A Pindaric ODE, IN THE PRAISE OF Folly and Knavery.  
By Mr. TUTCHIM.  
LONDON, Printed and Sold by E. W. near Stationers-Hall.  
1696. Price 6 d.   

THE EPISTLE.  
SInce Fools and Knaves are the major part of the World, I must expect abundance of Enemies upon the Account of the following Poem; but as I hate the one, so I don't fear the other, and shall be unconcerned at the Resentments of both. Truth is a thing no Man need to be ashamed of, and he that's afraid to defend it deserves not the Title of a good Patriot. If these random Shot hit some, they have no reason to complain, since I could have as easily descended to particulars as have wrote in general Terms. I'm sure all honest wise Men must agree with me, that none are so fit to support a just Government, as those who opposed the Tyranny of an arbitrary One, and purchased a just and legal Settlement with the expense of their Blood and Money. 'Tis in vain to form a Government on the most Rational Principles of Human Policy, suited to the Universal Benefit of Mankind, if the Administration thereof be put into the hands of such Men, who have neither Wisdom to Understand, nor Honour nor Honesty enough to Support it: The very Being of that Prince is precarious, whose Government is supported by Fools and Knaves. The first are not able to give him Advice, yet through their folly may betray his Councils, which is equally as bad, as the others making themselves a piece of the Government on purpose to rend the whole. There is as much difference betwixt Business and Grimace, the Combing of a Periwig, and the Exercise of right Reason, as there is betwixt the two greatest contraries in the World. To prefer a Man because he is a Fop, a Beau, or interested by Marrying a Cast Chambermaid, is very ridiculous: Or to prefer a Knave to Cheat a third King, because he has Cheated two before, is monstrous indeed, whilst noble Patriots, and Defenders of the Liberties of their Country, are perhaps forced quietly to see the Profits of their Labour and Toil ravished out of their hands, and nothing left to do but to contemplate on their Misfortunes, and can hardly distinguish betwixt their Fates, Hanging under Tyrannical Princes, and Starving under a Just One. They may look back, with an envious Eye, upon such of their Companions, who have made their Exit at the Gallows, whose fatherless Children are so far from being Rewarded, that the Memory of their Parents is a Bar to their Preferment; And to consider that a Righteous and Good Government is founded upon the Ruins of those very Patriots, makes the Scene yet more black and dismal. He only, that Governs the World, knows what will be the effect of such Management; But I sadly remember, it has been said, Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat.   

To my Friend, the Author of the ensuing POEM.  

ERasmus first the noble Task began,  
Exposed the Folly, to reform the Man;  
In Ironia's pleasing Garb displayed  
That Vice, by which we're Fools and Asses made.  
But the rough Truth that should have made us wise,  
Lay deeply hid beneath a learned Guise,  
Shrouded, in Forms Scholastic, from our Eyes.   

This hardened Age does rougher Means require,  
We must be Cupped and Cauterised with Fire.  
For gentle Medicines ne'er can Health regain,  
That strike the Patient with no sense of Pain.  
When the Disease inveterate is grown,  
Strong Corrossives must be applied, or none.   

Thus on the Body growing Ills prevail,  
We find we're Sick, but know not what we ail.  
Our outward Weakness, and our inward Pain,  
Give hints that some unknown Distempers reign.  
Severely every groaning Limb does feel  
The sad Effects, yet none the Cause can tell.   

To Politicians oft we have recourse,  
Who, what they should have mended, still made worse.  
For that Physician never can give Ease,  
Who's wholly Ignorant of the Disease:  
Or, if he knows, would, rather than apply  
The true Specific, let the Patient die.   

The mighty Cures at last reserved for you,  
You are our Prophet and Physician too.  
First you inform us whence our Ills proceed,  
Then kindly show what Remedies we need:  
Next you foretell, if we these Rules neglect,  
What we must from our Negligence expect:  
A State that sees its Happiness too late;  
A Poet struggling with Cassandra's Fate.   
B. Bridgwater.   

A Pindaric ODE In the Praise of Folly and Knavery.  

I.  
MY humble Muse no Hero Sings,  
Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings:  
The great Maria now no more,  
In Sable Lines she does deplore;  
Of mighty William's growing fame,  
At present must forget the name,  
Yet she affects something that is sublime,  
And would in Dytherambick strain  
Attempt to rise, and now disdain  
The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain:  
He that's afraid to fall, should ne'er pretend to climb.   

II.  
Let others boast of potent Wit,  
And Summon in the awful Nine,  
With all their Aids of Fancy, Humour, Sense,  
Fair polished Learning, Eloquence,  
And call their gaudy works Divine:  
Hovering above my Head let dullness sit,  
The only God that's worshipped by the Age;  
Immortal Nonsense guide my Pen,  
The Fames of Shakespeare and of Ben,  
Must warp, before my nobler fire  
To their regardless Tombs retire.  
Thus Armed, with Nonsense, I'll engage  
Both Universities,  
And their Pedantic fooleries,  
Show the misguided World the Cheat,  
And let Man know that Nonsense makes him Great.   

III.  
Almighty Folly! How shall I thy praise  
To Human Understandings raise?  
What shall I do  
Thy worth to show?  
The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day,  
Gives vital warmth and life by every Ray,  
His Blessings he in common grants,  
To Hemlock as to nobler Plants;  
Thy Virtue thou dost circumscribe,  
And dost dispense  
Thy influence,  
But to the Darlings of thy Tribe,  
Thou Wealth and Honour dost bestow  
On thy triumphant Fools,  
Whilst abject Sense does barefoot go;  
So weak the Learning of the noisy Schools.   

IV.  
Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who spend your time  
In reading Books,  
With thoughtful Heads and meager Looks,  
To Learning's Pinnacle, who climb  
Through the wild Briers of Philosophy,  
The Thorns of harsh Philology,  
The dirty Road where Aristotle went  
Encumbered with a thousand terms  
Uncouth, Unintelligible,  
Not by any fancy fathomable,  
Bringing distracted Minds to harms;  
The rankest Hellebore cannot prevent.  
Tell me, I say, ye Learned Sots!  
Did e'er the old or new Philosophy,  
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?  
Tho' you may think your Notions truer,  
They'll ne'er advance your Lots,  
To the Estate of Wise Sir Jonathan the Brewer.   

V.  
A Fool! heavens bless the charming Name,  
So much admired in Ages past,  
As long as this, and all the World shall last,  
Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame.  
A Fool! what mighty wonders has he wrought?  
What mighty Actions done?  
Obeyed by all, controlled by none;  
Even Love its self is to its Footstool brought.  
For t'other day, I met amidst the Throng  
A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young;  
Madam, said I, I wish you double Joy,  
Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy,  
And wish myself a sight of him you Wed,  
The happy partner of your Bridal Bed.  
Sir, she replied, I him in Wedlock had;  
Pointing unto an Image by her side,  
An odder Figure no Man e'er espied,  
Long was his Chin, and carotty his Beard,  
His Eyes sunk in, and high his Nose was reared,  
A nauseous ugliness possessed the Tool,  
And scarce had Wit enough to be a Fool:  
Bless me (thought I) if Fools such fortune get,  
Than who (the Devil) would be plagued with wit.   

VI  
View but the Realms of Nonsense, see the State,  
The Pageant pomp attends the show,  
When the great God of Dullness does in triumph go,  
How splendid and how great  
His numerous Train of Blockheads do appear?  
Almighty Jove,  
That governs all above,  
Is but a puny to this Mighty God,  
The blustering God of War,  
Who with one Nod  
Makes the Earth tremble from afar,  
Guarded with puissant Champions stern and bold  
That breath Destruction, talk of bloody Jars,  
Have nought but ragged clothes to keep off cold,  
And tattered Ensigns relics of the Wars.  
The God of Dullness mounted on his Throne▪  
Beneath a Canopy  
Of fixed stupidity,  
Prostrate his numerous Subjects tumble down,  
They pay obeisance to their gloomy God,  
And at his Nod  
They act, they move,  
They hate, they love,  
They bless, they curse, they swear,  
For they his Creatures are,  
He amply does his Benefits afford,  
For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord.   

VII.  
Then talk no more of Parts and Sense,  
For Riches ne'er attend the Wise,  
Have you to dullness no pretence,  
You shall to Grandeur never rise;  
He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull,  
Whose very aspect tells the World he is a Fool,  
Whose thicker Skull  
Is proof against each storm of Fate,  
Is Born for Glory, and he shall be Great.  
Who ' er● would rise,  
Or great Preferment get,  
Must ne'er pretend to Wit,  
Or be that monstrous, ill shaped Man called Wise;  
He must not boast  
Of Learning's value, or its cost;  
But, if he would Preferment have,  
He must be much a Fool, or much a Knave.   

VIII.  
A Knave! the finer Creature far,  
Tho' of the foolish Race of Issachar.  
As the unwieldy Bear among her young  
Deformed, and shapeless Cubs,  
Finds one more strong,  
Active and sprightly than the rest:  
Him she transforms and rubs,  
And licks into a better shape the Beast.  
Thus does the gloomy God of Folly do,  
With the insipid Race:  
He does his numerous Offspring call,  
He handles one and feels his Skull;  
If it be thick, he says, Be thou a Fool.  
Another, if about his Face  
He spies a roguish Mein, a cunning Look;  
If there appears  
The hopes of Falsehood in his tender Years,  
Good signs of Perjury  
And hardened Villainy;  
This for his secret Councils he does save,  
Lays on his Paw, and bids him, Be a Knave.   

IX.  
A Knave! the elder Brother to the Fool:  
His vast Dominions are no less  
Than the whole Universe:  
The Lands are bounded by the Sea:  
The Seas the sturdy Rocks obey:  
The Storms do know the Limits of their Rule:  
Neither the Land nor Sea this Hero bind,  
But unconfined  
O'er both he finds a way,  
O'er both he bears Imperial sway:  
His gay Attendants are the Cheat,  
That ruins Kingdoms to be Great.  
The fawning, flattering Fop, who creeps  
Just like a Spaniel at your Heels,  
To some illustrious Knave, who sweeps  
Away a Kingdoms Wealth at once,  
And with the Public Coin his Treasure fills;  
For Kingdom's work t'enrich the Knave and Dunce.   

X.  
Honesty's a Garb we're mocked in,  
Only wore by Jews and Turks.  
Merit is a Popish Doctrine;  
Men have no regard to Works.  
Substantial Knavery is a Virtue will  
Your Coffers fill;  
And Altars raise,  
Unto your Praise.  
Be but a Knave, you'll keep the World in awe,  
And fear no Law;  
For no Transgression is,  
Where all Men do amiss.  
But here methinks an antiquated Hero starts,  
Surprised at my Discourse;  
He starts and boggles like a Horse,  
And damns our modern Knavish Arts.   

XI.  
Vain Youth, he says misguided by a Knave,  
By some dull Blockhead tempted from thy rest;  
The worldly Grandeur thou dost vainly crave,  
Is nought but Noise and Foolishness at best.  
What Man would quit his Sense,  
Or, the wise Dictates of right Reason's Rule,  
In vain pretence  
To be a rich, a gaudy Fool?  
Or, quit his Honesty, so much despised,  
And basely condescend,  
To every little Knavish End;  
Run headlong into every Cheat,  
Attempt each Villainy to make him Great.  
Believe me Youth, (be better now advised)  
Thy early Virtues will thy Temples spread,  
With lasting Laurels ' round thy Head.  
Shall flourish when the Wearers dead.  
I who have always honest been, though poor,  
In whom the utmost signs of Age appears,  
And sink beneath the Burden of my Years,  
Could never yet adore  
A Knave or Blockhead, were he ne'er so Great;  
Or, be like to them, to purchase an Estate.   

XII.  
Poor threadbare Virtue ne'er admired in Courts▪  
But seeks its Refuge in an honest Mind,  
There it securely dwells,  
Like Anchorets in Cells,  
Where no Ambition nor wild Lust resorts:  
To love our Country is indeed our Pride;  
We glory in an honest Action done;  
When the Reward is laid aside  
The Glory and the Action is our own,  
We seldom find  
The Good, the Just, the Brave,  
Have their Reward  
From Princes they did save  
From dire Destruction, or a poisoning Foe;  
They let them go  
Contemned, disdained; and most regard  
Those villains sought their overthrow.  
As if the Just, the Brave, the Good,  
Were but a Bridge of Wood  
To waft to great Preferments over,  
Those, who were our foes before,  
And then be tumbled down like useless Logs,  
While those, who just passed over,  
And the obliging Bridge should thank,  
Do scornfully stand grinning on the Bank,  
To see the venerable Ruins float  
Adrift upon the Stream,  
Contemned by them,  
Who give the children's Bread unto the Dogs;  
In vain, says he, we've fought—  
But at this Word  
He fiercely looked, and then he grasped his Sword.   

XIII.  
Pity it is, he said, this Sword of mine,  
Of late so gloriously did shine,  
In Foreign Fields 'midst Showers of Blood,  
With which I've cut my Passage through  
The Snowy Alps and Pyrenean Hills,  
Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills,  
'Mongst Warriors, who  
Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good,  
Should now be laid aside  
'Mongst Rubbish Iron old,  
From reaking Blood scarce cold;  
Or else converted to a Knife,  
For some damned Villain first to cut  
A Prince's Bread, and next his Throat:  
In vain we venture to preserve his Life,  
In vain to Foreign Fields we come,  
In vain to Foreign Force allied,  
If a nefarious Brood at Home  
Embarrass his Affairs,  
Prolong the Wars,  
Only t' enrich his Enemies,  
Weaken his Government, and his Allies.   

XIV.  
'Tis strange a Prince, should ere a Fool prefer,  
To be an Officer!  
A Knave may serve an unjust Government,  
But ne'er prevent  
Those Mischiefs may attend the just:  
For who would trust  
A Villain may be bought by Gold,  
Unless designed on purpose to be sold?  
If Princes would use Fools as Shop-men do  
Their Signs or Board's of show,  
To tell the passers by there's better stuff  
Within, 'tis rational enough.  
But to set Sentry at the Door,  
A Patriot or a Senator,  
Philosopher or Orator,  
To tell the Passers by their is within▪  
A Merry Andrew to be seen,  
Is very much ridiculous,  
Tho' to our grief▪ we often find it thus.  
Thus Princes Bastardise  
Their Country's Sons Legitimate,  
And give the fair Estate  
Unto a Spurious Brood,  
That ne'er did good;  
The honest Work, the Knave enjoys the Prize.   

XV.  
A Government adorned with Fools,  
Empty Trifles, useless Tools,  
Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedecked  
With gaudy gewgaws, children's play things,  
Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures,  
Wooden Folk, with Human features,  
Made just for show, and no advantage brings,  
And prove of no effect.  
It dwindles to a Rareeshow,  
In which no Man must act a Part  
But the dull Blockhead and the Beau,  
The huffing Fop without a Heart;  
What Wise Man would a Journey take  
On a dull Steed has broke his Back?  
Or have recourse  
Unto a Hobby-Horse?  
Those act by such wise Rules,  
Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools.   

XVI.  
Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle  
Is either lost,  
Or what is worst,  
Murdered by those who should support her Fame,  
Add Glory to her Name;  
The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look,  
Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine  
But Veils its face Divine.  
Jove does misguide the Seasons every Year;  
Nought can we read in Nature's Book,  
To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while.  
Our Mother Earth,  
From whose unhappy Womb,  
We Mortals come,  
Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth,  
But proves abortive as our Actions are;  
Nought have we left but hope,  
Just like the Blind at Noon we grope:  
The number of our Sins we must fulfil,  
And if we're saved, it is against our will.   
FINIS.