Mac Flecknoe, OR A satire UPON THE TRUE-BLEW-PROTESTANT POET, T. S.  
By the Author of ABSALON & ACHITOPHEL  
LONDON, Printed for D. Green, 1682.   

Mac Flecknoe, OR A satire UPON THE True-Blew-Protestant POET, T. S.  

ALL humane things are subject to decay,  
And when Fate Summons, Monarch's must obey;  
This Flecknoe found, who like Augustus' young,  
Was called to Empire, and had Governed long;  
In Prose and Verse was owned without Dispute,  
Through all the Realms of Nonsense, Absolute;  
This Aged Prince now flourishing in Peace,  
And blest with Issue of a large Increase,  
Worn out with Business, did at length Debate,  
To settle the Succession of the State,  
And Pondering, which of all his Sons were fit  
To Reign, and Wage Immortal Wars, with Wit,  
Cried, 'tis Resolved (for Nature pleads, that he  
Should only Rule, who most resembles me,)  
Shad— alone my perfect Image Bears,  
Mature in Dulness from his Tender Years;  
Shad— alone of all my Sons, is He  
Who stands confirmed in full Stupidity;  
The rest, to some faint meaning make Pretence,  
But Shad— never deviates into Sense;  
Some Beams of Wit on other Souls may Fall,  
Strike through and make a Lucid Interval;  
But Shad— Genuine Night admits no Ray,  
His rising Fogs prevail upon the Day;  
Besides, his goodly Fabric fills the Eye,  
And seems designed for thoughtless Majesty;  
Thoughtless as Monarch Oaks that shade the Plain,  
And spread in solemn State▪ supinely Reign;  
Heywood and Shirley were but Types of Thee,  
Thou last great Prophet of Tautology.  
Even I a Dunce of more renown than they,  
Was sent before but to prepair thy way;  
I coarsely Clothed in Drugget Russet, 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 a prelude to that Glorious Day,  
When thou on Silver Thames didst cut thy Way,  
With well timed Oars before the Royal-Barge,  
Swelled with the Pride of thy Celestial Charge,   

And big with Hymn, Commanders of an Host,  
The like was ne'er in Epsom Blankets Tossed.  
Methinks I see the new Arion Sail,  
The Lute still Trembles underneath thy Nail;  
At thy well sharpened Thumb, from Shore to Shore  
The Treble squeaks for fear, the Bases Roar;  
Echo from Pissing-Alley, Shad— Call,  
And Shad— they resound from Aston-Hall;  
About thy Boat the little Fish's throng,  
And gently waft the over all along;  
Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious Band,  
Thou weild'st thy Paper in thy Thrashing-Hand.  
St. Andrew's Feet ne'er kept more equal Time,  
Not even the Feet of thy own Psyche's Rhyme;  
Tho 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 wore,  
And Vowed he ne'er would Act Villerius more,   
Here stopped the good old Sire, and wept for Joy,  
In silent Raptures of the Hopeful Boy;  
All Arguments (but most his Plays) persuade,  
That for Anointed Dulness he was made.   

Close by the Walls which fair Augusta-Bind,  
(The fair Augusta much to Fears Inclined)  
An Ancient Fabric raised t' Inform the sight,  
There stood of Yore (and Barbican it Height,)  
A Watch-Tower once, but now (so Fate ordeins)  
An Empty name of all the Pile Remains;  
From its old Ruins Brothel-Houses rise,  
Scenes of lewd Love, and of Polluted Joys;  
Where their vast Courts the Mother-Strumpets keep,  
And undisturbed by Watch, in silence sleep;  
Near these a Nursery Erects its Head,  
Where Queens are Formed, and future Heroes Bred,  

Where unfledged 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 Johnson dares in Socks appear;  
But gentle Simpkin just reception finds  
Amidst these Monuments of Varnished Minds:  
Pure Clinches the Suburbane Muse Affords,  
And Panton waging Harmless War with Words;  
Here Flecknoe as a place to Fame well known,  
Ambitiously designed his Shad— Throne.  

For ancient Decker Prophesied long since,  
That in this Isle should Reign a mighty Prince,  
Born for a Scourge of Wit, and Flail of Sense;   
To whom true Dulness should some Psyche's own,  
But Worlds of Misers from his Pen should flow:  
Humorists and Hypocrite's his Pen should produce  
Whole Raymond Families and Tribes of Bruce;  
Now Empress Fame had Published the Renown  
Of Shad—s Coronation through the Town;  
Roused by report of Pomp, the Nations meet  
From near Bunhill, to distant Watling-streete;  
No Persian Carpet spread th' Imperial way,  
But scattered Limbs of Mangled Poets lay;  
From Dusty Shops neglected Authors come,  
Martyrs of Pies, and Relics of the Bum;  
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogilby, there lay,  
But Loads of Shad— almost Choked the way;  
Bilked Stationers for Yeomen stood prepared,  
And Herringman was Captain of the Guard;  
The Hoary Prince in Majesty appeared  
High on a State of his own Labours reared;  
At his Right-Hand our young Ascanius Sat,  
Rome's other Hope, and Pillar of the State;  
His Brows thick Fogs, instead of Glories-Grace,  
And Lambent Dulness played about his Face.  
As Hannible did to the Akars come,  
Sworn by his Sire a Mortal Foe to Rome;  
So Shad— Sworn, not should his Vow be vain▪  
That he to Death true Dulness would maintain;  
And in his Father's Right and Realms Defence,  
Would bid defiance unto Wit and Sense;  
The King himself the Sacred Unction made,  
As King by Office, and as Priest by Trade;  
In his Sinister-Hand, instead of Ball,  
Was placed a mighty Mug of Potent Ale.  
Love's Kingdom to his Right he did Convey,  
At once his Sceptre, and his Rule of Sway;  
Whose Righteous Love the Prince had practised Young,  
And from whose Loins Recorded Psyche Sprung;  
His Temples (last) with Poppey were o'erspread,  
That Nodding seemed to Consecrate his Head▪  
Just at that point of time, (of Fame not lie▪)  
On his Lefthand Twelve Reverend Owls did fly;  
So Romulus ('tis Sung) by Tiber's Brook,  
Presage of Sway from Twice six Vultures took;  
Th' advancing throng loud Acclamations make,  
And Omens of the future Empire take;  
The Sire then shook the Honours on his head,  
And from his brows damps of Oblivion Shed:  

Full of the filial Dulness long he stood,  
Repelling from his Breast the Raging God,  
At length burst out in this Prophetic Mood.    

Heaven bless my Son, from Ireland let him Reign  
To fair Barbadoes on the Western Main,  
Of his Dominion may no end be known,  
And greater than his Fathers be his Throne;  
Beyond love's Kingdoms may he sttetch his Pen,  
He pawsed— and all the People cried— Amen.  
Then thus continued he, my Son advance  
Still in new Impudence, new Ignorance,  
Success let others teach, learn thou from me,  
Pangs without Birth, a fruitless Industry.  
Let Virtuoso's in five Years be Writ,  
Yet not one thought accuse thy Soul of Wit;  
Let Gentle George with Triumph Tread the Stage,  
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage,  
Let Cully Cockwood, Fopling charm the Pit,  
And in their folly show the Writers Wit;  
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy Defence,  
And justify their Authors want of Sense,  
Let them be all of thy own Model made  
Of Dulness; and desire no Foreign Aid,  
That they to after Ages may be known,  
Not Copies drawn, but Issues of thine own;  
Nay, let thy Men of Wit too be the same,  
All like to thee, and differing but in Name;  
But let no Alien Sidney Interpose,  
To lard with Wit thy hungry Epsome Prose:  
And when false Flowers of empiric thou wouldst cull  
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;  
But Writ thy best on th' top, and in each line  
Sir Formal's Oratory Wit be thine;  
Sir Formal though unsought attends thy Quill,  
And doth thy Northern Dedications fill  
Nor let false Friends seduce thy Mind to Fame,  
By Arrogating Johnson's Hostile Name;  
Let Father Flecknoe Fire thy Mind with Praise,  
And Uncle Ogleby thy Envy raise;  
Thou art my Blood where Johnson hath no Part,  
What share have we in Nature, or in Art?  
Where did his Wit or Learning fix a Brand?  
Or rail at Arts he did not understand?  
Where made he love in Prince Nycanders Vain?  
Or swept the Durst in Psyche's humble Strain?  
Where sold he Bargains? Whip-stich, Kiss mine A— s,  
Promised a Play, and dwindled to a Farce.  
Where did his Muse from Fletcher's Scenes purloin,  
As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?  
But so transfused as Oils on Water Flow,  
His always Floats above, thine Sinks Below;  
This is thy Promise, this thy wondrous Way,  
New Humours to Invent for each New Play;  
This is that Boasted Bias of the Mind,  
By which one way to Dulness 'tis Inclined;  
Which makes thy Writings lame on one side still,  
And in all Charges, 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 art a Kilderkin of Wit;  
Like mine thy Gentle Numbers feebly creep,  
Thy Tragic Muse gives Smiles, thy Comic sleep;  
With what e'er Gall thou sets thyself to write,  
Thy Inoffensive Satyrs never by't;  
In thy Felonious Heart, though Venom lies,  
It doth but touch thy Irish Pen and dies;  
Thy Genius calls the not to purchase Fame,  
In keen iambics, but wild Anagram;  
Leave writing Plays, and choose for thy Command,  
Some peaceful Province in Acrostic Land.  
There thou mayst Wings display, and altars raise,  
And torture one poor Word ten thousand ways;  
Or if thou wouldst thy different Talon suit,  
Set thy one Songs, and Sing them to thy Lute▪  

He said, but his last words were scarcely heard  
For Bruce and Longvile had a Trap prepared  
And down they sent the yet declining Bard;   
Sinking, he left the Drugget Robes behind,  
Born upwards by a Subteranean Wind,  
The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part  
With doubled Portion of his Fathers Art.   
FINIS.   

A Gentleman having a curious collection of Poetry by the most Ingenious of the Age, Intends to oblige the World with a Poem every Wednesday Morning, and with all New ones as they come to his hand.  
Sold by most Booksellers.