THE Poet's Complaint, A POEM.  
To which is added THE CHARACTER of POETRY; Written in PROSE.  Shadwell, in his Epistle to the Libertine. 
SH' Death! what a Devil would ye have us do,  
Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue,  
Angling for single Money in a Shoe.  
LONDON, Printed for D. Brown, at the Black-Swan without Temple-Bar, 1682.   

The Author's EPISTLE To a Person of QUALITY.  
SIR,  
MY Obedience to your Commands so happily concentring with my inclination, to this Subject, have in less than three days space producted, what here you see. To you I need make no Apology for its artless habit, who very well know my want of years, and a necessary experience in this Age's humour, having never had more than two months' conversation in London. But I must confess that was sufficient to instruct me in this Subject; for among all the Poets I was in company with, I heard nothing but their complaints, who unmercifully damned both the times, and one another, neither have I seen a modern Play, but either begun or ended in the same tune, some of which you will find quoted in this Poem. And as for the Character of Poetry, it is a piece I had lying by me, which I think is a more correct and a seriouser thought, than is the Poem, most of which was writ Ex tempore, and too morrow being the day I take shipping I wanted leisure to transcribe it. Besides you know I never loved to take much pains. Then as for my declaring myself a Poet, yet performing it to illy, I know I must needs seem guilty of a vain ostentation. But you knew before that I have been above this year an incorrigible scribbler. But notwithstanding my discontents at home, could I any where in England have met with encouragements any way suitable to my endeavours, I had not in this passion shaken hands with it. But now I am in haste to be gone, yet will ever remain  
Your most humble Servant T. W.   

THE Poet's Complaint.  

SInce here I'm banded up and down  
By the keen blows of Fortune's frown,  
When Art and Nature vainly strive  
To make th'unhappy Poet live,  
I'll fly such native Plagues, as these,  
For refuge to the calmer Seas.  
And try if bodeing Stars dispense  
Every where the same Influence,  
Climes vary Constitutions, so  
Why may not they change Fortunes too?  
Through th' habitable World I'll go  
And if that fails, I'll search for New.  
Wit somewhere has an happy Reign,  
Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain.  
Here she her Bounty does provide  
For every thing that breathes beside.   

The Dunce made Bachelor of Art  
Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart:  
Then Preaches to a Country-Squire,  
Who his deep Learning does admire,  
And gives him  pounds a Year.  
Then he must marry th' Chambermaid  
Who is forsooth a Mistress made.  
So he goes on with a fair hope,  
And of his Pulpit makes a Shop.  
Yet he esteems himself but poor:  
Your wooden Doctor can do more.  
He is a Bishop and can teach  
Ye how to Pray, though he can't Preach.  
That's how to Pray, and Worship him  
Else the old Bard looks monstrous grim.  
And to correct ye strait will send  
His Excommunic'm Capiend '.   

Here perhaps Reader you surmise,  
That I the reverend Gown despise;  
Whose Royal Function I approve,  
Next to the Ministers Above.  
All I designed was to debate  
On the unequal Acts of Fate,  
Who cheisly Fools and Knaves prefer,  
Perhaps, 'cause only such do worship Her.   

Then there are mighty Peers o' th' Realm,  
Whose conduct helps to steer the Helm:  
They're great pretenders unto Wit.  
And that they may seem to encourage it  
They'll have a Poet at their Tail:  
And that to know him they mayn't fail,  
He has an old fashion threadbare Coat,  
Foul Linen, Hat not worth a Groat;  
One points and cries, there goes Long-lane,  
Another cries, he's Long-and-Lean.  
For like one newly fluxed he'll crawl,  
And lets the Footboys take the Wall.  
But when to th' Tavern they do go,  
Their Honours will more freedom show;  
There they may Swagger Swear and Lie,  
And do any thing, but Pay:  
Damn ye, I dined with such a Lord to Day,  
And such a Lord did like my Play:  
And without Vanity it is  
The best I writ, my Masterpiece.   

Observe the empty Citizen,  
That but in shape excel the Swine:  
Those profane Atheists that do hold,  
There is no Deity but Gold.  
They hate the Poet, 'cause he's poor,  
And but the Golden Calf adore.  
They say our Plays are wicked dear,  
Th' Expense in Ballads would go far:  
And I protest; I've heard some say,  
Plays are a kind of Popery.  
I' th' City-shops they be thought profane,  
As were Mince-pies in Cromwel's Reign:  
Where when for Dryden's Works I came,  
They stared and said they never heard his Name,  
But they had Baxter if you please,  
And such Diviner things as these.  
But from damned Plays L. Mayor defend 'em,  
And rather to a Conventicle send 'em.   

See how the gaping Merchant range  
To hunt his Cully o'er th'Exchange:  
Where such a discord they compound,  
Like the loud Billows, when your Ships they drowned.  
There they more fat in one warm Hour do sweat,  
Then a poor Poet in a year can get.  
'Tis pretty sport to see the Tailor,  
The Shoemaker, and Milliner,  
And every Fop that sells his Ware  
O'er the poor Poet domineer.  
" Is this the Wit? the Devil take it,  
" For without question he did make it:  
" The truest Wit is Honesty,  
" And to get Coin your Debts to pay:  
" Wit is an Ass, where Money's slow,  
" For 'tis that makes the Ass to go.  
" Why, I am but a mean Tradesman,  
" And yet do more than any Poet can.  
" I walk the Street, yet fear no   
" Nor in their Debts, nor from them run:  
" Nor yet for fear of being found out,  
" Do I walk half a mile about.  
The Bookseller grows fat o'th' gain,  
He sucks from the poor Poet's Brain:  
He and the Printer, that do know  
Nothing beyond the Christ-Cross-Row,  
Will their Heads together join  
To rob the Poet of his Coyn.  
He wresty Drudge must toil and sweat,  
But honourable stabs to get.  
And is forced to sigh and stay  
For the Laurels till he's grey.  
And at the last together come  
To his Honour and his Tomb.  
Thomas, when dead, his Friends mayn't raise  
Enough to gild his Funeral Bays.  
The Quacks as often as they will  
Can get Licenses to kill,  
Whilst the hungry Poet may  
For an Imprimatur slay,  
Till he has eaten up his Play.  
Nothing that's witty now can pass,  
An heavy burden may fit an Ass.  
Who if by chance discerns the Wit,  
His envious Pen will murder it.  
He who himself does guilty know,  
No lawful satire will allow;  
For seeing there his ugly Face,  
He will be sure to break the Glass.  
I speak not this for all, but one  
Whose Malice I've severely known:  
And all because I told not quick  
Who is Father to Melchisedeck.  
As for his Name leave that alone;  
There's ne'er a Poet in the Town,  
But wish the Man they ne'er had known.   

But prithee Muse here calm thy Brow,  
Lest thou shouldst seem Revengeful too.  
In every thing but Poetry  
Something impossible we see:   

Rhet ' rick, which we so much adore  
Ne'er had a perfect Orator.   

The lingering Chemist blows his Fire  
And waits till his own Lamp expire.  
Searching for th' enchanted Stone  
Till he himself's as cold as one.  
The natural Philosopher  
About perpetual motion keeps a slir;  
But strait his Engines rest obtain,  
And all the motion's in his Brain.   

How nauseous are Grammatick fools  
Armed but with noise and canting Rules?  
Where Lily does debauch poor Verse  
And gibberish in Heroick dress.   

Astronomy each faith engage,  
And with dark Notions cheats the Age.  
But take off their disguise, you'll see  
It is more feigned than Poetry.  
Else let it for a certain show  
Whether this Globe has wings or no,  
Or Ovid blame, who said the Sun  
Did run away with Phaeton.   

What is Geometry I'd know,  
But a  brat of fancy too?  
If 'tis a Science, let it tell  
How far from hence the Stars do dwell,  
And the due proportion give between  
A direct and a crooked Line.   

And what is Logic but a cheat?  
Nothing or something worse than it.  
A Delphich Sword bent any way,  
To make Truth yield to Sophistry.  
Arithmetic how little Art!  
Poetry is not so confined:  
One Unite speak, can all thy Art  
To the defects of Nature find.   

Ye black Lectures of Mortality,  
And of phlegmatic Morality  
Adieu! Adieu! I soar too high  
For your short Wings to follow me.   

Speak dull Philosopher, what's all  
You in mistake do Science call?  
Since Socrates with much ado  
Learned only that he nothing knew.   

Nothing is unconfined and free  
Besides the Soul of Poetry;  
When it does on the Organs play,  
Throw all your mystic Books away,  
And study Nature's Library.  
Move up to heavens refulgent Throne,  
There by the tab'ring Muses drawn;  
First pause a while, then writ, and all  
The Gods to Convocation call.  
Then with impartial Frowns survey  
Man varying in Apostasy.  
Pity poor Princes that do groan  
Under the burden of a Crown  
And contemn Riches, which we see  
Is but a golden Slavery:  
We're richer far in Poetry.  
And when we punish Avarice  
'Tis only 'cause we ' l cure the Vice.  
But the dull crowd our Power profane,  
And say we only Writ for gain.  
Although Experience proves this sure,  
'Tis only Writing makes us poor.  
Yet we're so just, we'll do the Law,  
Tho shame is all the gain we draw.  
And when we serve them with a Play,  
We must like Catchpoles sneak away.  
But hold!  
I'm almost starved, as I'm a Sinner,  
Prithee Jack, trust me for a Dinner.  
Poor Poet! what a Wretch thou art grown,  
Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne.  
You who but now did reach the Sky.  
Low as despair condemned to lie.  
Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire,  
With thy Poetic rage expire.  
'Twas but a Dream: and now I see  
Riddles untie themselves to fetter thee.  
The Angel's height procured their thrall,  
But 'tis thy lowness makes thee fall.  
Had Nature given thee a rich Mine,  
Thou of all Fops hadst happiest been:  
Thou hadst not been exposed thus,  
Nor this complaint made thee ridiculous.   

But now again myself I grow;  
I th' Poet am, yet wish I was not so.  
Never poor Creature such strange Fortunes had,  
A Poet's not himself, unless he's Mad.  
Go backward Age, go backward Age,  
And to Ben's days reduce the Stage.  
Whose easy Palates would commend,  
What entertainments Heaven did send.  
Judges were then as Ladies now a days,  
Whom any thing that's Flesh and Blood can please.  
But now a Poet's counted out of fashion,  
And Wits the only drug in all the nation.   

Nature and Fate such Rivals are  
That they can't Reign in the same Sphere.  
And as when Kings each other thwart  
Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart;  
So those to whom Nature is kind  
Must fortunes rage's and malice find;  
And till these friends and partners grow,  
Who can have Wit and Money too?  
I've often heard this question rise,  
Whether Wit made Men Poor, or Poverty Men Wise?  
'Twas Poverty first me a Poet made,  
And I'd fain know him who is rich o'th' Trade.  
But if the World has such a Creature,  
He is a Monster and not made by Nature.  
Poet's must break before they well can do,  
And a great trade will make them bankrupts too,  
They are good Chemists, though, they do not know  
To make imperfect Metals currant grow,  
Yet what you give them, they'll strait turn to Sack,  
Nay if there's need, the very  o'th' back.  
Then with that Sack they'll wondrous things prepare,  
They'll Castles build, nay Kingdoms in the Air,  
And give themselves vast Lordships there.  
And since they here so disagree  
About a paltry Laurel-tree,  
I wonder what a Devil will they do,  
When they hereafter to their lands will go?  
But now I think on't they'll be all Gods there,  
And every one will have a distinct Sphere.  
For those great Deities of which we read,  
Were by th' Almighty Poets made;  
And they who did those Godheads make,  
May at their pleasure take them back.   

Honest dear Reader, do not call  
This Author mean and pitiful,  
Tho he has spoken in his rage  
The damned dull humour of the Age;  
Yet by these following lines you'll see  
His excellent good Company.    

Quotations.  

Lacie in his Prologue to Monsieur Rogolle.  
I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,  
Both by my empty Purse and empty Brain.  
I've other Symptoms to confirm it too,  
I've Great and Self-Conceit of what I do.  
I have my little Cullies too i'th' Town  
Both to admire my Works and lend a Crown.  
My Poet's Day I Mortgage to some Citt,  
At least six Months before my Play is Writ;  
And on that day away the Poet runs,  
Knowing full well, in Shoals come all his Duns.  
If these things make me not a proper Poet,  
He that hath better Title let him show it.   

Lacie in his Prologue to Pastor Fido.  
WHO would not damn a silly Rhyming Fop?  
When there is scarce a Foreman of a Shop,  
With Sense of Animal and Face of Stoic,  
But Courts poor tawdry Sempstress in Heroick:  
Will make you Rhimes on Cakes and Ale, rehearse  
An Holyday-Treat at Islington in Verse.   

Otway in his Prologue to the Cheats of Schapin.  
NOW Wit is grown so common, let me die,  
Gentlemen scorn to keep it Company.   

Leonard in his Prologue to the Country Innocence.  
NEver was Wit so much abused before;  
The Trade's grown common, and the gilting Whore  
Debauched in every Street, at every Door.   

Sir Charles Scroop in his Prologue to Alexander.  
HOW hard the Fate is of that Scribbling Drudge,  
Who writes to all and yet so few can judge?  
Wit, like Religion, once Divine was thought,  
And the dull Crowd believed as they were taught;  
Now each Fanatic Fool pretends to 'xplain  
The Text, and does the sacred Wit profane.   

Idem.  
THen Fencer-like they one another hurt,  
And with their Wounds, they make the Rabble Sport.   

In the Prologue to the Debauchee.  
— A Poet's such a Tool,  
Fit to make nothing till he's made a Fool.   

Dryden to Lee on his Alexander.  
SO many Candidates there stands for Wit,  
A place in Court is scarce so hard to get.  
Desert, how known soe'er, is long delayed,  
And then too Fools and Knaves are better paid.   

Lee in his Epilogue to Alexander.  
— How ought they to be cursed,  
Who this censorious Age did polish-first.  
Who the best Play for one poor Error blame,  
As Priests against our Lady's Art declaim,  
And for one Patch both Soul and Body damn.   

In the Prologue to the Morning Ramble.  
Poets we justly may Wits Bubbles call,  
For they to almost nothing Venture all,  
Hard Fate have they above all men beside,  
Behind some Curtain still their Faults do hid,  
Statesmen their Errors on their Agents lay,  
'Tis chance of War makes Soldiers lose the Day.  
And the Physicians Shame Death sweeps away:  
But every Fool finds fault with every Play.  
Things being so, it cannot be denied,  
But to be Poet is a Man's Blind-side.  
This is the Cause, why active Times produce  
The fewest Writers to the Stages use.   

Sir Charles Sidly.  
'TIs well that Wit has something of the Mad,  
Else how could Poets for the Stage be had?   

Dryden in his Prologue to Circe.  
— The Brothers of the Trade.  
Who scattering their Infection through the Pit,  
With aching Hearts, and empty Purses sit.   

Settle in his Prologue to the Conquest of China.  
WHen our Forefathers did our Judges sit,  
And Spite and Malice were not counted Wit;  
men's Appetites lay quite another way,  
They went to'a Playhouse then to like a Play,  
They came to meet Diversion from the Stage,  
But 'tis not that which brings them here this Age.  
That Mode of liking Plays is as much out  
As 'tis to go to Church to be Devout.  
Fancy and Wit can no more please them here,  
Than Faith and Reason can persuade them there.   

Shadwell in his Prologue to the Virtuoso.  
NOW Drudges of the Stage must oft appear,  
They must be bound to Scribble twice a Year.  
And like the Thred-bareVicar, who must Toil,  
Whilst the Fat Lazy Doctor bears the Spoil.   

Dryden in his Prologue to—  
THE Clergy thrive and the Litigious Bar:  
Dull Heroes fatten on the Spoùs of War.  
All Southern Vices, Heav'u be praised, are here,  
But Wit and Luxury they count too dear.   

In the Prologue to the Rehearsal.  
IF it be true that monstrous Births Presage  
The following Mischiefs that afflict the Age;  
And sad Disasters to the State Proclaim:  
Plays without Head or Tail may do the same.  
Wherefore for ours and for our Countries Peace,  
Let this Prodigious way of Writing cease.  
Let's have at least once in our Lives a Time,  
When we may have some Reason, not all Rhyme.   

Dryden in his Epilogue to the Indian Queen.  
Their Confidence  
Is placed in lofty Sounds and humble Sense.  
Then see the little Infants of the Time,  
That writ New Songs, and Trust in Tune and Rhyme.   

Lacie in his Prologue to the Dumb Lady.  
HEre I am, and not ashamed who know it,  
I humbly come your forma Pauper is Poet.   

Crown in his Prologue to the Country-Wit.  
THE Mighty Wits now come to a New Play,  
Only to taste the Scraps they throw away;  
Poets now Treat them at their own Expense,  
All but the Poets now abound in Sense.  
City and Country now with Wit's o'erflown,  
Weeds grow no faster there, than Wits i'th' Town.  
Plays are so common, they are little prized,  
And to be but a Poet is despised.   

In the Epilogue to the Morning Hamble.  
Some dare say  
They have not seen of late a good New Play.  
Not but this Age has many Men as Wise,  
But wisely they this begging Art despise.  
And two to one was Shakesphear here to Day,  
He'd have more Wit than e'er to Write a Play.   

Whicherley in his Prologue to Love in a Wood  
YOU hardened Renegado Poets, who  
Treat Rhyming Brothers worse than Turks would do.  
See we in vain your Pity now would crave,  
Who for yourselves, alas! no Pity have,  
And your own grasping Credit will not save.   

In the Epilogue to the Dutch Lover.  
Hlss 'em and Cry 'em down, 'tis all in Vain,  
Incorrigible Scribblers can't refrain.  
But impudently in th' old Sin engage,  
Tho doomed before, nay banished from the Stage.   

Durfey in his Prologue to the Fond Husband.  
ADulterate Age! where Prudence is a Vice,  
And Wit's as scandalous as Avarice.  
Yet in despite of this, ye're Poets too;  
And what two Fops rail at, a third will do.  
Upon our Privileges you encroach,  
And with dull Rhymes, the Noble Art debauch.    

The APOLOGY To the Quoted POETS.  
SIrs I expect though not deserve your Frown;  
Lest 'cause I've mixed your Muses with my own.  
Not that I dared to touch your Character,  
Who want not Praise, nor can a Censure fear.  
All I designed, was to agree with you,  
And mean the self same Persons that You do.  
Not that I think you on each other fall;  
If so, some Critic may suspect ye all.  
But I your Names with Sacred Thoughts adore;  
Yet should I happen to profane your Power,  
've no redress we are so far apart;  
I fear no Wounds from any English Dart:  
For e'er the Printer will to Finis come,  
On the Loud Seas I cannot hear the Storm.  
Yet was I Conscious of a Gild so high,  
I'd with Winged Hast to Rome's great Idol fly,  
And on his Toe would Kiss the sin away.   

THE CHARACTER OF POETRY.  
THat which gave Birth to Poetry, and hath supported its Reputation among the most Ingenious of every Age, is the desire of Imitation which is interwoven with every Man's Essence. Hence we admire the well-drawn Pictures of those dead Bodies, whose Original we have in Horror. And we are ravished to hear the Voice of a Swine Naturally counterfeited, though we hate it in that Animal. So Poetry and Painture in some manner expresseth every thing that is done in Nature. Whence Poetry is termed a speaking Picture, and a Picture dumb Poetry. And the Word Poet does not signify one that Feigns but one that Makes. As when he speaks of a Tempest, he must make the Wind's Mutiny, Ships Split, Mountains of Water Clash, and lose themselves in Gulfs. Which makes Poetry so difficult, and consequently so rare and admirable, that few succeed well in it.  
Another Excellency in Poetry is its Harmony, Natural not only to Man; but to the meanest Individual, which God hath created in Number and Measure: Which made the Pythagoreans say, that not only the Celestial Bodies make a most agreeable Consort, but also the Plants by their Proportions, and the Beasts by their Motions, chant measured Odes in praise of their Creator. Therefore with more Reason must Man (whose Soul is a number moving of itself) be delighted with numerous Language, which is Poetry, the most sensible Effect of that Divine Harmony, which is infused into his Body. And we may make a Judgement of good from vulgar Wits by their Delight or Disaffection to Poetry. For if a Man ought to be regular in his Actions, Why not in his Words? the Image of his Reason, as Reason is of his Soul. As if you should say that the well regulated Dance of a Ball, aught to be less prized than an ordinary Walk, or Country-Dance.  
Moreover Poetry hath such power over men's Minds, that Tyrtoeus animated his Soldiers to fight by the rehearsal of his Verses; which was also the Custom of the Germans, when they were to charge their Enemies. Moses, David, and many other Prophets accounted nothing more worthy than Poetry, to sing the Praises of God. And the first Poets, as Musoeus, Orpheus and Linus were the Divines of Paganism. Yea the Gods of Antiquity affected to deliver their Oracles in Verse. So did Legislators their Laws to render them more venerable.  
Besides they greatly help the Memory; the Cadence or Measure serving as a Rule to the Mind to keep it from being at a loss. Poetry alone among all the Arts supplies Praise to Virtue, the Rampant Style of Rhetorical Discourse, though it borrow its fairest Flowers and square Periods from Poetry, being not comparable to it, which is far more sublime, and consequently more fit to immortalize the Memory of Heroic Actions. Upon which account the Muses were believed the Daughters of Mnemosyne or Memory. Tho Poets have been sometimes expelled out of States, so have Philosophers, Physicians, Mathematicians, and many other Professors of Arts, acknowledged nevertheless useful to Humane Society. If some of them have been Lascivious, others Impious, others Slanderous, those are the Faults of the Poets not Poetry. And as the more delicate any wine is, the more hurtful its Excess is to the Body; so Poetry is so much the more excellent by how much its abuse is noxious. Plato, who advised the banishing of it out of his imaginary Common- Wealth, calling it a sweet Poison, deserved more than it to be really interdicted. There not being in all the Poets such Fables, Impieties and Impurities, as that of his Convivium, his Phoedrus, and some other Pieces. In the mean time he is forced to admire them, to call them the Sons and Interpreters of the Gods, yea Divine and the Fathers of Wisdom. For the Raptures cannot be called Folly, unless in that Sense as Aristotle saith, To Philosophise well, a Man must be besides himself. But there Wisdom being extreme, and their Motions unknown to the vulgar, therefore they call that Fury, which they ought to call the highest pitch and point of Wisdom, termed Enthusiasm or Divine Inspiration, because it surpasseth the reach of Man. And indeed every one acknowledges in Poetry some Character of Divinity. And therefore 'tis received by all the World, and serves for a guide and introducer to great Persons, who otherwise would not give audience, but like that well in Verse, which they would blame in Prose. Which obliged Sylla to reward the Good, that they might be encouraged to continue their Divine Works, and the bad Poets on condition that they made no more. And 'tis of these, as of some Rhymes of our times that they speak, who blame Poetry; in whose reproaches the true Poets are no more concerned than Physicians in the infamy of Mountebanks. The Fables of the Ancient Poets are full of Mysteries, and serve for ornament to the Sciences, and to Divinity itself. Nor has variety of Wit appeared in any Science more than Poetry, which serves not barely to teach and instruct, as the other Liberal Sciences, but withal to recreate and delight, which is an excellent Method to prevent the Disgust, which Disciplines bring even in their Rudiments.  
And if they have complained in all Ages of not advancing their fortunes, this doth not argue any demerit of theirs, but rather the want either of judgement or gratitude in others.  
FINIS.