Poeta Infamis: Or, a Poet not worth Hanging. Being A DIALOGUE, Between Lysander Valentine, and Poet Pricket. With a Letter to the Author of the Marriage-Hater matched, Written by his Friend.  
Qui Bavium non odit amet tua Carmina Maevi  Martial. 
Difficile est Satyram non scribere nam quis inique,  
Tam patiens Vrbis tam ferreus ut teneat se.  Juvenal. 
LONDON: Printed for B. C. and are to be sold by R. Baldwin, at the Oxford Arms, in Warwick-Lane, 1692.   

To the always disingenuous Tom Pricket, Author of The Marriage-Hater matched.  
I Am sensible the World esteems thy trifting Labours, according to their Merit; for should a Man judge, with all the partiality imaginable, I doubt not but he would find faults equal to his severe Censure: I must confess I have read thy Play, but now 'tis with as much regret, as if I were to go five Miles to hear a Fanatic Preach. I (as all other Men commonly do) began at the beginning, I read over thy Epistle, and Mr. G— n; though, by the way, I must let the World know, thou wert the real Genuine Author, the Mr. G— n fathers it: I must needs say you were a fit Person to write an Encomium of your own Ingenuity, for if thou hast any, 'tis sure best known to thyself; but the Devil a word did I ever hear uttered by thee, that had the least glimpse of a jest, or any other thing like Wit or Ingenuity; but always a Mass of dull heavy Nonsense, not at all diverting, but very extravagant; I was at first, when I read thy Quotation out of Horace, extremely pleased, and my Expectation glutted, with a desire of going on; for thus Horace says, 
Eupolis, atque Cratinus Aristophanesque Poetae  
Arque alii quorum Comedia prisca virorum est.  
Si quis erat digni describi, quod malus aut fur,  
Quod moechus foret, aut Sicarius, aut alioqui  
Famosus, multa cum libertate notabant.   
But at last my fancy was quite palled, and instead of a good Desription of Man, I met with a very ill one of two legged Brutes, Fops and Butterflies, beyond the extravagancies of Humane Thoughts: It makes one think now thou quotest only to be thought a Scholar; for I'm sure thou hast not followed Eupolis, Cratinus, nor Aristophanes, in these words, quorum Comedia prisca virorum est. I remember the same quotation is at the Title Page of thy Three Dukes of Dunstable, (a Play almost as good as thy Marriage-Hater; 'tis true, thy Play is altogether surprising, and very unnatural; the several neat turns of a Play, I confess do keep the Minds of the Audience employed with Expectation, Hope and Desire, but I'm sure they don't end in Satisfaction; but let the instructive part be never so good, the Language never so fine (though thine is mere Billingsgate Discourse, instead of Poetical Adornments in Conversation.) I must needs say, if the Action goes on without any Plot to divert us, we see through the whole at first sight; in that I'm of your Mind, but thy Plot and Language gratifies none of our Passions, without which there can be no Pleasure.  
By what I have said will appear that you set up like Mr. Bays, for a new way of writing, and despise the Ancients, thinking nothing witty, but what proceeds from your insensible Perecranium, I must confess, 'tis a base, and ill natured, as well as Ignorant Age, when the Virtues of a Play shall be arraigned as defects; but if the Vulgar had the understanding of those, of a more knowing capacity, they would not have given that Plaudit to thy Marriage-hater as it had; but these (and several other) Defects, in thy Play, are owing to a weak understanding.  
I cannot accuse you of being a Plagiary, because the greatest, and best part of all thy Works are stolen; but I can never (with a safe Conscience) allow thee to be a Poet, whose Genius inclines rather to making Songs, than Theatrical Diversions; nay, I can never say thy Lyric Part is without fault, but equally Nonsensical. In fine, thou art as Terence says, Plumbeus Homo, and wilt never be esteemed, as thou alone thinkest thou deservest, but will still be thought the worst of Scribblers, as thou art by me,  
Charles G— n.   

Poeta Infamis: Or, a Poet not worth Hanging. Being A DIALOGUE, Between Lysander Valentine, and Poet Pricket.  Valentine and Lysander meeting. Val. 
MY dear Lysander, best of Friends, and Partner in Iniquity, how glad am I to see thee in London; I thought thou hadst been retired in the Country, and wouldst never have come to Sodom more: What's the Cause, a Mistress, hah?  Lys. 
No Valentine, I'm now come, with a full Resolution to continue with thee; 'tis true, I loved the Country, till I found the difference in discoursing with the ingenious, and the dull stupid Country Blockheads, whose Conversation tends to nothing but Dogs, Horses, and stummed Ale; I am sensible that a Man may live in this Town, as soberly, as in the Country; for all the old, godly, secret Sinners, of this Age, exclaim against it so much.  Val. 
Well, and shall I, once more, enjoy the Society of my dearest Friar?— faith, Lysander, I have been almost wearied, out of my Life, with a company of Fops, worse than Summer flies, buzzing about one's Note, and far more troublesome, for those one may destroy, these not without damage to ones self.  Lys. 
I have heard of these insensible Animals, and can but laugh at 'em; but prithee tell me, (for thou wert a constant Man at the Playhouse,) How go the Vizard-Maskes? At what Rates may one enjoy, a little, pretty Dear, soft, charming Creature; a Guinny, and a Treat, will that suffice?  Val. 
A Guinny, and a Treat; why what an extravagant Fellow art thou, to talk of a Guinny, and a treat, when halt a Crown will do.  Lys. 
Why then the Market is fallen it seems?  Val. 
'Tis with Whores, as it is with other Callings; there's so many of 'em they can scarcelive.  Lys. 
Ay, but then your Ladies who sparkle it in the side Boxes,—  Val. 
Ay, They who are bound to bless God that he made some Fools, though they make 'em greater; Oh! what a Happiness is it, for to see a young Amorous Coxcomb, lolling his Head in his Mistress' Lap, talking fine things to her, but damned Intricate, and very Nonsensical.  Lys. 
I must confess, Valentine, there are Charms in Women that are irresistible; to lie on her lost, snowy Breasts, hah! Well, say what thou wilt, Women are delicious Creatures, that's certain; and if I must Sin, (as who from Sin is free,) let it be a Sin that brings Pleasure with it; as for Swearing, 'tis an ill Habit, and one receives no Benefit from it; lying is rather worse, but if it be ever Lawful, 'tis when a Woman's Honour's in danger; for Drunkeness, 'tis dangerous, and then how sick it makes one, and out of order, next Morning.  Val. 
And Whoring is worse than all these; what Diseases it brings upon one; wastes ones Body in this World, and one's Soul in the next: Let me tell you, while you lie melting in a Woman's Arms, as you call it, your Money lies melting in your pocket, so 'tis like lighting the Candle at both ends;— but hold,— Who's this coming towards us,— hah,— by Heaven, 'tis Poet-Pricket:— Now, Lysander, I'll show thee some sport.  Enter Poet-Pricket, and his Man. 
Prithee do thee seem to applaud what ever he says, and prefer his Works before any other Poets.  Po. P. 
jack, Have you been at the Playhouse?  jack. 
Yes Sir.  Po. P. 
And are all the Actors ready for the Rehearsal.  jack. 
All but Mrs. B—ler, she is not well, and cannot come; but she desires you to give the Part to some body else, for she expects to lie in within this Month, and that may be a hindrance to your Play.  Po. P. 
A pox of those Actresses, they are so fruitful;— but the truth is, a great belly'd-Woman, does not become the Stage,— well, Mrs. Kn— t shall.  Val. 
Ha, My dear Man of Wit, Tom. Pricket, prithee, how dost thou do Man?  Po. P. 
Mr. Valentine, your most obedient humble Servant,— a Friend of yours this?  Lys. 
Yes, at your Service, Sir.  P. P. 
Your devoted Slave,—  Val. 
Where hast thou been thus early, 'tis not Eight yet?  P. P. 
I have been medidating on a Lampoon, I am about Writing, 'tis to be a satire against Critics, those snarling Fellows, who have no more sense, than so many Jackdaws; besides, they are a company of Cowardly Fools, for they dare not let one know of their Malice, beforehand, for fear I should confront 'em; did I but know any one that should Carp at my well accepted Labours, I would make him a public Example,— by the Parliament.  Val. 
I know, Tom, thou hast reason to be severe; for, I must needs say, they speak very disdainfully of thy Works; a Man of thy vivacity, quickness of Patts, and nimbleness of Apprehension, to be used so scurvily.  P. P. 
Will you believe me, Mr. Valentine, I have taken more pains to find out true Humour, than any Poet of 'em all; and for Plot, I'll leave you to Judge.  Val. 
Nay, who ever says thy Plays are not full of Plot, I'm sure, are mistaken;— but prithee what makes the Town speak so ill of thy Marriage-hater matched?  P. P. 
Why Faith, 'twas too full of Wit, Humour, and Plot; the Three best Ingredients of a Play.  Lys. 
Why, Sir, Was that your Play?  P. P. 
Sir, 'twas the Product of this Noddle.  Lys. 
Then I must confess your ingenuity;— I believe there may be some satire in it too.  P. P. 
Gad, Sir, you are in the right, and da-damme, if I have not exposed Madam La Pupsey, and her Lap-Dog, very well, I think:— I heard she was damnanbly nettled, but that's all one,— then let the stricken Dear go weep, as Hamlet says; ' gad, that Humour of dressing the Dog in Masquerade, was very surprising, diverting, and new, and (though I say it) a very good Humour.  Lys. 
Most admirable.  Val. 
Ay, but Tom, you know there was a Man some Years ago, who went about with dancing Dogs, they had Doublets too, did you not steal the Humour from him,— Come, discover, I am thy Friend.—  P. P. 
Why, egad, I had a little hint of it, from him, I confess, but you must grant, I have improved it much.  Val. 
That thou hast indeed Tom,— I hope you'll pardon my familiarity.  P. P. 
O dear Sir, your faithful— but then for Van Grim's Part, that you must allow to be new; and faith, I have drawn the Copy, as like the Original, as a couple of Apples.  Val. 
That Part is good, for as the Rehearsal begins with a Whisper, his Part begins with a Laughter, 'tis true, one's louder than the other, but for sense they are equal; but remember, against next time, nequid nimis.  P. P. 
This is the cry of the Town,— People may say what they will; but (I vow to God) I took more pains, in writing that Part, than I ever had, in any three Parts, I ever writ; I swore to you, I was seven days, one after another, successively, to learn Toney Leigh, to Laugh, and I think there is a great deal of humour, and variety, in his laughing— Faith Sir, I called him Van Grim, because of his laughing, I vow to God.  Val. 
I was thinking so.  P. P. 
A Pox of these Laureates, they are dull, stupid, senseless Fellows, when once they come to be preferred; let me tell you a secret, Mr. Valentine, the quondam Laureate is no better than the present Laureate, nor the present Laureate is no better than the quondam Laureate— both mighty sounding nothings, I vow to God.  Val. 
I perceive Tom, your railing at the Laureates, is like David Iones' railing against Pluralities, only because he is not burdened with 'em himself.  P. P. 
No faith, thou mistak'st me, but let that pass; but what lay you to my Lord Brainless' Character, to you, I speak Sir, to Lys.  Lys. 
To me Sir, why I think 'tis an excellent Character.  P. P. 
Why, without vanity, I may say it is.  Val. 
But prithee Tom, learn to speak modestly of thy own Works;— but, I'll be sworn, thou hast a great many Enemies, and when a Man has no Friend, he ought to be one himself.  P. P. 
For Modestly, none outdoes me; but prithee tell me how thou likest that Part.  Val. 
I am your Friend, however, Tom, and am willing to applaud whatever you write; but I'll tell you, what the Town thinks of it.  P. P. 
Prithee do, and let me see how some Blockheads will betray their Understandings.  Val. 
First then, they say that your Lord Brainless, as you call him, is partly, in imitation of Sir Fopplin Flutter; partly, Sir Courtly Nice, and several other Characters, but not comparable to any one of 'em; a noisy, impertinent, selfconceited, amorous, insipid Coxcomb; and that he utters as much sense, as the Author was able to furnish him with; in short, that he was more fit for the Conversation of a La Pupsey, then either of the Characters were for a Comedy.  Lys. 
Pish, This is malice only.  P. P. 
Egad, and so it is, down right Malice, but hear me, was there no humour, and thought, in the Stockings, one Red, the other Yellow? Was not that pretty.  Val. 
No faith, Tom, I'm always a plain Dealer, especially to my Friend; had you advised with me, you should never have dressed him with party coloured Stockings, 'twas damned unnatural; I must confess, the vanities of our Fops, are very great, but I never knew any one so great a Fop, as to wear such Stockings; but, I'll grant you, a Madman might have such a fancy— faith, they say, there's nothing new in all thy Play.  P. P. 
How, nothing new! I have drawn more new Characters in my Play, then have been drawn these seven Years, but if I had not, my Master Terence, would excuse me, nullum est jam dictum quod; non dictum fuit prius; if he could say so, so many years ago, I may well say so now.  Val. 
But don't you mistake that Sentence, it may be, Terence did not mean that Sentence as you do? intimating, that it was impossible to write any thing new; but what think you if it was because the Comedy was written originally in Greek, and translated by Terence into Latin, and therefore says Nullum est jam dictum, etc. because it had been acted before, though in another Language.  P. P. 
Faith 'twill serve either way;— but Sir, pray let me ask you one Question, [to Lys.] for I find your Friend is a little prejudiced to my Works,— How like you Solon, and Biaes', and Sir Laurence Limber, their Father?  Lys. 
Extremely, I think they are not to be matched.  P. P. 
Why, I'm some thing of your mind, and I have been told as much before now; my modesty won't let me speak in my own behalf, but they are good Characters that's certain.  Val. 
Look you Tom, you are mightly beholding to Dogget for performing that part so well, but a Harliquin, with all his grimaces, and tricks of Activity, is full as well, and as acceptable. In fine, there's nothing but Nonsense in the Three Parts, Solon's bad, Bias worse, and the Father worse than either; but one may be as long in expectation of Wit, in thy Play, as Sir Lawrence, and the rest of them were for Van-Grim's jest, and I dare Prophecy when it comes will be no better;— you never writ a Part that would bear Reading, though your Friend says, haec semel placuit, haec bis repetita placebit; but his Judgement is no better than thine, and therefore I shall not regard it:— I won't go to particularise your nonsensical Expressions, but in general, these Three Parts are very ridiculous; besides, thou hast a notable way of stealing from thyself; Solon, Bias, and Sir Laurence, are something like Captain Tilbury, and Zekiel, and Toby, in Madam Fickle; and something like Sir Roger Petulant, and Sneak, in the Fond Husband, or the Plotting Sisters.— You know too, Tom. you can make one sorry Jest serve for two or three Plays, witness, the Cold Tea, in Love for Money; and again, in the Marriage hater matched, and several other very indifferent Quibbles (I shall omit naming) more fit for Bartholomew Fair, than the Theatre.  P. P. 
Now I see thou hast the Spirit of Contradiction in thee;— I wish I could talk with you Sir, but I see your Friend is envious of my Parts to Lys.  Lys. 
I swore, he need not [aside] Sir, I am sorry to see it.  P. P. 
I am your Servant, dear Sir;— but now I'll put his Judgement in question, with a Part are two, in my Play; I'll try him further, Mr. Valentine, pray tell me one thing, but one thing, I vow to Gad.  Val. 
That I will, if I can, What is it?  P. P. 
— Why only how you like Sir Philip Frewit, Lady Subtle, and Phebe, alias, Lovewells Characters, for there lies the whole body of the Plot.  Val. 
O, is that all, why thus, the Plot is new.  P. P. 
Why egad, so it is.  Val. 
But, how is it new, to that I answer, because I never heard of any Man, who made over his Wife, and Estate, by Will, or Agreement, before, that was damned unnatural; besides, that between Van Grim, and Sir Philip, under the name of Counsellor Splutter, I don't like; I cannot think any one would send the writings, by any one, unless they knew the Lawyer; Widows are commonly more crafty; nay, she knew, before that. Sir Philip was contriving to undermine her too, and therefore, I think, should have been more cautious; but for Sir Philip to be cheated by Phebe, upon so slight an account, makes me wonder most, that any man should let his Wench into his Closet, where the Writings, and Jewels (too Man's glittering damnation) were, when he had fallen out with her just before, on her ask him to perform his Promise, in marrying her; nay, there is not an Expression tolerable, in the whole, but thou hast stolen out of some good Play; there are some that are thy own, I believe, or Mr. G— n, but they are very bad ones, and nor worth taking notice of.— One thing I'll say, the Actors performed their Parts better than you did yours be half.  P. P. 
Nay, Mr. Valentine, the Players are beholding to me, for the excellent Action, for I teach 'em, and, though I say it, can Act as well as any of 'em all.  Val. 
Prithee, why dost thou not turn Actor, thou mightst supply the Stage, both ways, like a Shakespeare, a Batterton, or a Mountford; I have heard thou delightest much in fine Clothes, there thou mightst be furnished with splendid Vestments, and pay nothing for 'em, and appear so gay, on the Stage, that happy's the Woman that looks and lives, as a Brother says.  P. P. 
Nay, now you are either in jest, or else you mean to affront me, Mr. Valentine.  Val. 
Most certainly, I mean one of 'em, do you take it which way you please tho.  P. P. 
I'll take it for granted, you jest only, and therefore shall trouble myself no more about it.  Val. 
Faith, now Tom. ay, see thou art not exceptious, and thou begins to be a good honest Fellow, that is, as honest as any of thy Tribe are.  P. P. 
I hope you don't rank me amongst a company of dull Thoughtless Idiots; Sir, let me tell you, I am above 'em.  Val. 
So thou art Tom. I now begin to be converted, and may be brought to believe thy Plays are good;— but when the Devil knows.— aside.  P. P. 
Faith and troth, I am glad you are.  Val. 
Prithee let us know the rest of the Characters in thy Marriage-hater, it may be thou mayst convince me of my Error.  P. P. 
The Parts that I have not spoken of, be Captain Darewell, and Callow, and Berenice, Margery, and my Lady Bumfiddle; but, before I speak of them, give me leave to ask you how you like those Verses, when Sir Philip has got the Writings from Van Grim.  

Conclusion of the II. Act of the Marriage-hater.  
So here they are, and the great feat is done,  
Easily now the Widow may be won;  
For what's a Widow, when her Fortune's gone.   
Ay, what indeed; I vow to Gad, was not that pretty, faith I have good thoughts—  
For what's a Widow when her Fortunes gone.  
Da dam, nothing at all; prithee, how dost thou like it Man?  Val. 
That, I must confess, is very good sense, and very witty;— but Tom. now thou art talking of a Widow, what became of thy Buckssome Bona Roba, I mean the Widow who lived at Chiswick. whom you were so greatly enamoured of?  P. P. 
O, I remember who you mean,— I left her off, when I found her frailty, I was resolved not to have her.  Val. 
I heard she was resolved not to have you; she would not accept of your Visits, because you were a Poet, and consequently an Atheist, though I believe you had more occasion for her Money than her Person.  P. P. 
Sir your History is Erroneous, I can assure you, she almost broke her Heart.  Val. 
What, for thy rugged Face; prithee give me leave to jest.  P. P. 
Ay, for my rugged Face, as you call it, there are Charms in this Countenance, and something else too.— III. Act, in the beginning. Berenice (in my last Play) says, She likes the honest blunt Dog, well enough; and if she would let any one of the two-legged Bears rub their Brissels on her Face, it should be the blunt Captain, before any Milksop-Benu of 'em all:— Well, that Berenice is a perilous Quean, how she jilts the poor Captain; and he (though such a blustering Man of War) is fain to lay down his Arms, when the God of love appears; but she has reason, which I have fully expressed in these Verses.  B. 
The time of Wooing is a women's own;  
But when she's Married once, her time is gone.  Val. 
Faith Tom. you say true, when she's Married once, her Wooing time is over; there you are once in the right;— but I must needs say those are silly Verses, prithee let's hear them once more.  P. P. 
The time of Wooing is a Woman's own;  
But when she's Married once,—  Val. 
Hold Tom. then consequently her time is gone,— Is it not so.  P. P. 
Yes Sir, you have it.  Val. 
We are obliged to you for telling us that Secret.  P. P. 
We●l, I see you will persist in your ill Nature, and it is now almost impossible to reclaim you; but I think there is a great deal of humour and variety in Captain Darewell, and Bereniece's Characters;— She's a brisk, freakish, humourous Creature, and though she's in love with the Captain, is always teazing him, and playing tricks with him; and he's an honest blunt Sea-Captain, true to his Country's Interest, and the Government.  Val. 
That's more than thou art Tom. I believe; I wonder how a Man that has always been such a Grand Tory, should comply and turn Whig at last;— I never like Turn Coats.  P. P. 
Your Servant for that Sir;— but I shan't mind it, I say those Parts agree very well.  Val. 
I grant it, though thy humours are whimsical, and odd enough,— and so are those [aside.] My Lady Bumfiddle too is worth ones Observations.  P. P. 
There I have drawn a running Bawd to the Life, and yet cheated the Audience, to believe her almost honest.— There's a hungry, toping, match-making-Bawd— Lambeth Ale— egad,— did you not mind that.  Val. 
Yes, yes, that I did— but what a beastly Name hast thou given her,— Bumfiddle, out upon't.  P. P. 
Why, you must know, I called her Bumfiddle, because of her Obessity.  Val. 
I am convinced, I only say that these two Characters behind, Callow and Margery, are the very worst in the Play, I'll allow all the rest to be the best of Nonsense— aside.  P. P. 
No faith, I don't think so neither, I'm sure I drew Callow to the Life;— besides, the Rot-me-Sparks were nettled, and so they may for Tom.  Val. 
Thou hast made a good Actor appear like a Blockhead, I mean Bohen, by giving him a Part no more fit for him, than I am to Act Alexander the Great.— And for thy little lisping Quean, she Acts the Part, with a great deal of Impudence, and for aught I know was improved by my Lady Bumfiddles Doccuments, though my Lady said her instructions were in vain. You know Callow says to her, come my dear sweet-Creature, I must do't; and she answers, What d'ye make all this bustle for, why don't you then?— I would advise thee to write no more Bawdy, unless you can wrap it up more cleanlily.  Lys. 
Faith Sir, my Friend has found out so many Faults, that are seemingly so, that I begin to be of his mind, and think you are no better than a Blockhead; these Jests and Quibbles would have pleased us Country Gent. well enough, but I see my Friend's ingenious.  P. P. 
Gad not so ingenious as you think for.  Val. 
Ha ha ha ha, poor Tom.  Lys. 
Ha ha ha ha.  P. P. 
Nay, nay, ' gad, laugh with Moderation, or I'm gone.  Val. 
Ha ha ha, a Poet, no a Scrivener, or a Scribbler, but no Poet, and so, dear Tom, your Servant; let your next Play be better, or never expose it to the Critics Censures. Come, dear Friend, let's leave the Poet to his Thoughts, we may hinder the Production of some excellent witty Song, or Lampoon, for he's a great Enemy to the Critics— ha ha ha, farewel Ballad-Maker, there's thy Man too, get him a new Livery, and buy no more Diamond-Rings, but keep your Money when you have it,— ha ha ha.  Lys. 
Ha ha ha ha, farewell Poetaster.  Val. 
Farewell Tom. ha ha.  Exeunt. P. P. 
Nay, since I am provoked to it, farewel, you Brutes, and Enemies to Wit and Sense, nay, and all learning too.— jack, put on my Cloak, I'll make haste to the Playhouse, I fear I have stayed too long, prating with these Buffoons; I am of a very petulant Spleen, and now they shall find what an ingenious Satirist can do.— Come jack, follow me.  Exeunt. 
FINIS.