JOHN WILMOT
EARL OF ROCHESTER
AN ALLUSION TO THE TENTH SATYR OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE
An allusion to Horace.
The 10th Satyr of the 1st Book.
Nempe incomposito dixi pede, &c.
WELL, Sir, 'tis granted, I said Dryden's Rhimes
Were stoln, unequal, nay, dull many times:
What foolish Patron is there found of his,
So blindly partial, to deny me this?
But that his Plays, embroider'd up and down
With Wit and Learning, justly pleas'd the Town,
In the same paper I as freely own.
Yet having this allow'd, the heavy Mass
That stuffs up his loose Volumns must not pass;
For by that Rule, I might aswel admit
Crown's tedious Sense for Poetry and Wit.
'Tis therefore not enough when your false sense Hits the false Judgment of an Audience
Of clapping Fools assembled, a vast crowd,
Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull load;
Though ev'n that Talent merits, in some sort,
That can divert the City and the Court;
Which blundring Settle never cou'd attain,
And puzling Otway labours at in vain.
But, within due proportions, circumscribe
What e're you write, that with a flowing Tide
The Style may rise: yet in its rise forbear
With useless words t' oppress the weary'd Ear.
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
5 Your Rethorick with your Poetry unite;
For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the force
Of Epithets, 'twill soften the discourse;
A jeast in scorn points out and hits the thing
More home than the Morosest Satyrs sting.
10 Shake-spear and Johnson did herein excell,
And might in this be imitated well;
Whom refin'd Etherege coppy's not at all,
But is himself a sheer Original.
Nor that slow Drudge in swift Pindarick strains, 15 Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose Rains. When Lee makes temp'rate Scipio fret and rave, And Hannibal a whining, Amorous Slave,
I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd Fustian Fool 20 In Busby's Hands, to be well lasht at School. Of all our Modern Wits, none seems to me Once to have toucht upon true Comedy, But hasty Shadwell, and slow Wycherley. Shadwell's unfinish'd works do yet impart
25 Great proofs of force of Nature, none of Art; With just bold strokes he dashes here and there, Shewing great Mastery, with little Care;
And scorns to varnish his good touches o're, To make the Fools and Women praise 'em more. 30 But Wycherley earns hard what e're he gains; He wants no judgment, nor he spares no pains He frequently excells, and, at the least, Makes fewer faults than any of the best. Waller, by nature for the Bays design'd, 35 With force and Fire and fancy unconfin'd,
In Panegyricks does excell Mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,
To praise great Conquerors or to flatter Kings.
For pointed Satyrs I wou'd Buckhurst choose,
The best good Man with the worst natur'd Muse.
For Songs and Verses mannerly obscene,
That can stir Nature up by spring unseen,
And, without forcing blushes, please the Queen;
Sidley has that prevailing gentle Art,
That can with a resistless Charm impart
The loosest wishes to the chastest Heart;
Praise such a conflict, kindle such a Fire
Betwixt declining Vertue and Desire,
Till the poor vanquish't Maid dissolves away,
In Dreams all Night, in Sighs and Tears all day.
Dryden in vain try'd this nice way of wit;
For he, to be a tearing Blade, thought fit
To give the Ladies a dry Bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab.
But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found,
His Excellencies more than faults abound;
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear
That Lawrel which he best deserves to wear.
But does not Dryden find ev'n Johnson dull?
Fletcher and Beaumont uncorrect, and full
Of lewd Lines, as he calls 'em? Shake-spear's stile
Stiff and affected; to his own the while
Allowing all the justness that his Pride
So arrogantly had to these deny'd?
And may not I have leave impartially
To search and censure Dryden's Works, and try
If those gross faults his choice Pen does commit
Proceed from want of Judgment or of Wit;
Or if his lumpish fancy does refuse
Spirit and Grace to his loose slattern Muse?
Five hundred Verses ev'ry Morning writ,
Proves you no more a Poet than a Wit:
Such scribling Authors have been seen before :
Mustapha, the English Princess, forty more,
5 Were things perhaps compos'd in half an hour.
To write what may securely stand the Test
Of being well read over thrice at least,
Compare each Phrase, examine ev'ry Line,
Weigh ev'ry Word, and ev'ry thought refine;
IO Scorn all Applause the vile Rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain mistaken thing,
To wish thy Works might make a Play-house ring
With the unthinking Laughter and poor praise
Of Fops and Ladies, Factious for thy Plays?
Then send a cunning Friend, to learn thy doom
From the shrewd Judges of the drawing Room.
I've no Ambition on that idle score,
But say with Betty Morice heretofore,
20 When a great Woman call'd her Bawdy Whore: I please one Man of Wit, am proud on 't too, Let all the Coxcombs dance to Bed to you. Shou'd I be troubled when the Pur-blind Knight, Who squints more in his Judgment than his sight, 25 Picks silly faults, and censures what I write ? Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Town
For Scraps and Coach-room cry my Verses down? I loath the rabble; 'tis enough for me If Sidley, Shadwell, Shephard, Wycherley, 30 Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham, And some few more whom I omit to name, Approve my sense: I count their censure Fame.
EARL OF MULGRAVE, DUKE OF BUCKING
F Things in which Mankind does most excell,
(Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well;
And of all sorts of Writing none there are
That can the least with Poetry compare ;
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And if well done, there's nothing shines so much;
But Heav'n forbid we should be so prophane,
To grace the vulgar with that sacred name;
'Tis not a Flash of Fancy which sometimes
Dasling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rimes,
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun,
Which though sometimes beneath a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number, and Rime, and that harmonious sound,
Which never does the Ear with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar Arts,
For all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole
Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul,-
A Spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of Nature moves this World about:
A heat that glows in every word that's writ,
That's something of Divine, and more than Wit;
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