LONDON: Printed by H. Hills, and Sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster, 170 9.
MAC FLECKNOE
LL humane things are fubject to decay,
And, when Fate fummons, Monarchs must obey:
This Fleckno found, who, like Auguftus, young,
Was call'd to Empire, and had govern'd long:
In Profe and Verfe, was own'd, without difpute,
Through all the Realms of Non-fense, abfolute.
This aged Prince now flourishing in Peace,
And bleft with iffue of a large increase,
Worn out with bufinefs, did at length debate
To fettle the Succeffion of the State:
And pond'ring which of all his Sons was fir
To Reign, and wage immortal War with Wit;
Cry'd, 'tis refolv'd, for Nature pleads that He
Should only rule, who most resembles me:
alone my perfect Image bears, Mature in Dullnefs from his tender years. Sb. alone, of all my Sons, is he Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity. The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence, But Sb- - never deviates into fenfe. 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 rifing Fogs prevail upon the Day: Befides, his goodly Fabrick fills the eye, And feems defign'd for thoughtless Majefty: Thoughtless on Monarch Oaks, that fhade the Plain, And, fpread in folemn ftate, fupinely reign. Heywood and Shirley were but Types of thee, Thou laft great Prophet of Tautology:
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And courfly clad in Norwich Drugget came
To teach the Nations in thy greater Name.
My warbling Lute, the Lute I whilom ftrung
When to King John of Portugal 1 fung,
Was but the Prelude to that glorious Day,
When thou on Silver Thames did'ft 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 Hoft,
The like was ne'er in Epfom Blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion Sail,
The Lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-fharpned Thumb from Shore to Shore
The Treble fqueaks for fear, the Bafes roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Ally, Sh- call,
And Sh they refound from A
About thy Boat the little Fishes throng,
As at the Morning Toaft, that Floats along.
Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious Band,
Thou wield'st thy Papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's Feet ne'er kept more equal Time,
Not even the Feet of thy own Pfyche's Rhime:
Though they in number as in fenfe excell;
So juft, fo like tautology they fell,
That, pale with Envy, Singleton forfwore
The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er wou'd act Villerius more.
Here ftopt the good old Syre; and wept for joy
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All Arguments, but moft his Plays, perfwade,
That for anointed Dullness he was made.
Clofe to the Walls which fair Augufta bind,
(The fair Augufta much to Fears inclin'd)
An ancient Fabrick, rais'd t'inform the fight,
There ftood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A Watch-Tower once; but now, fo Fate ordains,
Of all the Pile an empty Name remains.
From its old Ruins Brothel-houfes rife
Scenes of lewd Loves, and of polluted Joys.
Where their vaft Courts the Mother-Strumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by Watch, in filence fleep.
Near thefe 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 Johnfon dares in Socks appear.
But gentle Simkin juft reception finds
Amidit this Monument of vanifht minds:
Pure Clinches, the fuburbian Mufe affords;
And Panton waging harmless War with words.
Here Fleckno, as a place to Fame well known,
Ambitioufly defign'd his Sh's Throne.
For ancient Decker prophefi'd long fince,
That in this Pile fhou'd Reign a mighty Prince,
Born for a fcourge of Wit, and flayle of Senfe:
To whom true Dullness fhou'd fome Pfyches owe,
But Worlds of Mifers from his Pen fhou'd flow
Humorist's and Hypocrites it fhou'd produce,
Whole Raymond Families, and Tribes of Bruce.
Now Emprefs Fame had publish'd the Renown,
Of Sh's Coronation through the Town.
Rows'd by report of Fame, the Nations meet,
From near Bun-Hill, and diftant Watling-street.
No Perfian Carpets fpread th Imperial way,
But fcatter'd Limbs of mangled Poets lay:
From dufty Shops neglected Authors come,
Martyrs of Pies, and Reliques of the Bum.
Much Heywood, Shirly, Ogleby there lay,
But Loads of Sb almoft choak'd the way.
Bilk'd Stationers for Yeomen ftood prepar'd,
And H was Captain of the Guard.
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