the Dignity of Common-council-men. Fellow CITIZENS, I Am no Orator, I own it, nor ever made a Speech in my Life, but once in the Vestry, about choosing a Lecturer, and new Lettering the Church-Buckets: but this I'll be bold to say, That no Man is a heartier Wellwisher to the Prosperity of this Protestant City than myself. Now I must tell you, gentlemans, that you don't take so much Notice of a certain Author, who does you the Honour to reside among you, as his great Qualities deserve. You only consult him as a Physician; and indeed I must needs say he is a pretty Physician; He has eased many of you of those heavy Burdens, called Wives and Children; and, out of his Zeal to the Public, has helped to thin the overstock of Traders: But still you must give me leave to tell you, that you overlook his principal Talon, for Physic is what he values himself least upon. He is a Poet, pray be not scandalised at the Word, he is a Poet, I say, but of sober solid Principles, and as hearty an Enemy to Wit as the best of you all: he has writ twenty thousand Verses and upwards without one Grain of Wit in them; nay, he has declared open War against it, and, despising it in himself, is resolved not to endure it in any one else. When he is in his Coach, instead of pretending to read where he can't see, as some Doctors do; or thinking of his Patient's Case, which none of them do, he is still listening to the Chimes, to put his Ear in tune, and stumbles upon a Distich every Kennel he is jolted over. Nay, even in Coffeehouses, when other People are cleansing Chester-Harbour, banishing Popish Priests, disposing the Crown of Spain, repairing Dover-Peer, pitying the poor Scots at Darien, or settling the Affairs of Poland, he is enditing Heroics on the back of a News-Paper with his Pencil, and would give more for a Rhyme to Radziouski than a Specific for the Gout. Those flashy Fellows, your Covent-garden Poets, are good for nothing, but to run into our Debts, lie with our Wives, and break unmannerly jests upon us Citizens; then, like a parcel of Sots, they writ for Fame and Immortality; but this Gentleman is above such Trifles, and, as he prescribes, so he writes for the Good of Trade. He's a particular Benefactor to the Manufacture of the Nation; and, at this present Minute, to my certain knowledge, keeps Ten Paper-mill a going with his Job and Habakkuk, and his other Hebrew Heroes. There's scarce a Cook, Grocer, or Tobacconist within the City-Walls but is the better for his Works; nay, one that is well acquainted with his Secret History, has assured me, that his main design in writing the two Arthur's, whatever he pretended in his Preface, was only to help the poor Trunk-makers at a Pinch, when Quarles and Ogilby were all spent, and they wanted other Materials. Above all, you can't imagine what a singular Deference he pays to a golden Chain; 'tis impossible for a rich Man with him, either to be a Knave or a Blockhead: he never sees the Cap of Maintenance, but is ready to worship it; and, in compliment to the Sword-bearer, would, I dare engage for him, sooner writ a Panegyric upon Custard, than any of the Cardinal Virtues, tho' he pretends to be their Champion. This may serve, Fellow-Citizens, to give you some Idea of the Man; but what we most want his Assistance in, is to reform several enormous Abuses that have crept in among us. The Poetry of our Bellmen, which in its first Institution contained many excellent Lessons of Piety, is grown very lose and immoral, and gives our Wives and Daughters wicked Ideas, when it awakes them at Midnight. The Tobacco-boxes too seem engaged in a general Confederacy to bring Vice into esteem; their lewd Inscriptions charge Religion with desperate Resolution, and have given it many deep and ghastly Wounds. Our Posies for Rings are either immodest, or irreligious; and we see few Verses on our Alehouse Signs, but have some spiteful and envious Strokes at Sobriety and Good-manners, whence the Apprentices of this Populous City have apparently received very bad Impressions. 'Tis great Pity that our Magistrates, in whose Power it is, have not yet restrained the Licentiousness of these Rhimes, and obliged the Writers of them to observe more Decorum. But, since they are so remiss in their Duty, retain this Gentleman on the side of Religion, and you'll soon see these Enormities Vanish. Besides, being of a goodly Person, if you desired him now and then, upon a Solemn Occasion, to walk before a Pageant, or march at the Head of the Bluecoat Infantry, at the Burial of one of his own Patients, with how much more Decency and Gravity would those Public Ceremonies be performed? And than who so proper to inflame the Courages of our City-Militia, as our Parson tells me, one Tyrtaeus did of old, by the Repetition of his own Lines? Well, could I but be so happy as to see him once appear in the Front of our Finsbury-Squadrons, or animate with his noble Compositions the Wrestlers in moorfield's, I should not doubt to see our ancient Military Genius come in Play, and every London Apprentice able to worst his Brace of Lions. Therefore, Fellow-Citizens, for mine, for your own, and your Families sakes, hug and cherish this worthy Gentleman, make him free of all your Companies, for he's as well qualified for any of them as his own; carry him to all your Entertainments, nay even to your private Deliberations over Brawn and Quest-ale, and when any foreign Ambassador is treated by the City, get him to pay the Compliment in Verse, and the R-c-rd-r may second him in Prose; put the entire Management of Smithfield into his Hands, and make him absolute Monarch of all the Booths and Poppet-shews. Above all, let him endeavour by the Melody of his Rhimes (and what can withstand ' 'em?) to call back our fugitive Mercers from Covent-garden to Ludgate-hill and Pater-noster-row. Since we are for new Painting our City-gates, why should we not Furbish up our old Heroes in new Metre? Why should poor King Lud and his two trusty Sons, Temancus and Androgeus, be forgotten? Or what harm have the Giants at Guildhall and Whittington's Cat done to be buried in oblivion? There are a thousand other Subjects to employ his Muse, wherein he may discreetly intersperse some notable Precepts against Trusting, some pretty Touches in defence of Usury, and some handsome Consolations for Cuckoldom, all which might be of admirable use to season and confirm our City-Youth in the true Principles of their Ancestors: And what if you could persuade him to write a few pacifying Strains to calm the distempered Spirits of our Carmen and the Oyster-women at Bilingsgate? In short, these are some of the Topics you may recommend to him. Let him make Verses for us Citizens, and prescribe Physic to the Fools without Temple-bar. I am, Your Loving Friend, O. S. Commendatory VERSES, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHUR'S, AND THE satire against Wit. A Short and True History of the Author of the satire against Wit. BY Nature meant, by Want a Pedant made, Bl—re at first professed the Whipping Trade; Grown fond of Buttocks, he would Lash no more, But kindly Cured the A— he Galled before. So Quack commenced; then, fierce with Pride, he swore, That Toothache, Gripes, and Corns should be no more. In vain his Drugs as well as Birch he tried, His Boys grew Blockheads, and his Patients died. Next he turned Bard, and, mounted on a Cart, Whose hideous Rumbling made Apollo start, Burlesqued the Bravest, Wisest SON of Mars In Ballad-rhimes, and all the Pomp of Farce. Still he changed Callings, and at length has hit On Business for his matchless Talon fit, To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit. Upon the Author of the satire against Wit. A Grave Physician, used to write for Fees, And spoil no Paper, but with Recipes, Is now turned Poet, rails against all Wit, Except that Little found among the Great. As if he thought true Wit and Sense were tied To Men in Place, like Avarice, or Pride. But in their Praise so like a Quack he talks, You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box. With mangled Names old Stories he pollutes, And to the present Time past Action suits, Amazed we find, in every Page he writes, Members of Parliament with Arthur's Knights. It is a common Pastime to write Ill; And Doctor, with the rest even take thy fill. Thy Satyr's harmless: 'Tis thy Prose that kills, When thou Prescrib'st thy Potions, and thy Pills. To that Incomparable Panegyrist, the Author of the satire upon Wit. HEnceforth no more in thy Poetic Rage Burlesque the Godlike Heroes of the Age; No more King Arthur's be with Labour writ, But follow Nature, and still rail at Wit. For this thy mighty Genius was designed, In this thy Cares a due Success may find. Opinions we more easily receive From Guides that practise by those Rules they give: So Dullness thou may'st write into Esteem, Thy great Example, as it is thy Theme. Hope not to join, (like G-rth's Immortal Lays,) The keenest satire with the finest Praise. Thy Satyrs by't not, but like Aesop's Ass Thou kickest the Darling whom thou wouldst caress. Wouldst thou our Youth from Poetry affright, 'Tis wisely done, thyself in Verse to write? So drunken Slaves the Spartans' did design Should fright their Children from the Love of Wine. Go on, and rail as thou hast done before, Thus Lovers use when piqued in an Amour: The Nymph they can't enjoy, they call a Whore. The Quack Corrected: or, Advice to the Knight of the Ill-favoured Muse. LEt Bl—re still, in good King Arthur's Vein, To Fleckno's Empire his just Right maintain. Let him his own to common Sense oppose, With Praise and Slander maul both Friends and Foes Let him great Dr-d-n's awful Name profane; And learned G-rth with envious Pride disdain. Codron's bright Genius with vile Punns' lampoon, And run a Muck at all the Wits in Town: Let the Quack scribble any thing but Bills, His satire Wounds not▪ but his Physic Kills. To the Merry Poetaster at Sadlers-hall, in Cheapside. Unwieldy Pedant, let thy awkward Muse With Censures praise, with Flatteries abuse. To lash and not be felt, in Thee's an Art, Thou ne'er mad'st any, but thy Schoolboy's smart. Then be advised, and scribble not again, thou'rt fashioned for a Flail and not a Pen. If B B—l's immortal Wit thou wouldst decry, Pretend 'tis He that writ Thy Poetry. Thy feeble satire ne'er can do him wrong, Thy Poems, and thy Patients live not long. An Equal Match: or, A Drawn Battle. A Monument of Dullness to erect, B B —y should Write, and Bl—re should Correct; Like which no other Piece can e'er be wrought, For Decency of Style, and Life of Thought. But that where B B —y shall in Judgement sit To pair Excrescencies from Bl— re's Wit. To the Mirror of British Knighthood, the Worthy Author of the satire against Wit; Occasioned by the Hemystick, P. 8. — heavens Guard poor A— n. MUst I then passive stand! and can I hear The Man I Love, abused, and yet forbear? Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend, 'Twas some Remorse thou didst not him commend. Thou dost not all my Indignation raise, For I prefer thy Pity to thy Praise; In vain thou wouldst thy Name, dull Pedant, hid, There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside. If Caesar's Bounty for your Trash you've shared, You're not the first Assassin he has spared. His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight, Which P-rt-r may demand with equal Right. Well may'st thou think an useless Talon Wit, Thou who without it hast three Poems Writ: Impenetrably dull, secure thou'rt found, And canst receive no more, than give a Wound; Then, scorned by all, to some dark Corner fly, And in Lethargic Trance expiring lie, Till thou from injured G-rth thy Cure receive, And S— d only Absolution give. To the Cheapside Knight, on his satire against Wit. SOme scribbling Fops so little value Fame, They sometimes hit, because they never Aim. But thou for Erring, hast a certain Rule, And, aiming, art inviolably▪ Dull. Thy muddy Stream no lucid Drop supplies, But Punns like Bubbles on the Surface rise. All that for Wit you could, you've kindly done, You cannot write, but can be writ upon. And a like Fate does either side befit, Immortal Dullness, or Immortal Wit: In just Extremes an equal Merit lies, And B—le and G-rth with thee must share the Prize, Since thou canst sink, as much as they can rise. To the Indefatigable Rhimer. OS— rs, T— t, D—ett, M—gue, G G —y, S—ld, C—sh, P—ke, V— n, you Who suffer Bl—re to insult your taste, And tamely hear him bluster in bombast. Bid him before he dares to write again, Resign his own, and take some other Pen. D— n, shall Numbers, C—ve Wit inspire, Dr— ke nicest Rules, but B—le and Codron Fire. Then G-rth shall teach him, and his witless Tribe First to write Sense, and after to Prescribe; The unlearned Pedant, thus may please the Town, But his own nauseous Trash will ne'er go down. For naught can equal, what the Bard has writ, But R— ff's Scholarship, and G—n's Wit. A modest Request to the Poetical Knight. SInce, B— y's Nonsense to outdo, you strive, Vain to be thought the Dullest Wretch alive, And such Inimitable Strains have writ, That the most famous Blockheads must submit: Long may you Reign, and long unenvied Live, And none Invade your great Prerogative. But in Return, your Poetry give o'er, And Persecute poor job, and us no more. Wholesome Advice to a City Knight, Over-run with Rhimes and Hypocrisy: Occasioned by his satire against Wit. WE bid thee not give o'er the Killing Trade: Whilst Fees come in, 'tis fruitless to dissuade. Religion is a Trick, you've practised long, To bring in Pence, and gull the gaping Throng. But all thy Patients now perceive thy Aim, They find thy Morals, and thy Skill the same. Then, if thou wouldst thy Ignorance redress, Prithee mind Physic more, and Rhyming less. To a thrice Illustrious Quack, Pedant, and Bard, on his Incomparable Poem called, A satire against Wit. By a LADY. THou fund of Nonsense, was it not enough That Cits and pious Ladies liked thy Stuff, That as thou Copy'dst Virgil, all might see Judicious Bellmen Imitated thee. That to thy Cadence Sextons set their Chimes, And Nurses skimming Possets humed thy Rhimes. But thou must needs fall foul on Men of Sense, With Dullness equal to thy Impudence. Are D— n, C—dr— n, G—th, V— k, B—le, Those Names of Wonder, that adorn our Isle, Fit Subjects for thy vile Pedantic Pen? Hence saucy Usher to thy Desk again: Construe Dutch Notes, and poor upon Boys A—es, But prithee writ no more Heroic Farces. Teach blooming Blockheads by thy own tried Rules To give us Demonstration that they're Fools. Let 'em by N—'s Sermon-stile refine Their English Prose, their Poetry by thine. Let W—sl— y's Rhimes their Emulation raise, And Arw-k-r, Instruct 'em how to Praise. That, when all Ages in this Truth agree, They're finished Dunces, they may rival thee, Thou only Slain to Mighty WILLIAM's Sword! Old jemmy never Knighted such a T— d. For the most nauseous Mixture GOD can make, Is a dull Pedant, and a busy Quack. To Sir R—Bl— re, on the Report of the Two Arthur's being condemned to be hanged. ONce more take Pen in Hand, Obsequious Knight, For here's a Theme thou canst not underwrite, Unless the Devil owes thy Muse a Spite. To Prince and King thy Dullness Life did give, Let then these Arthur's too in Dogg'rel live. Occasioned by the News that Sir R—Bl— 's Paraphrase upon Job was in the Press. WHen job, contending with the Devil, I saw, It did my Wonder, but not Pity draw: For I concluded, that without some Trick, A Saint at any time could match Old Nick. Next came a fiercer Fiend upon his Back, I mean his Spouse, and stunned him with her Clack. But still I could not pity him, as knowing A Crabtree-cudgel soon would send her going. But when the Quack engaged with job I spied, The Lord have Mercy on poor job, I cried. What Spouse and Satan did attempt in vain, The Quack will compass with his murdering Pen, And on a Dunghill leave poor job again. With impious Dogg'rel he'll pollute his Theme, And make the Saint against his Will Blaspheme. A TALE. POems and Prose of different Force lay Claim With the same Confidence to Tully's Name. And shallow Critics were content to say, Prose was his Business, Poetry his Play. Thus Caesar thought, thus Brutus and the rest, Who knew the Man, and knew his Talon best. Maurus arose, sworn Foe to Health and Wit, Who Folio Bills and Folio Ballads writ. Who bustled much for Bread, and for Renown, By Lies and Poison scattered through the Town. To Roman Wives with Veneration known, For Roman Wives were very like our own. And Husbands than we find in Latin Song Would Love too little, and would Live too long. Tully, says he, 'tis plain to Friends and Foes, Writes his own Verse, but borrows all his Prose. He Fearless was, because he was not Brave, A Noble Roman would not beat a Slave. The Consul smiling, said, Judicious Friend, Thy shining Genius shall thy Works defend. Inimitable Strokes defend thy Fame, Thy Beauties and thy Force are still the same. And I must yield with the consenting Town, Thy Ballads, and thy Bills, are all thy own. Upon the Character of Codron, as 'tis drawn by the Bungling Knight in his satire against Wit. HOw kind is Malice managed by a Sot, Where no Design directs the Embryo Thought, And Praise and satire stumble out by Lot. The Mortal Thrust to Codron's Heart designed, Proves a soft wanton Touch to charm his Mind. Can M— nt-gue or D-rs-t higher soar! Or can Immortal Sh-ff— l wish for more? Brightness, Force, Justness, Delicacy, Ease, Must form that Wit, that can the Ladies please. No false affected Rules debauch their Taste, No fruitless Toils their generous Spirits waste, Which wear a Wit into a Dunce at last. No lumber-Learning gives an awkward Pride, False Maxims cramp not, nor false Lights misguide. Voiture and W-lsh their easy Hours employ, Voiture and W-lsh oft read will never cloy. With Care they guard the Music of their Style, They fly from B—ly, and converse with B—le. They steal no Terms, no Notions from the Schools, The Pedant's Pleasure, and the Pride of Fools; With native Charms their matchless Thoughts surprise, Soft as their Souls, and beauteous as their Eyes. Gay as the Light, and unconfined as Air, chaste and Sublime, all worthy of the Fair. How then can a rough artless Indian Wit The faultless Palates of the Ladies fit? Codron will never stand so nice a Test, Nor is't with Praise fair Mouths oblige him best. Let others make a vain Parade of Parts, Whilst Codron aims not at Applause, but Hearts. Secure him those, and thou shall't name the rest, Thy Spite shall choose the worst, thy Taste the best. He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign, He will with Buxtorf and with B—ly shine, And be a Wit in any way, but thine. An Epigram on Job Travestyed by the City Bard. POor job lost all the Comforts of his Life, And hardly saved a Potsherd, and a Wife. Yet job blest God, and job again was blest▪ His Virtue was Essayed, and bore the Test. But had heavens Wrath poured out its fiercest Vial, Had he been then Burlesqued, without denial The patiented Man had yielded to that Trial. His pious Spouse with Bl—re on her side Must have prevailed, and job had cursed, and died. To the Adventurous Knight of Cheapside, upon his satire against Wit. WHat Frenzy has possessed thy desperate Brain, To Rail at Wit in this unhallowed Strain? Reproach of thy own Kind! to slander Sense, The noblest Gift bestowed by Providence! Was it Revenge provoked thee thus to Write, Because thou'rt cursed to such a Dearth of Wit? Or was it eager Passion for a Name, To be enrolled among the Fools of Fame? Like him, who rather than he'd live obscure, Would Fire a Church to make his Name secure. Or was it thy Despair at length to find Thy Loads of Chaff the Sport of every Wind? To see thy hasty Muse, that loves to roam, Promise such Journeys, but come foundered home? Just Fate of Sots, who think in their vain Breast, Their Coffee-Rhimes shall stand the Public Test: Seized with prolific Dullness, 'tis thy Curse To Write still on, and still too for the Worse. Who hates not Wes Wes —y, may Thy Works esteem, Both alike able to Disgrace their Theme. But Thou, through wild Conceit aspiring still, Claimest in Thy Rave Esculapian-skill. Quack thou art sure in Both, and cursed is he, Who guided by his adverse Stars to Thee, Employs thy deadly Potions to reclaim His feeble Health, thy Pen to spread his Fame. Upon the Knighting of Sir R—Bl— re, for his Incomparable Poem called, King ARTHUR. BE not puffed up with Knighthood, Friend of mine, A merry Prince once Knighted a Sir-Loyn. And, if to make Comparisons 'twere safe, An Ox deserved it better than a Culf. Thy Pride and State I value not a Rush, Thou that art now King Phyz, wast once King * Alluding to the two Kings in the Rehearsal. Vsh. Upon King Arthur, partly written in the Doctor's Coach, and partly in a Coffee-house. LEt the malicious Critics Snarl and Rail, Arthur immortal is, and must prevail. In vain they strive to wound him with their Tongue, The Lifeless Faetus can receive no wrong. As rattling Coach once thundered through the Mire, Out dropped Abortive Arthur from his Sire. Well may he then both Time and Death defy, For what was never born, can never die. Upon seeing a Man light a Pipe of Tobacco in a Coffee-house with a Leaf of King Arthur. IN Coffee-house begot, the short-lived Brat, By instinct thither hasts to meet his Fate. The Phoenix to Arabia thus returns, And in the Grove, that gave her Birth, she burns. Thus wand'ring Scot, when through the World he's past, Revisits ancient Tweed with pious haste, And on Paternal Mountain dies at last. EPIGRAM, Occasioned by the Passage in the satire against Wit, that Reflects upon Mr. Tate, and ends thus, He's Honest, and, as Wit comes in, will Pay. RAil on, discourteous Knight. If modest Tate Is slow in making Payments, what of that! So is th' Exchequer, so are half the Lords, On whom thou hast bestowed such sugared Words. Envy itself must own this Truth of * Mr. Tate 's Christian Name. Nahum, That when the Muses call, he strives to pay ' 'em. But can we this of thy damned Hackney say, Who as she nothing has, can nothing pay? Then be advised; Rail not at Tate so fast, A Psalm of his may chance to be thy last. A Story of a Greek Chevalier, Predecessor in a direct Line to the British Knight. WHen, fired by Glory, Philip's Godlike Son, The Persian Empire like a Storm o'errun, A worthless Scribbler, Chaerilus by Name, In pompous Dogg'rel soiled the Hero's Fame. The Grecian Prince, to Merit ever just, (For Monarches did not then Reward on Trust) Read o'er his Rhimes, and to chastise such Trash, Gave him for each offending Line a Lash. Thus Bard went off, with many Drubs requited, That's in plain English, Chaerilus was Knighted. To the Pious and Worthy Author of the satire against Wit. BL—re strove long with holy Crafts to please, Some thought him serious, therefore gave him Fees; Much Sanctity before his Books He shows, But, whom his Preface gains, his Poems lose. No Patients now consult him; thus we find His Practice with his Poetry's declined. Melancholy Reflections on the Deficiency of Useful Learning. To Sir R—Bl— re. SHort are our Powers, tho' infinite our Will: What Helps to useful Knowledge want we still! Laborious L-st-r thirty Years employs In painful search of Nature's curious Toys: Yet many a painted Shell, and shining Fly Must still in Dirt, and dark Oblivion lie. Mysterious Slightall— ne may yet go on to stun ye With * See a late Pamphlet called, The Transactioneer. Cynocrambe, Poppy-pye, Bumbunny; But from what Records can we hope to know If poor * See a late Pamphlet called, The Transactioneer. Will. Matthew's Babe's survived or no? Aeras from costly Mummeries arose, But who th' important Moment shall disclose Till B-ntl-y writes of Grecian Puppet-shows? Heralds are paid, and Registers are kept Of ancient Knights, who in full Glory slept. But Garter nods; Garter assigns no Place To three illustrious Knights of English Race: Nor will succeeding Britain's hair one Word Of good Sir- Loin, Sir Richard, or Sir T— To the Canting Author of the satire against Wit. THe Preacher Maurus cries, all Wit is vain, Unless 'tis like his Godliness, for Gain. Of most vain Things he may the Folly own: But Wit's a Vanity he has not known. Friendly Advice to Dr. Bl—. KNighthood to Hero's only once was due, Now's the Reward of stupid Praise in you. Why should a Quack be dubbed, unless it be That poisoning is an Act of Chivalry? Thus we must own you have your Thousands slain With the dire Strokes of your resistless Pen. By whipping Boys your Cruelty began, And grew by bolder Steps to kill Man. Just the Reverse of Dionysius Fate, Who fell to flogging Bums from murdering the State. For both these Trades your Genius far unfit, At length with saucy Pride aspires to Wit. Which by pretending to, you more Disgrace, Than toasting Beaus our ancient British Race. I'th' Mountebank the Ass had lain concealed, But his loud Braying has the Brute revealed. Such vile Heroics, such unhallowed Strains Were never spawned before from Irish Brains. Nor drowsy Mum, no dozing Usquebaugh Could e'er suggest such Lines to Sir john Daw. You weakly Skirmish with the Sins o'th' Age, And are the errand Scavinger o'th' Stage. Why Virtue makes no Progress, now is plain, Because such Knights as you its Cause maintain. If you'd a Friend to Sense and Virtue be, And to Mankind, for once be ruled by me, Leave Moralising, Drugs and Poetry. To Elkanah Settle, the City-Poet. WIlt thou then passive see the Sacred Bays Torn from thy Brows in thy declining Days, And tamely let a Quack usurp thy Place, So near Guildhall, and in my Lord May'r's Face? Rouse up for Shame, assert thy ancient Right, And from his City-quarters drive the Knight. Let Father * Two Famous City-Poets. jordan Martial Heat inspire, And Uncle * Two Famous City-Poets. Tubman fill thy Breast with Fire. If Bl—re cries, Both Arthur's are my own; Quote thou the famed Cambyses, and Pope joan. Cheapside at once two Bards can ne'er allow, But either He must Abdicate, or Thou. Then if the Knight still keeps up his Pretence, Even turn Physician in thy own Defence. 'Tis owned by all the Critics of our Time, Thou canst as well Prescribe, as Bl—re Rhyme. To the Author of the satire against Wit, upon concealing his Name. HE that in Arthur's Trash has Pennance done, Needs not be told who writ this vile Lampoon. In both the same eternal Dullness shines, Inspires the Thoughts, and animates the Lines. In both the same lewd Flattery we find, The Praise defaming, and the satire kind. Alike the Numbers, Fashion, and Design, No Checquer-Tallies could more nicely join. Thy foolish Muse puts on her Mask too late, We know the Strumpet by her Voice and Gate. On Job newly Travestied by Sir R—Bl—. NEar Lethe's Banks, where the forgetful Stream With lazy Motion creeps, and seems to Dream, job with his thoughtful Friends discoursing sat Of all the dark mysterious Turns of Fate: And much they argued why Heaven's partial Care The Good should punish, and the Bad should spare: When Io! a Shade, new landed, forward pressed, And thus himself to listening job Addressed: Illustrious Ghost! (I come not to upbraid) Oh summon all thy Patience to thy Aid: A Cheapside Quack, whose vile unhallowed Pen With equal Licence Murders Rhimes and Men, In rumbling Fustian has burlesqued thy Page, And famed jack D-nt-n brings it on the Stage, Was ever Man, the patiented job did cry, So plagued with cursed Messengers, as I? All other Losses, unconcerned I bore, But never heard such Stabbing News before. Who can behold the Issue of his Brain Mangled by barbarous Hands, and not complain? This scribbling Quack (his Fame I know too well By Thousand Ghosts whom he has sent to Hell) Dull Satan's feebler Malice will resine, And Stab me through and through in every Line. The Devil more brave, did open War declare, The fawning Poet kills, and speaks me fair. Cursed be the Wretch, that taught him first to Write, And with lewd Pen and Ink indulged his Spite: That fly-blowed the young Bard with buzzing Rhymes, And filled his tender Ears with Grubstreet Chimes. Cursed be the Papermill his Muse employs, Cursed be the Sot who on his Skill relies. Thus job complained, but to forget his Grief, In Lethe's sovereign Streams he sought Relief. To Sir R—Bl— upon his Unhappy Talon at Praising and Railing. THine is the only Muse in British Ground Whose satire tickles, and whose Praises wound: Sure Hebrew first was taught her by her Nurse, Where the same Word is used to Bless and Curse. To Dr. Garth, on the Fourth Edition of his incomparable Poem, The Dispensary; Occasioned by some Lines in the satire against Wit. BOld thy Attempt, in these hard Times to raise In our unfriendly Clime the tender Bays, While Northern Blasts drive from the Neighbouring Flood, And nip the springing Laurel in the Bud. On such bleak Paths our present Poets tread, The very Garland withers on each Head. In vain the Critics strive to Purge the Soil, Fertile in Weeds it mocks their busy Toil. Spontaneous Crops of jobs and Arthur's rise, Whose towering Nonsense braves the very Skies: Like Paper-kites the empty Volumes fly, And by mere force of Wind are raised on high. While we did these with stupid Patience spare, And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care, The Muse's Garden did small Product yield, But Hemp, and Hemlock overran the Field; Till skilful Garth, with Salutary Hand, Taught us to Weed, and Cure Poetic Land, Grubbed up the Brakes, and Thistles, which he found, And sowed with Verse, and Wit the Sacred Ground. But now the Riches of that Soil appear, Which Four fair Harvests yields in Half a Year. No more let Critics of the Want complain Of Mantuan Verse, or the Maeonian Strain; Above them Garth does on their Shoulders rise, And, what our Language wants, his Wit supplies. Famed Poets after him shall strain their Throats, And unfledged Muses chirp their Infant-notes. Yes Garth: thy Enemies confess thy Store, They burst with Envy, yet they long for more: Even we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindness call, To see thy Stock so large, and Gift so small. But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid, And richest Wines in little Casks conveyed. Let lumpish Bl—re his dull Hackney freight, And break his Back with heavy Folio's weight. His Pegasus is of the Flanders Breed, And Limbed for Draught, or Burden, not for Speed. With Carthorse Trot he sweats beneath the Pack Of Rhyming Prose, and Knighthood on his Back: Made for a Drudge, even let him beat the Road, And tug of senseless Rheims th' Heroic Load; Till overstrained the Jade is set, and tires, And sinking in the Mud with Groans expires. Then Bl—re shall this Favour own to thee, That thou perpetuat'st his Memory. Bavius and Maevius so their Works survive, And in one single Line of Virgil's live. On Sir R—Bl— re's Noble Project to Erect a Bank of Wit. THe Thought was great, and worthy of a Cit., In present Dearth, to erect a Bank of Wit. Thus breaking Tradesmen, ready for a Jail, Raise Millions for our Senate o'er their Ale. But thou'rt declared a Bankrupt, and thy Note Even in old Grub-street scarce would fetch a Groat. Apollo scorns thy Project, and the Nine With Indignation laugh at thy Design. There's not a Trader to the Sacred Hill But knows thy Wants, and would Protest thy Bill; Thy Credit can't a Farthing there Command, Though Fr—ke and R— m— r should thy Sureties stand. To Sir R—Bl— re, on the two Wooden Horses before Sadlers-hall. AS trusty Broom-staff Midnight Witch bestrides, When on some Grand Dispatch of Hell she rides. O'er gilded Pinnacles, and lofty Towers, And tallest Pines with furious hast she scowrs. Out flies in her Career the labouring Wind, And sees spent Exhalations lag behind. Arriving at the Black Divan at last In some drear Wood, or solitary Waste: The Fiend her cheated Senses does delude, With airy Visions of imagined Food. Even so, dear Knight, (my Freedom you'll Excuse▪ If to a Witch I have compared your Muse) Even so on Wooden Prancer, mounted high, Your Muse takes nimble Journeys in the Sky. When in her boldest Strains, and highest Flights, She Sings of strange Adventures, and Exploits, Battles, Enchantments, Furies, Devils, and Knights; When she at Arthur's Fairy Table dines, And high-piled Dishes sees, and generous Wines. 'Twas kindly done of the good-natured Cits To Place before thy Door a Brace of Tits. For Pegasus would ne'er endure the weight Of such a Quibbling, Scribbling, Dribbling Knight: That generous Steed, rather than gall his Back With a Pedantie Bard, and Nauseous Quack, Would kneel to take a Pedlar and his Pack. To a Famous Doctor and Poet at Sadlers-hall. IF Wit (as we are told) be a Disease, And if Physicians Cure by Contraries: Bl—re alone the healing Secret knows, 'Tis from his Pen the grand Elixir flows. To the Cheapside Quack: occasioned by this Verse in the satire against Wit, Who with more ease can cure than C—ch kill. By a Gentleman whom Dr. C—lb— ch had cured of the Gout. HOw durst thy railing Muse, vain Wretch, pretend In base Lampoon thus to abuse my Friend! Whose Sacred Art has freed me from my Pains, And broke a haughty Tyrant's stubborn Chains? Keep off, for if thou comest within my Clutches, I'll baste thy Knighthood with my Quondam Crutches. The generous Wine that does my Sorrows drown, The charming Caelia that my Nights does crown, The manly Pleasures of the sporting Fields, The gay Delights the pompous Drama yields, All this, and more to his great Skill I own, Such Blessings can thy Boasted Helps bestow? The Snuff of Life perhaps thy feeble Art May fond lengthen to thy Patient's smart. But Health no more 'tis in thy Power to give, Than thy dull Muse can make her Heroes live. Even War and Plague of Killing, to arraign In thee, is most nonsensical and vain. Thee, who a branded Killer art declared, In both Capacities of Quack and Bard. Whatever Sots to thy Prescriptions fly, For their vain Confidence are sure to die: And whate'er Argument thy Muse employs, Her awkward stupid Management destroys. Death with sure steps thy Doses still attends, And Death too follows whom thy Muse commends. What can escape thy All-destroying Quill, When even thy Cordials, and thy Praises kill? Thy Mother sure, when in Despair and Pain She brought thee forth, thought of the Murderer Cain. To that most incomparable Bard and Quack, the Author of the satire against Wit. I Charge thee, Knight, in great Apollo's Name, If thou'rt not dead to all Reproof and Shame, Either thy Rhimes, or Clysters to disclaim. Both are too much one feeble Brain to rack, Besides the Bard will soon undo the Quack. Such Shoals of Readers thy damned Fustian kills, Thou'lt scarce leave one alive to take thy Pills. Epigram upon King Arthur. THe British Arthur, as Historians tell, Derived his Birth from Merlin's Magic Spell. When Uter, taking the wronged Husband's Shape, On fair Igerne did commit a Rape. But modern Arthur of the Cheapside Line, May justly boast his Parentage Divine. Wearing thy Phyz, and in thy Habit dressed, The God of Dullness his lewd Dam compressed. A merry Ballad on the City Bard, To a New Playhouse Tune. IN London City near Cheapside A wondrous Bard does dwell, Whose Epics (if they're not belied) Do Virgil's far excel: A sprightly Wit, and Person joined, Both Poet and Physician: Artist as famous in his kind, For aught I know, as Titian. In Coffeehouses purest Air His foggy Lines he Writes: In Fields of Dust and Spittle there His British Hero Fights. By sudden Motion then o'reta'ne, The Privy-house he chooses: Great are his Thoughts, and great his Pain, And yet no Time he loses. Gripped in his Guts and Muse, he there Indites, And Praises Arthur most, when most he Sh—. An Epitome of a Poem, truly called, A satire against Wit; done for the Undeceiving of some Readers, who have mistaken the Panegyric in that Immortal Work for the satire, and the satire for the Panegyric. WHo can forbear and tamely silent sit, l. 1. p. 3. And see his Native Land as void of Wit l. 2. As every Piece the City-Knight has Writ? How happy were the old unpolished Times, l. 13. As free from Wit, as other Modern Crimes, l. 14. And what is more from, Bl— re's nauseous Rhimes. As our Forefathers vigorous were and Brave, l. 15. So they were Virtuous, Wise, Discreet and Grave, l. 16. And would have called our Quack a fawning Slave. Clodpate, by Banks, and Stocks, and Projects bit, l. 5. p. 5. Turns up his Whites, and in his Pious Fit, l. 6. He Cheats and Prays, a certain sign of Cit l. 7. Craper runs madly ' midst the thickest Crowd, l. 8. Sometimes says nothing, sometimes talks aloud. Under the Means he lies, frequents the Stage, l. 10. Is very lewd, and does at Learning rage; l. 11. And this vile Stuff we find in every Page. A Bant'ring Spirit, has our Men possessed, l. 20. And Wisdom is become a standing Jest, l. 21. Which is a burning Shame I do protest. Wit does of Virtue sure Destruction make, l. 22. Who can produce a Wit, and not a Rake? l. 23. A Challenge started ne'er but by a Quack. The Mob of Wits is up to storm the Town, l. 1. p. 6 To pull all Virtue and right Reason down, l. 2. Then to surprise the Tower, and steal the Crown, And the lewd Crew affirm, by all that's good, l. 15. They'll ne'er disperse till they have B— re's Blood; l. 16. But they'll ne'er have his Brains, by good King Lud. For that industrious Bard of late has done l. 16. p. 6. The rarest Piece of Wit that e'er was shown, l. 17. And published Dogg'rel he's ashamed to own. The Skilful T-s-n's Name they dare Invade, l. 31. p. 6. And yet they are undone without his Aid; l. 2. Did they read thee, I should conclude them Mad. T— s— n with base Reproaches they pursue, l. 1. p. 7. Just as his moorfield's Patients used to do, l. 4. Who give to T— s— n, what is T— s— n due. Wit does enfeeble and debauch the Mind, l. 7. Before to Business or to Arts inclined: l. 8. Then thou wilt never be Debauched, I find. Had S—rs, H— t, or T T —y, who with awe l. 15, 16, 17, 18. We Name, been Wits, they ne'er had learned the Law. But sure this Compliment not worth a Straw. The Law will ne'er support the bant'ring Breed, l. 22. Tho' Blockheads may, yet Wits can ne'er succeed, l. 23. For which Friend Slightall— ne I hope will break thy Head. R—ff has Wit and lavishes away l. 24. So much in nauseous Northern Brogue each Day, As would suffice to Damn a Smithfield-Play. Wit does our Schools and Colleges invade, l. 20. p. 8. And has of Letters vast Destruction made, l. 21. But that it spoils thy Learning, can't be said. That such a Failure no Man may incense, l. 17. p. 10. Let us erect a Bank for Wit and Sense: l. 18. And so set up at other men's Expense. Let S— r, D— t, S—ld, M—gue l. 21. Lend but their Names the Project than will do: l. 22. What! Lend 'em such a Bankrupt Wretch as you. Duncombs and Claytons of Parnassus all, l. 27. Who cannot sink, unless the Hill should fall, l. 28. Why then, they need but go to Sadlers-hall. St. E— m— t, to make the thing complete, l. 21. p. 9 No English knows, and therefore is most fit To oversee the Coining of our Wit. l. 22. Nor shall M—rs, W—tt, Ch-rl-tt be forgot, With solid Fr—ke and R— r and who Not? Then all our Friends the Actions shall cry up, l. 6. p. 12. And all the railing Mouths of Envy stop. l. 7. Would we could Padlock thine, Eternal Fop. The Project than will T—tts Test abide, l. 11. p. 16. And with his Mark please all the World beside. l. 12. But dare thy Arthur's by this Test be tried? Then what will D— d— n,, or C—ng— ve say l. 27. p. 9 When all their wicked Mixture's purged away? l. 28. Thy Metal's base than their worst Alloy. What will become of S-th-n, W—ch—y l. 29. Who by this means will grievous Sufferers be? l. 30. No matter, they'll ne'er send a Brief to Thee. All these debauched by D— n and his Crew l. 22. p. 12. Turn Bawds to Vice, and wicked Aims pursue: l. 23. To hear thee Cant would make even B—ss Spew. For now an honest Man can't peep abroad, l. 9 p. 13. Nor a chaste Muse, but whip They bring a Rod. l. 16. E'en Atticus himself these Men would Curse, l. 5. p. 14. Should Atticus appear without his Purse, l. 6. If this be Praise, what Libel can say Worse? Nay Darfell too, should he forbear to treat, l. 7. p. 14. These Men that Cry him up, their Words would Eat, l. 8. And say in Scorn, He had no Brains to beat. FINIS. ADVERTISEMENT. UPon the Publishing of job and Habakkuk, an Heroic Poem daily expected, but deferred upon Political Reasons, new Subscription-books will be opened at Will's Coffee-house in Covent-garden, and all Gentlemen, that are willing to Subscribe, are desired to send in their Quota's.