Mac Flecknoe.  

ALL humane things are subject to decay,  
And, when Fate summons, Monarches must obey  
This Flecnoe 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 was fit  
To Reign, and wage immortal War with Wit:  
Cried, 'tis resolved; for Nature pleads that He  
Should only rule, who most resembles me:  
Sh— alone my perfect image bears,  
Nature in dulness from his tender years.  
Sh— alone of all my Sons, is he  
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.  
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,  
But Sh— never deviates into sense.  
Some Beams of Wit on other souls may fall,  
Strike through and make a lucid interval;  
But Sh—'s 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 Oakes, that shade the plain,  
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.  
Heywood and Sberley 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 prepare thy way:  
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 timed Oars before the Royal Barge,  
Swelled with the Pride of thy Celestial charge;  
And big with Hymn, Commander of an Host,  
The like was ne'er in Epsom Blankets tossed.  
Methinks I see the new Arion Sail,  
The Lute still trembling underneath thy nail.  
At thy well sharpened thumb from Shore to Shore  
The Treble squeaks for fear, the Bases roar:  
Echoes from Pissing-Ally, should— call,  
And Sh— they resound from A— Hall.  
About thy boat the little Fish's throng,  
As at the Morning Toast, that Floats along.  
Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious band  
Thou weild'st thy Papers in thy threshing hand.  
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,  
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:  
Though they in number as in sense excel;  
So just, so like tautology they sell,  
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore  
The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore,  
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 to the Walls which fair Augusta bind,  
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined)  
An ancient fabric, raised t' inform the fight,  
There stood of yore, and Barbican it height:  
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, undisturbed by Watch, in silence sleep.  
Near these a Nursery erects its head,  
Where Queens are formed, and future Hero's 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 Simkin just reception finds  
Amidst this Monument of vanished minds:  
Pure Clinches, the suburban Muse affords;  
And Panton waging harmless War with words.  
Here Flecknoe, as a place to Fame well known,  
Ambitiously designed his Sh—'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 Psyche's 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 published the renown,  
Of Sh—'s Coronation through the Town.  
Roused by report of Fame, the Nations meet,  
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street.  
No Persian Carpets 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, Ogleby there lay,  
But loads of Sh— almost choked the way.  
Bilked Stationers for Yeomen stood prepared,  
And H— was Captain of the Guard.  
The hoary Prince in Majesty appeared,  
High on a Throne 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 around his face.  
As Hannibal did to the Altars come,  
Swore by his Sire a mortal Foe to Rome;  
So Sh— swore, nor should his Vow be vain,  
That he till Death true dulness would maintain;  
And in his father's Right, and Realms defence,  
Ne'er to have peace with Wit, nor truce with Sense.  
The King himself the sacred Unction made,  
As King by Office, and as Priest by Trade:  
In his sinister hand, instead of Ball,  
He 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 Lore the Prince had practised young,  
And from whose Loins recorded Psyche sprung.  
His Temples last with Poppies were overspread,  
That nodding seemed to consecrate his head:  
Just at that point of time, if Fame not lie,  
On his left hand twelve reverend Owls did fly.  
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's Brook,  
Presage of Sway from twice six Vultures took.  
Th' 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 paused, 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, and fruitless Industry.  
Let Virtuoso's in five years be writ;  
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 Writers wit.  
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,  
And justify their Author's want of sense.  
Let 'em 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 S—dl—y interpose  
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.  
And when false flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldst: cull,  
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;  
But write thy best, and top; and in each line,  
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.  
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,  
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.  
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,  
By arrogating Johnson's Hostile name.  
Let Father Flecnoe fire thy mind with praise,  
And Uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.  
Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part;  
What share have we in Nature or in Art?  
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,  
And rail at Arts he did not understand?  
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,  
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?  
Where sold he Bargains, Whip-stich, kiss my Arse,  
Promised a Play and dwinled to a Farce?  
When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,  
As thou whole Eth'ridg dost transfuse to thine?  
But so transfused as Oil on 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, 'tis inclined.  
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 Satyrs never bite.  
In thy felonious heart, 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:  
Leave writing Plays, and choose for thy command  
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,  
Set thy own Songs, and sing them to thy lute.  
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard,  
For Bruce and Longvil had a Trap prepared,  
And down they sent thee yet declaiming Bard.  
Sinking he left his Drugget robe behind,  
Born upwards by a Subterranean wind.  
The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part,  
With double portion of his Father's Art.