Mac Flecknoe.
ALL humane things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, Monarchs must obey
This
Flecnoe found, who, like
Augustus, young
Was call'd to Empire, and had govern'd long:
In Prose and Verse, was own'd, without dispute
Through all the Realms of
Non-sense, 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 pond'ring which of all his Sons was fit
To Reign, and wage immortal War with Wit:
Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for Nature pleads that He
Should onely 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 confirm'd 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 intervall;
But
Sh—'s genuine night admits no ray,
His rising Fogs prevail upon the Day:
[Page 2] Besides his goodly Fabrick fills the eye,
And seems design'd 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 coursly 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 did'st cut thy way,
With well tim'd Oars before the Royal Barge,
Swell'd with the Pride of thy Celestial charge;
And big with Hymn, Commander of an Host,
The like was ne'er in
Epsom Blankets tost.
Methinks I see the new
Arion Sail,
The Lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpned thumb from Shore to Shore
The Treble squeaks for fear, the Bases roar:
Echoes from
Pissing-Ally, Sh—call,
And
Sh—they resound from
A—Hall.
About thy boat the little Fishes 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.
[Page 3] St.
Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own
Psyche's rhime:
Though they in number as in sense excell;
So just, so like tautology they sell,
That, pale with envy,
Singleton forswore
The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act
Villerius more.
Here stopt the good old
Syre; and wept for joy
In silent raptures of the hopefull boy.
All Arguments, but most his Plays, perswade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the Walls which fair
Augusta bind,
(The fair
Augusta much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabrick, rais'd t' inform the
fight[?],
There stood of yore, and
Barbican it hight:
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, undisturb'd by Watch, in silence sleep.
Near these a Nursery erects its head,
Where Queens are form'd, and future Hero's bred;
Where
unfledg'd[?] 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.
[Page 4] But gentle
Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this Monument of vanisht minds:
Pure Clinches, the suburbian Muse affords;
And
Panton waging harmless War with words.
Here
Flecknoe, as a place to Fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his
Sh—'s Throne.
For ancient
Decker prophesi'd long since,
That in this Pile should Reign a mighty Prince,
Born for a scourge of Wit, and flayle of Sense:
To whom true dulness should some
Psyches 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 publisht the renown,
Of
Sh—'s Coronation through the Town.
Rows'd by report of Fame, the Nations meet,
From near
Bun-Hill, and distant
Watling-street.
No
Persian Carpets spread th' Imperial way,
But scatter'd Limbs of mangled Poets lay:
From dusty shops neglected Authors come,
Martyrs of Pies, and Reliques of the Bum.
Much
Heywood, Shirly, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of
Sh—almost choakt the way.
Bilk't
Stationers for Yeomen stood prepar'd,
And
H—was Captain of the Guard.
The hoary Prince in Majesty appear'd,
High on a Throne of his own Labours rear'd.
[Page] At his right hand our young
Ascanius sate
Rome's other hope, and Pillar of the State.
His Brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent dulness plaid around his face.
As
Hannibal did to the Altars come,
Swore by his
Syre 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 plac'd 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 practis'd young,
And from whose Loyns recorded
Psyche sprung.
His Temples last with Poppies were o'erspread,
That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head:
Just at that point of time, if Fame not lye,
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
Syre then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
[Page 6] Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his Breast the raging God;
At length burst out in this prophetick 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 loves Kingdom let him stretch his Pen;
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd
Amen.
Then thus, continu'd 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 toyl 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 shew the Writers wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justifie 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;
[Page 7] But let no alien
S—dl—y interpose
To lard with wit thy hungry
Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of
Rhethorick thou would'st: 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,
Promis'd 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 transfus'd as Oyl 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 Byas of thy mind,
By which one way, to dulness, 'tis inclin'd.
[Page 8] 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 Tragick Muse gives smiles, thy Comick sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write,
Thy inoffensive Satyrs never bite.
In thy fellonious heart, though Venom lies,
It does but touch thy
Irish pen, and dyes.
Thy Genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram:
Leave writing Plays, and chuse for thy command
Some peacefull Province in Acrostick Land.
There thou may'st wings display and Altars raise,
And torture one poor word Ten thousand ways.
Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent 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 prepar'd,
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.