THE TORY-POETS: A satire. — nunquam ne reponam? Vexatus toties rauci Thesiede Codri. Juven. Sat. 1. LONDON, Printed by R. johnson. MDCLXXXII. THE EPISTLE TO THE TORIES. I Could find no fitter Persons to Dedicate this Poem to then yourselves, and that for several reasons; First because you account yourselves men of Parts, and judges of Wit; and indeed (to keep the World in its usual Course) we will yield you to be so; for in all ages some Fools have had preferment, mad Men have been judges, and Knaves have been Honourable: To talk Bawdy; whore, Lie, etc. are your natural accomplishments; but those more solid endowments that beautify a rational Creature, viz. Learning; and Exercise of right Reason, are of little value to you, who can speak Nonscence by Patent, Slander by Prerogative, and Lie by Commission: judge of Wit then as much as you please, since none but Fools and Knaves will be guided by your judgement: For it is well enough known, that your Wit is as thin as your Skulls, and your Skulls as thin as your Estates; and that thin enough all know. Take a Tory from a Pot of Ale, and he's out of his Element; and when his Catalogue of Oaths in his common place-Book are ended, he is as indisposed and unfit for any kind of Company, as the Ass' Mouth was for Food when it had been eating of Thistles. Another reason may be, because it treats chiefly of your Champions, the Pillars of your faction, the supporters of that great Mass of Knavish Politics that keeps alive the Good Old Tory Cause; but I think (if you are no better Poets than you are Politicians, and no better Statesmen than Divines) the late joint endeavours of the Stage and Pulpit, will prove very ineffectual to the accomplishment of your designs! a lack a day! what pity 'tis so much Labour and Divine sweat should be spent for just nothing! that ever the zealous Preacher should screw up his jaws, thump his Pulpit, and Divinely rail at Forty one, and it have no other effect, then to serve instead of a pleasing murmur to loll the drowsy females asleep, whilst all his Congregation of half-drunk Bullies are devoutly snoring in their Pews. But what damned incorrigible wretches are these whigs, they are not moved at the least with the numberless Satirical Epilogues and Prologues, that are roared out on the Stage: Notwithstanding we have Plays stuffed as full of Burlesques upon the Ignoramus Juries, the Salamanca Doctor, etc. as a Courtier is of Nonsenc and Knavery; these headstrong wretches keep on their way, though the Whelps bark their guts out▪ if they call them Rogues, Rebels, and Traitors, they turn a deaf ear to all their clamours, and answer them (as wise men do fools) with silence. But the final Catastrophe of our divisions will prove who were the Rebels; when Plots shall be unravelled, and Court intrigues exposed to the view of the world; when the private Machinations of indigent Clocks-combs shall be made manifest, and truth shall once more appear on the Stage; then I doubt those persons, who now go under the Name of loyalists, will be as obscure as their Knavery is now public. But all are Traitors now that speak against Arbitrary Government; if they see their privileges, their rights, their liberties going to be taken from them, they must hold their peace and sit down like contented asses, and bear what burdens the Courtiers and a few small Statesmen will lay on their Shoulders; and this must be born with Patience, and let the burden gall our Shoulders nev●r so much, we are Rebels if we but so much as winch under it; if a man hear bad Counsel given (which is the poison of Government) he must hold his peace, and see those liberties left him free by his Ancestors taken from him and his Posterity; he must contentedly see the Throne enslaved, the Nobility Vassals, and the Commonalty lackey after a company of Arbitrary Debauches, and if he show his dislike of it, he is a Rebel. But when the fatal Dagger is about to pierce my sovereigns Breast, am I Rebel if I stop the blow? Am I a Traitor if I discover the Designs and Plots of our Enemies against the Government and my Prince? But you shall hear what even Mr. Bays himself speaks of Arbitrary Government and those that, are the Supporters of it in his Spanish Friar. pag. 61. Should not a lingering Fever be removed; Because it long hath raged within my Blood? Do I Rebel when I would thrust it out? What, shall I think the World was made for one, And men are born for Kings as Beasts for Men; Not for Protection but to be devoured? Mark those who dote on Arbitrary Power, And you shall find'm either hot brained Youth Or needy Bankrupts, servile in their greatness, And Slaves to some, to Lord it o'er the rest. O Baseness! to support a Tyrant Throne, And crush your freeborn Brethren of the World: Nay, to become a part of Usurpation; To Espouse the Tyrant's person and his crimes, And, on a Tyrant, get a race of Tyrants To be your Country's curse in after Ages. Now if Mr. Bays dares go so far, I hope I (who have always an aversion to wooden Shoes, and to be reckoned in the number of French Camels) may call them Traitors, Rebels, Betrayers of their Country, egregious Knaves, and infamous Scoundrels: But suppose (which Heaven grant may never come to pass) there should be such a thing as Rebellion in England, we should then see how those Gouty-leged Devils, called Courtiers, would tilt at th● Rebel's; Than the awful presence of Majesty must d●f●nd its self, while those Ingrates that have been nourished by its favour do leave it succurless; for who are cherishers of such a Faction but despicable pusillanimous wretch●s, Natural Cowards, that cannot endure the Fatigues of a long and tedious Campaign, whether Honour calls forth the Hero? But (as Mr. Bays says) they are needy Bankrupts, and tempted by preferment; what want such Whores-Birds do? How powerful are the Charms of enticing Gold? Ah, what a Heavenly refreshment are a few Guinies to a decayed Gentleman! even as delicious as the reverend Doctors Comfortable Importance is to a languishing Divine. 'Tis only want, that makes a Loyal Tory, and so many Mercenary Scribblers; and pray how long doth their Loyalty last? even just as long as their Coat and their Money; when the one is thread bare and the other spent, and by their Loyalty they are in no hopes of procuring another, then for a little cash they will cut the Throat of the best Lord in the Land, Whigg or Tory, 'tis all one; men that are like to be Shipwrackt upon the Rock of Hunger are desperate, but now none are His Majesty's Loyal Subjects, but such who are daily drunk with drinking his Health, (though they cheat the Vintner for it) and that never so well done, as when it is set of with the best flourish in their Rhetoric, a fashionable Damn me. But now I could heartily wish I had some of Mr. Bays his confidence, that I might speak in the praise of my own Poem, as he doth of his, indeed a rotten Post covered with Brass goes through all weathers, but I am no fond fool of my own Issue; I shall even speak not one word in its commendation, but let it shift for praise in the World as its Brethren have done before it. I cannot expect any Tory should speak in its praise, since it treats most of Fools and Knaves and then it is impossible they should read it, but they must read their own Characters. Or how can I expect any fvaour in the world, when the incomparable Absalon Senior was so spoken against? but by whom was he spoken against, by whom, why by the nonsencical Observator, and the thrice stupid Heraclitus; but I write not to please these Idiots, if I please the best I have my end, and one smile of theirs is able to weigh down all the others frowns. THE TORY-POETS: A satire. HAppy are they in Amorous Fields, that Rove And Sing no other Songs than those of love; Whose Verses treat of nought but careless case, And in their Sonnets only strive to please: Nature at first to men ne'er arts did give, But all untaught knew only how to live; That word called Faction in a sullen Mood Did hide its Face, or 'twas not understood: But fleering fate doth various Faces show, And seasons change: and why mai'nt Mortals too? To Fame or Infamy all men are born And he's an Ass let's slip the lucky turn. But who to power by Fate were ne'er designed, And yet endued with ambitious Mind Will Nature's precept break, and Gods want own Will ransack Temples, pull the altars down, Slander the Subject, and abuse the Crown. So to our Plague a Factious Party's come, The infantry of old Rebellious Rome, And 'cause the Whelps for Hell's intrigues should bawl, The Devil came and dubbed them Tories all; A party in the dismal Book of doom Was damned e'er made for all their sins to come. This numerous Progeny doth fill our Thames As Frogs and Toads abound in Nilus' streams, And just like those the same effect they bring; They Crawl from thence to Chambers of our King; That was a single plague on Egypt's men, But this on us may vie with all their Ten: This party first by close designs did rise, By Plots, by sham's, and other forgeries, 'Til by immortal lies, immortal made Sweetly sat down in Royal favours shade, Where they their canting dirges sit and sing, And every Puny Tory is a King. Their Plot found out and dying began to fail, Oaths would not do; and shams would not prevail: Now for a Cordial all begin to strive, To fetch their dying Plot again to life: Their former Evidences were dull tools, And all their subtle Jesuits were but fools, But next to the keen Wits they do address, And they must Charm it up again in Verse. The first they do Petition 's Mr. Bays, So much extolled by Fools and vulgar Praise; By lewd lascivious Verses, bawdy Rhymes, Dubbed the sweet singing Poet of the times; He the black Paths of Sin had travelled o'er And found out Vices all unknown before, To sins once hid in shades of gloomy Night, He gave new Lustre and reduced to Light. His Muse was prostitute upon the Stage, And 's Wife was Prostitute to all the age: The Wife is Rich although the Husband Poor, And he not honest, and she is a Whore, An ill, deformed, senseless earthly load, And he the Monster of the Muse's road; His shapeless Body hangs an hundred ways The Poet looks just like a heap of Plays; You shall not find through all the buzzing Town So Ungentile, Unmannerly a Clown: Though ugly, yet he vents a pleasing strain For Nature never made a thing in vain. If not for Priest, for Statesman he may do; Bless us! are Poet's Politicians too? Or are the Muses mad and in their Heat Send out their Poet's Officers of State? Or are the Lawyers Drunk and think it fit That reason yield to that lewd thing, a Wit? But private factious Plotters never heed If their designs go on, who do the deed: So engine Bays, the Tory-Plot to save He first turns Fool, and then commences Knave: But yet (methinks) I hear him e'er he choose In private p●rley with his Fustian Muse, Base Muse! he says, with impudence canst sing? In scornful lines canst thou revile a King? With inky Clouds of lies, canst thou obscure An Hero's Glory infinitely pure? Canst thou call Politicians Fops and Fools? Canst ridicule the Arts of learned Schools? Canst dress up folly in a Garb so fit That amongst Madmen it may pass for wit? His Muse accustomed to such tricks as these Gave her consent by holding of her Peace. But he replied,— Base abject slave to any of the Town Who e'er but Fops and Fools gave thee renown? Canst thou abuse that youthful Hero's fame, That wide as the vast World hath spread his name? When he from Mastricht warlike Trophies bore, Volleys of Praises echoed on the Shoar; Then every Brave his Offering did prepare And Sacrifices to this God of War, Then Io Paeans by our Swains were sung, And Peals of Triumph through our Cities rung; But now his honour 's sullied and forgot And all his Glory poisoned with a Plot, Here hold, ingrate, recall his love to thee, When fleged with Guynies he did let thee fly, Imped with his favour thou didst dare the brave And every other Poet was thy Slave; Think! with indulgent Grace 'tis he hath been The only Patron of thy Maximin; Where then thine accents lies or didst thou feign, And only compliment to draw in Coin; So when to Damn was in her grace's power, She kindly smiled on th' Indian Emperor. Though dressed in silly Fustian he did go In ugglier clothes than e'er at Monico; So basely scratched by thy corroding Pen, The Indians would scarce know their Prince again, Poor Montezuma in no hands secure Creeps to her Alcove for a perfect cure, There having Scanned the sense of every line She hug'd the nasty Indian 'cause 'twas thine Then cheering up he ended the dispute; Muses like Monarches still are absolute; Tempted by Gold, he lets his satire fly, And swears that all within its Talons die; He Huffs, and Struts, and Cocks an hundred ways And damns the whigs 'cause they did damn his Plays So raging once 'twas thought himself he'd stabbed 'Cause Rochester Baptised him Poet Squab And he had done't but that he'd vowed before After Rose-alley drubs he'd ne'er use weapon more, When Coin is spent he soothes the beset Cit; And lives on his old stock his mother wit; Rubs up his rusty Muse and looks as big As Crow in Gutter or ten penny Pig. A Commonwealth he cryeth up to day, To morrow Preacheth Arbitrary sway; Lampoons the Pringe, praises a Tyrant's Laws And giveth Lust and Zeal the same applause; And in one Breath, so quick his fancies be He can speak Treason, and fart Loyalty; From such fleet wills kind Heaven deliver me! Read but his Plays and what else e'er he written You'll find but little Judgement and less Wit; If he dull Ravenscroft by chance excel Thanks to old Nokes that humour's it so well; Thanks to the Scenes and Music for his Wit Thanks to the Whores lie squeaking in the Pit. That Bullies cannot hear, yet praise the Fact And bravely Clap the Actor not the Act. Shadwel and Settle are both Fools to Bays, They have no bawdy Prologues to their Plays; These silly Villains under a pretence Of wit, deceive us and like men write sense. Alas! says Bays, what are your Wies to me? Chapman's a sad dull Rogue at Comedy; Shirley's an Ass to write at such a rate But I excel the whole Triumverate: In all my worthy Plays show if you can Such a rough Character as Solyman; But though I have no Plot, and Verse be rough, I say 'tis Wit, and that sure is enough. The Laurel makes a Wit; a Brave, the Sword; And all are wise men at a Council board; S— le's a Coward, 'cause fool Ut Ut —y fought him, And Mul— ve is a Wit because I taught him. So Hector's Bays 'til one would think 'twas fit. That none but Fools should write or judge of Wit; His pigmy wit, and little infant sense Rightly defined is nought but impudence; His lines are weak, though of lewd Catches full And naught is strong about him but his Scull The brave defensive head piece of a Fool. Of all mean Hackney Jades, I'd never use This Mercenary party coloured Muse; Who e'er beholds he straight must needs confess She's clad at once in home and foreign dress. Read Dry— ns plays, and read Cornille's too, You'll swear the Frenchman speaks good English now, Amongst borrowed Sense some airy flashes drop, To please the feeble Females and the Fop, So soft and gentle flourishes do move, The weak admiring Maid, and fire Love; Quickens the dizzy Soul with Love beset, And tamely draws it to the Golden Net, Stupid it lies, and senseless of its pain▪ And kindly kisses the bewitching Chain; Cupid's the God; and Love is all the Song The blessed Elysium of the sportful young, But eased of this so kind, so grateful pain, And brought unto its former sense again, The glimmering Lamp in lustre once so bright, Looks like the Torches of eternal night, The amorous paths with sweets enchanted strown, Looks like A●cyna when her paint was gone: That wit upon the Stage cried up to day, To morrow in the Closet's thrown away; Wit, though with glory it may chance to rise, And mounting seem to kiss the very skies, Yet if above the bounds of Sense it get, It is all wind, and is no longer wit: But Bays in all his wit is staunch and sound, Tho in it all there's no proportion found; But what he speaks or writes, or does amiss, It is all wit; but why? because 'tis his; 'Tis wit in him, if he all Sense oppose, 'Twas wit in D'avenant too to lose his Nose, If so, then Bays is D'avenants' wisest Son, After so many claps to keep his on. But who but Fools would praise dull Ot— is strains, Composed with little wit and lesser pains; Whose fiery face doth dart as hot a ray, As the fierce warmer of a Summer's day, Whose very looks would drive the Fiends away. He may so painted with the juice of Vines, Turn his Invectives to the praise of Wines; Love is a piteous God, and Honour's grown, To such a height it is almost unknown; Immortal beauty drowned in quiet lies, And spends all its charms on its owner's Eyes; But Wine does now the Poet's breast inspire, Wine, that doth kindle all our youthful fire Wine; that makes O● O● —y write and Fools admire, His Verse of Wine stinks worse than bawdy Punk For he never writes a Verse but when he is drunk; Sure thou wast drunk, when in Pindaric strain, Against Libels didst thy dull Muse complain: But why didst term it satire? satire tart And piercing Verse, that wounds unto the heart; But thou got dully drunk o'er a Pint Pot, Forget's thy Subject like a drunken Sot, And 'stead of satire didst unto the praise Of those that beat the Dutch a Poem raise; The drowsy, heavy Hollander as well May chant his Poems, and his Fortunes tell, Their Fleet as good, their men as strong as ours, The difference lies but in the Governors, Theirs only win by Guns, by Ships, by might, Ours grew Politicians in the fight; And with their tricks at Land did them perplex, By building awful Sconces on their decks, Environed round with sturdy Cable stood, Defying bullets still maintained the fight; Thy brains immured with a thick Scull as good, As bravely dost this bravest act recite: As Castlemain the Victory doth rehearse In falsest Prose, thou dost confirm in Verse: So when 'twas in Dispute in lowest shades, (where the foiled Seaman in new Rivers wades) Who justly should the warlike Trophies bear, Whether the English or the Hollander. Some Ships of ours did merely out of spite Dive down to prove it was our lawful right. Kind hearted Ot— y, that does Garlands give To beaten Seamen, while thyself dost grieve Languish and Pine and no man will allow Nought; but a wreath of Hemp t'adorn thy brow Ah! but with bawdy Plays and Prologues lewd Thou hast the art to please the multitude; The clapping rabble that on your third days Come to extol and clap your silly Plays, Worse than a Sodoms Farce or Smithfield Droll, Nothing so Beastly, Bawdy, or so dull: If Ignoramus juries once be named (That threadbare Subject on the Stage so famed) 'Tis tossed about with Claps and praiseful knocks 'Til't bound from Knaves in Pit, to Fools in Box. Such stupid humours now the Gallants seize Women and Boys may write and yet may please. Poetess Afra thought she 's damned to day To morrow will put up another Play; And Ot— y must be Pimp to set her off, Lest the enraged Bully scoul and scoff, And hiss, and laugh, and give not such applause To th' City-heresie as the good Old Cause. You're balked worse there then at a City Feast To part with stolen half-Crown for— no jest; Shame treats you may have paid for o'er and o'er, But who e'er paid for a Sham-Play before? Tories are just, and give the Devil his due, Won't damn a Poet's Play, because 'tis new, Because it treasts of whigs and tells fine stories To please the monkey Courtiers little Tories Tells how the whigs with might and force repair To build damned stony Castles in the air From whence the Court Hobgobling they will slay With Guns invented since full many a day; How by their necromantic arts they raise Fortified Cetadels in all byways, Millions of Soldiers lodge in hives like Bees, And many millions more in hollow trees, Where for a fit occasion they do wait To break the pocky Courtier's maggotpate; The Poet by such Tales gets coin for Writing And makes the Coward Tory think of Fight, For fear of which he stoutly falls to sh— 'tis well for you, ye Poets of the Stage? You live in so nonsensical an Age, When every Pun is Termed a lucky hit, The happy product of a Tories Wit; Base awkard Age! accursed by Destiny When wit does cease and Piety does die, Your Zeal is cold, your Frolicks all are mad, Nay your Debauches sottishly as bad: The former age, that vices all pursued, Connived at Sins and wickedly ran lewd, Tho drowned in-lewdness, and their Pastimes had As much of Lust, they wittily were mad. Did but Ben. johnson know how Follies rise Swell and look big, how Poets do despise The lawful charms of wit, and spend their days In bawdy Prologues and licentious Plays, He'd bid adieu to th' Elysian Field, Gay with the splendour that the Muses yield, And to the dusky world again repair, To suck the thicker blasts of earthly air, He'd leave his softer Rhymes, and would dispense A hoarser sound, he'd Satirist commence And try to lash the Idiots into Sense. Such Vices now amongst the Poet's Reign, The very Fops do of their Faults complain: Dead POETS Ashes in their Tombs do grieve, And to rebuke their crimes do seem to live. Spencer's old bones about do toss and turn With Indignation kicks his rusty Urn. When by great Cowly's Tomb the Lady's walk And of the modern Poesy do talk, His stately Urn doth bow its drooping Head, And modest blushes o'er the Marble spread, As if ashamed of his Posterity, A base, degenerate, sottish Progeny. D—fey comes next in Verse ten thousand strong, A Devilish Poet for a bawdy Song; Begot when lecherous Planets ruled the skies, And Madam Venus bright did tyrannise: When Civil Wars produced a monstrous Birth, And dismal Discord triumphed o'er the Earth; For pray, what vice achieved by cain's cursed Stem, Or deadly Sin, that is not found in him; As Toads spew poison he doth Libels vent, Of Villainy the very Excrement; A brave Court mixture; for he is at once, A Debauchee, Buffoon, a Knave, a Dunce, Here hold my Muse! the Task's too hard for thee, To bow so low, even below Infamy: Thou never yet to write with dirt hadst skill, Or from a Dunghill tookst a stinking quill; Of three base silly Poets thou haft sung, A minute on their borders is too long, Retire unto thy pleasant former lays, While these like peevish asps keep on their ways; And briskly bear unto th' Elysian Shades, One Ounce of Brains in three great Loggerheads. Desist I say! while some old Bard relate, Their base facts, and of their actions prate. Let Fop the Courtier, Negro paint the Moor, The Fool, the Fiddler, and the Bawd, the Whore. Like Vice Reformers weary of the pain, Of Lashing still and yet they lash in vain, My Muse the Court will leave, contemn the Stage, A long Farewell to so profane an Age: Debauched to Lust, to Avarice and Pride, Who'd be condemned to Court or City Pews, Be damned to nonsense and the stink of Stews; To wait for Pensions who would take delight, And be at last but a shamed Favourite, Who'd purchase Favour by perfidious Oaths, Or pawn his Conscience for to buy him clothes, And when at brightest shine but like the light Of Ignis fatuus in a misty night, Caught with the Glory of the spangled skies, Starts up from earth and in a moment dies. When oh immortal woods! Shall I be made The Joyous Tenant of your happy shade, Where Envy and Ambition are kept down, And harmless Innocence doth wear the Crown; Where heads of sturdy Oaks do courtly bow, And stooping Pines do make their Honours too; Where gladsome Poets with the Muses sing, While all the beauteous Nymphs dance in a ring; Where all alike enjoy the Rural sport, Free from those painted Cares, that do attend a Court. FINIS.