One of Dunbar's most telling satires, as well as one of the most powerful in the language.

I.

Of Februar the fiftene nicht Full lang before the dayis licht I lay intill a trance And then I saw baith Heaven and Hell Me thocht, amang the fiendis fell Mahoun gart cry ane dance Of shrews that were never shriven,[110] Agains the feast of Fastern's even,[111] To mak their observance. He bad gallants gae graith a gyis,[112] And cast up gamountis[113] in the skies, As varlets do in France.

II.

Helie harlots on hawtane wise,[114] Come in with mony sundry guise, But yet leuch never Mahoun, While priests come in with bare shaven necks; Then all the fiends leuch, and made gecks, Black-Belly and Bawsy Brown.[115]

III.

Let see, quoth he, now wha begins: With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins Begoud to leap at anis. And first of all in Dance was Pride, With hair wyld back, and bonnet on side, Like to make vaistie wanis;[116] And round about him, as a wheel, Hang all in rumples to the heel His kethat for the nanis:[117] Mony proud trumpour[118] with him trippit; Through scalding fire, aye as they skippit They girned with hideous granis.[119]

IV.

Then Ire came in with sturt and strife; His hand was aye upon his knife, He brandished like a beir:[120] Boasters, braggars, and bargainers,[121] After him passit in to pairs, All bodin in feir of weir;[122] In jacks, and scryppis, and bonnets of steel, Their legs were chainit to the heel,[123] Frawart was their affeir:[124] Some upon other with brands beft,[125] Some jaggit others to the heft, With knives that sharp could shear.

V.

Next in the Dance followit Envy, Filled full of feud and felony, Hid malice and despite: For privy hatred that traitor tremlit; Him followit mony freik dissemlit,[126] With fenyeit wordis quhyte:[127] And flatterers in to men's faces; And backbiters in secret places, To lie that had delight; And rownaris of false lesings,[128] Alace! that courts of noble kings Of them can never be quit.

VI.

Next him in Dance came Covetyce, Root of all evil, and ground of vice, That never could be content: Catives, wretches, and ockeraris,[129] Hudpikes,[130] hoarders, gatheraris, All with that warlock went: Out of their throats they shot on other Het, molten gold, me thocht, a futher[131] As fire-flaucht maist fervent; Aye as they toomit them of shot, Fiends filled them new up to the throat With gold of all kind prent.[132]

VII.

Syne Sweirness, at the second bidding, Came like a sow out of a midding, Full sleepy was his grunyie:[133] Mony swear bumbard belly huddroun,[134] Mony slut, daw, and sleepy duddroun, Him servit aye with sonnyie;[135] He drew them furth intill a chain, And Belial with a bridle rein Ever lashed them on the lunyie:[136] In Daunce they were so slaw of feet, They gave them in the fire a heat, And made them quicker of cunyie.[137]

VIII.

Then Lechery, that laithly corpse, Came berand like ane baggit horse,[138] And Idleness did him lead; There was with him ane ugly sort, And mony stinking foul tramort,[139] That had in sin been dead: When they were enterit in the Dance, They were full strange of countenance, Like torches burning red.

IX.

Then the foul monster, Gluttony, Of wame insatiable and greedy, To Dance he did him dress: Him followit mony foul drunkart, With can and collop, cup and quart, In surfit and excess; Full mony a waistless wally-drag, With wames unweildable, did furth wag, In creesh[140] that did incress: Drink! aye they cried, with mony a gaip, The fiends gave them het lead to laip, Their leveray was na less.[141]

X.

Nae minstrels played to them but doubt,[142] For gleemen there were halden out, Be day, and eke by nicht; Except a minstrel that slew a man, So to his heritage he wan, And enterit by brieve of richt.[143] Then cried Mahoun for a Hieland Padyane:[144] Syne ran a fiend to fetch Makfadyane, Far northwast in a neuck; Be he the coronach[145] had done shout, Ersche men so gatherit him about, In hell great room they took: Thae tarmigants, with tag and tatter, Full loud in Ersche begoud to clatter, And roup like raven and rook.[146] The Devil sae deaved[147] was with their yell; That in the deepest pot of hell He smorit[148] them with smoke!

[Footnote 110: Mahoun, or the devil, proclaimed a dance of sinners that had not received absolution.]

[Footnote 111: The evening before Lent, usually a festival at the Scottish court.]

[Footnote 112: go prepare a show in character.]

[Footnote 113: gambols.]

[Footnote 114: Holy harlots (hypocrites), in a haughty manner. The term harlot was applied indiscriminately to both sexes.]

[Footnote 115: Names of spirits, like Robin Goodfellow in England, and Brownie in Scotland.]

[Footnote 116: Pride, with hair artfully put back, and bonnet on side: "vaistie wanis" is now unintelligible; some interpret the phrase as meaning "wasteful wants", but this seems improbable, considering the locality or scene of the poem.]

[Footnote 117: His cassock for the nonce or occasion.]

[Footnote 118: a cheat or impostor.]

[Footnote 119: groans.]

[Footnote 120: bear.]

[Footnote 121: Boasters, braggarts, and bullies.]

[Footnote 122: Arrayed in the accoutrements of war.]

[Footnote 123: In coats of armour, and covered with iron network to the heel.]

[Footnote 124: Wild was their aspect.]

[Footnote 125: brands beat.]

[Footnote 126: many strong dissemblers.]

[Footnote 127: With feigned words fair or white.]

[Footnote 128: spreaders of false reports.]

[Footnote 129: usurers.]

[Footnote 130: Misers.]

[Footnote 131: a great quantity.]

[Footnote 132: gold of every coinage.]

[Footnote 133: his grunt.]

[Footnote 134: Many a lazy glutton.]

[Footnote 135: served with care.]

[Footnote 136: loins.]

[Footnote 137: quicker of apprehension.]

[Footnote 138: neighing like an entire horse.]

[Footnote 139: corpse.]

[Footnote 140: grease.]

[Footnote 141: Their reward, or their desire not diminished.]

[Footnote 142: No minstrels without doubt—a compliment to the poetical profession: there were no gleemen or minstrels in the infernal regions.]

[Footnote 143: letter of right.]

[Footnote 144: Pageant.]

[Footnote 145: By the time he had done shouting the coronach or cry of help, the Highlanders speaking Erse or Gaelic gathered about him.]

[Footnote 146: croaked like ravens and rooks.]

[Footnote 147: deafened.]

[Footnote 148: smothered.]



SIR DAVID LYNDSAY.

(1490-1555.)

VI. SATIRE ON THE SYDE TAILLIS—ANE SUPPLICATIOUN DIRECTIT TO THE KINGIS GRACE—1538.

The specimen of Lyndsay cited below—this satire on long trains—is by no means the most favourable that could be desired, but it is the only one that lent itself readily to quotation. The archaic spelling is slightly modernized.

Schir! though your Grace has put gret order Baith in the Hieland and the Border Yet mak I supplicatioun Till have some reformatioun Of ane small falt, whilk is nocht treason Though it be contrarie to reason. Because the matter been so vile, It may nocht have ane ornate style; Wherefore I pray your Excellence To hear me with great patience: Of stinking weedis maculate No man nay mak ane rose-chaplet. Sovereign, I mean of thir syde tails, Whilk through the dust and dubis trails Three quarters lang behind their heels, Express again' all commonweals. Though bishops, in their pontificals, Have men for to bear up their tails, For dignity of their office; Richt so ane queen or ane empress; Howbeit they use sic gravity, Conformand to their majesty, Though their robe-royals be upborne, I think it is ane very scorn, That every lady of the land Should have her tail so syde trailand; Howbeit they been of high estate, The queen they should nocht counterfeit.

Wherever they may go it may be seen How kirk and causay they soop[149] clean. The images into the kirk May think of their syde taillis irk;[150] For when the weather been maist fair, The dust flies highest in the air, And all their faces does begarie. Gif they could speak, they wald them warie...[151] But I have maist into despite Poor claggocks[152] clad in raploch-white, Whilk has scant twa merks for their fees, Will have twa ells beneath their knees. Kittock that cleckit[153] was yestreen, The morn, will counterfeit the queen: And Moorland Meg, that milked the yowes, Claggit with clay aboon the hows,[154] In barn nor byre she will not bide, Without her kirtle tail be syde. In burghs, wanton burgess wives Wha may have sydest tailis strives, Weel bordered with velvet fine, But followand them it is ane pyne: In summer, when the streetis dries, They raise the dust aboon the skies; Nane may gae near them at their ease, Without they cover mouth and neese... I think maist pane after ane rain, To see them tuckit up again; Then when they step furth through the street, Their fauldings flaps about their feet; They waste mair claith, within few years, Nor wald cleid fifty score of freirs... Of tails I will no more indite, For dread some duddron[155] me despite: Notwithstanding, I will conclude, That of syde tails can come nae gude, Sider nor may their ankles hide, The remanent proceeds of pride, And pride proceeds of the devil, Thus alway they proceed of evil.

Ane other fault, sir, may be seen— They hide their face all but the een; When gentlemen bid them gude-day, Without reverence they slide away... Without their faults be soon amended, My flyting,[156] sir, shall never be ended; But wald your Grace my counsel tak, Ane proclamation ye should mak, Baith through the land and burrowstouns,[157] To shaw their face and cut their gowns.

Women will say this is nae bourds,[158] To write sic vile and filthy words. But wald they clenge[159] their filthy tails Whilk over the mires and middens trails, Then should my writing clengit be; None other mends they get of me.

[Footnote 149: sweep.]

[Footnote 150: be annoyed.]

[Footnote 151: curse or cry out.]

[Footnote 152: draggle-tails.]

[Footnote 153: hatched.]

[Footnote 154: houghs.]

[Footnote 155: slut.]

[Footnote 156: scolding, brawling.]

[Footnote 157: burgh towns.]

[Footnote 158: scoffs.]

[Footnote 159: cleanse.]



BISHOP JOSEPH HALL.

(1574-1656.)

VII. ON SIMONY.

This satire levels a rebuke at the Simoniacal traffic in livings, then openly practised by public advertisement affixed to the door of St. Paul's. "Si Quis" (if anyone) was the first word of these advertisements. Dekker, in the Gull's Hornbook, speaks of the "Siquis door of Paules", and in Wroth's Epigrams (1620) we read, "A Merry Greek set up a Siquis late". This satire forms the Fifth of the Second Book of the Virgidemiarum.

Saw'st thou ever Siquis patcht on Pauls Church door To seek some vacant vicarage before? Who wants a churchman that can service say, Read fast and fair his monthly homily? And wed and bury and make Christen-souls?[160] Come to the left-side alley of St. Paules. Thou servile fool, why could'st thou not repair To buy a benefice at Steeple-Fair? There moughtest thou, for but a slendid price, Advowson thee with some fat benefice: Or if thee list not wait for dead mens shoon, Nor pray each morn the incumbents days were doone: A thousand patrons thither ready bring, Their new-fall'n[161] churches, to the chaffering; Stake three years stipend: no man asketh more. Go, take possession of the Church porch door, And ring thy bells; luck stroken in thy fist The parsonage is thine, or ere thou wist. Saint Fool's of Gotam[162] mought thy parish be For this thy base and servile Simony.

[Footnote 160: baptize.]

[Footnote 161: newly fallen in, through the death of the incumbent.]

[Footnote 162: Referring to Andrew Borde's book, The Merry Tales of the Mad Men of Gotham.]



VIII. THE DOMESTIC TUTOR'S POSITION.

This satire forms the Sixth of Book II. of the Virgidemiarum, and is regarded as one of Bishop Hall's best. See the Return from Parnassus and Parrot's Springes for Woodcocks (1613) for analogous references to those occurring in this piece.

A gentle squire would gladly entertain Into his house some trencher chapelain; Some willing man that might instruct his sons, And that would stand to good conditions. First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed Whiles his young master lieth o'er his head. Second that he do on no default Ever presume to sit above the salt. Third that he never change his trencher twice. Fourth that he use all common courtesies: Sit bare at meals and one half rise and wait. Last, that he never his young master beat, But he must ask his mother to define, How many jerks she would his breech should line. All these observed, he could contented be, To give five marks and winter livery.



IX. THE IMPECUNIOUS FOP.

This satire constitutes Satire Seven of Book III. The phrase of dining with Duke Humphrey, which is still occasionally heard, originated in the following manner:—In the body of old St. Paul's was a huge and conspicuous monument of Sir John Beauchamp, buried in 1358, son of Guy, and brother of Thomas, Earl of Warwick. This by vulgar mistake was called the tomb of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, who was really buried at St. Alban's. The middle aisle of St. Paul's was therefore called "The Duke's Gallery". In Dekker's Dead Terme we have the phrase used and a full explanation of it given; also in Sam Speed's Legend of His Grace Humphrey, Duke of St. Paul's Cathedral Walk (1674).

See'st thou how gaily my young master goes, Vaunting himself upon his rising toes; And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side; And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide? 'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day? In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey. Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Keeps he for every straggling cavalier; An open house, haunted with great resort; Long service mixt with musical disport. Many fair younker with a feathered crest, Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest, To fare so freely with so little cost, Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say He touched no meat of all this livelong day; For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, His eyes seemed sunk for very hollowness, But could he have—as I did it mistake— So little in his purse, so much upon his back? So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt. See'st thou how side[163] it hangs beneath his hip? Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, All trapped in the new-found bravery. The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent, In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain, His grandame could have lent with lesser pain? Though he perhaps ne'er passed the English shore, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, One lock[164] Amazon-like dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard, both lip and chin; His linen collar labyrinthian set, Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, As if he meant to fly with linen wings. But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, What monster meets mine eyes in human show? So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, Did never sober nature sure conjoin. Lik'st a strawn scarecrow in a new-sown field, Reared on some stick, the tender corn to shield, Or, if that semblance suit not every deal, Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. Despised nature suit them once aright, Their body to their coat both now disdight. Their body to their clothes might shapen be, That will their clothes shape to their bodie. Meanwhile I wonder at so proud a back, Whiles the empty guts loud rumblen for long lack.

[Footnote 163: long.]

[Footnote 164: the love-locks which were so condemned by the Puritan Prynne. Cf. Lyly's Midas and Sir John Davies' Epigram 22, In Ciprum.]



GEORGE CHAPMAN.

(1559-1634.)

X. AN INVECTIVE WRITTEN BY MR. GEORGE CHAPMAN AGAINST MR. BEN JONSON.

This satire was discovered in a "Common-place Book" belonging to Chapman, preserved among the Ashmole MSS. in the Bodleian Library, Oxford.

Great, learned, witty Ben, be pleased to light The world with that three-forked fire; nor fright All us, thy sublearned, with luciferous boast That thou art most great, most learn'd, witty most Of all the kingdom, nay of all the earth; As being a thing betwixt a human birth And an infernal; no humanity Of the divine soul shewing man in thee.

* * * * *

Though thy play genius hang his broken wings Full of sick feathers, and with forced things, Imp thy scenes, labour'd and unnatural, And nothing good comes with thy thrice-vex'd call, Comest thou not yet, nor yet? O no, nor yet; Yet are thy learn'd admirers so deep set In thy preferment above all that cite The sun in challenge for the heat and light Of heaven's influences which of you two knew And have most power in them; Great Ben, 'tis you. Examine him, some truly-judging spirit, That pride nor fortune hath to blind his merit, He match'd with all book-fires, he ever read His dusk poor candle-rents; his own fat head With all the learn'd world's, Alexander's flame That Caesar's conquest cow'd, and stript his fame, He shames not to give reckoning in with his; As if the king pardoning his petulancies Should pay his huge loss too in such a score As all earth's learned fires he gather'd for. What think'st thou, just friend? equall'd not this pride All yet that ever Hell or Heaven defied? And yet for all this, this club will inflict His faultful pain, and him enough convict He only reading show'd; learning, nor wit; Only Dame Gilian's fire his desk will fit. But for his shift by fire to save the loss Of his vast learning, this may prove it gross: True Muses ever vent breaths mixt with fire Which, form'd in numbers, they in flames expire Not only flames kindled with their own bless'd breath That gave th' unborn life, and eternize death. Great Ben, I know that this is in thy hand And how thou fix'd in heaven's fix'd star dost stand In all men's admirations and command; For all that can be scribbled 'gainst the sorter Of thy dead repercussions and reporter. The kingdom yields not such another man; Wonder of men he is; the player can And bookseller prove true, if they could know Only one drop, that drives in such a flow. Are they not learned beasts, the better far Their drossy exhalations a star Their brainless admirations may render; For learning in the wise sort is but lender Of men's prime notion's doctrine; their own way Of all skills' perceptible forms a key Forging to wealth, and honour-soothed sense, Never exploring truth or consequence, Informing any virtue or good life; And therefore Player, Bookseller, or Wife Of either, (needing no such curious key) All men and things, may know their own rude way. Imagination and our appetite Forming our speech no easier than they light All letterless companions; t' all they know Here or hereafter that like earth's sons plough All under-worlds and ever downwards grow, Nor let your learning think, egregious Ben, These letterless companions are not men With all the arts and sciences indued, If of man's true and worthiest knowledge rude, Which is to know and be one complete man, And that not all the swelling ocean Of arts and sciences, can pour both in: If that brave skill then when thou didst begin To study letters, thy great wit had plied, Freely and only thy disease of pride In vulgar praise had never bound thy [hide].



JOHN DONNE.

(1573-1631.)

XI. THE CHARACTER OF THE BORE.

From Donne's Satires, No. IV.; first published in the quarto edition of the "Poems" in 1633. See Dr. Grosart's interesting Essay on the Life and Writings of Donne, prefixed to Vol. II. of that scholar's excellent edition.

Well; I may now receive and die. My sin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in A purgatory, such as fear'd hell is A recreation, and scant map of this. My mind neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been Poison'd with love to see or to be seen. I had no suit there, nor new suit to shew, Yet went to court: but as Glare, which did go To mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse The hundred marks, which is the statute's curse, Before he 'scap'd; so't pleas'd my Destiny (Guilty of my sin of going) to think me As prone to all ill, and of good as forget- Ful, as proud, lustful, and as much in debt, As vain, as witless, and as false as they Which dwell in court, for once going that way, Therefore I suffer'd this: Towards me did run A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came; A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name: Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies, Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities; Stranger than strangers; one who for a Dane In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain, If he had liv'd then, and without help dies When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise; One whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by; One t' whom th' examining justice sure would cry, Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are. His clothes were strange, though coarse, and black, though bare; Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen) Become tufftaffaty; and our children shall See it plain rash a while, then nought at all. The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, speaks all tongues, And only knoweth what t' all states belongs. Made of th' accents and best phrase of all these, He speaks one language. If strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste; But pedant's motley tongue, soldier's bombast, Mountebank's drug-tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong enough preparatives to draw Me to hear this, yet I must be content With his tongue, in his tongue call'd Compliment; In which he can win widows, and pay scores, Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores, Outflatter favourites, or outlie either Jovius or Surius, or both together. He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God! How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod, This fellow, chooseth me? He saith, Sir, I love your judgment; whom do you prefer For the best linguist? and I sillily Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary. Nay, but of men? Most sweet Sir! Beza, then Some Jesuits, and two reverend men Of our two academies, I nam'd. Here He stopt me, and said; Nay, your apostles were Good pretty linguists; so Panurgus was, Yet a poor gentleman; all these may pass By travel. Then, as if he would have sold His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told, That I was fain to say, If you had liv'd, Sir, Time enough to have been interpreter To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood. He adds, If of court-life you knew the good, You would leave loneness. I said, Not alone My loneness is, but Spartan's fashion, To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste; No more can princes' courts, though there be few Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue. He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string, squeakt, O, Sir! 'Tis sweet to talk of kings! At Westminster, Said I, the man that keeps the Abbey-tombs, And for his price doth, with who ever comes, Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk, From king to king, and all their kin can walk: Your ears shall hear naught but kings; your eyes meet Kings only; the way to it is King's street. He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanic coarse; So're all our Englishmen in their discourse. Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, eyes you see, I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me. Certes, they're neatly cloth'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your grogaram. Not so, Sir; I have more. Under this pitch He would not fly. I chaf'd him; but as itch Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground Into an edge, hurts worse; so I (fool!) found Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness, He to another key his style doth dress, And asks, What news? I tell him of new plays: He takes my hand, and, as a still which stays A semibrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly As loth to enrich me, so tells many a lie, More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows, Of trivial household trash he knows. He knows When the queen frown'd or smil'd; and he knows what A subtile statesman may gather of that: He knows who loves whom, and who by poison Hastes to an office's reversion; He knows who hath sold his land, and now doth beg A license old iron, boots, shoes, and egg- Shells to transport. Shortly boys shall not play At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall play Toll to some courtier; and, wiser than us all, He knows what lady is not painted. Thus He with home-meats cloys me. I belch, spue, spit, Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet He thrusts on more; and as he had undertook To say Gallo-Belgicus without book, Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens. Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat, Ready to travail, so I sigh and sweat To hear this makaron[165] talk in vain; for yet, Either my humour or his own to fit, He, like a privileg'd spy, whom nothing can Discredit, libels now 'gainst each great man: He names a price for every office paid: He saith, Our wars thrive ill, because delay'd; That offices are entail'd, and that there are Perpetuities of them lasting as far As the last day; and that great officers Do with the pirates share and Dunkirkers. Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes; Who loves whores, who boys, and who goats. I, more amaz'd than Circe's prisoners, when They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then Becoming traitor, and methought I saw One of our giant statues ope his jaw To suck me in for hearing him: I found That as burnt venomous leachers do grow sound By giving others their sores, I might grow Guilty, and be free; therefore I did show All signs of loathing; but since I am in, I must pay mine and my forefathers' sin To the last farthing: therefore to my power Toughly and stubbornly I bear this cross; but th' hour Of mercy now was come: he tries to bring Me to pay a fine to 'scape his torturing, And says, Sir, can you spare me? I said, Willingly. Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crown? Thankfully I Gave it as ransom. But as fiddlers still, Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will Thrust one more jigg upon you; so did he With his long complimented thanks vex me. But he is gone, thanks to his needy want, And the prerogative of my crown. Scant His thanks were ended when I (which did see All the court fill'd with such strange things as he) Ran from thence with such or more haste than one Who fears more actions doth haste from prison. At home in wholesome solitariness My piteous soul began the wretchedness Of suitors at court to mourn, and a trance Like his who dreamt he saw hell did advance Itself o'er me: such men as he saw there I saw at court, and worse, and more. Low fear Becomes the guilty, not th' accuser; then Shall I, none's slave, of high born or rais'd men Fear frowns, and my mistress, Truth! betray thee To th' huffing braggart, puft nobility? No, no; thou which since yesterday hast been Almost about the whole world, hast thou seen, O Sun! in all thy journey vanity Such as swells the bladder of our court? I Think he which made your waxen garden, and Transported it from Italy, to stand With us at London, flouts our courtiers; for Just such gay painted things, which no sap nor Taste have in them, ours are!

[Footnote 165: fop, early form of macaroni.]



BEN JONSON.

(1573-1637.)

These two pieces are taken from Jonson's Epigrams. The first of them was exceedingly popular in the poet's own lifetime.

XII. THE NEW CRY.

Ere cherries ripe, and strawberries be gone; Unto the cries of London I'll add one; Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in ev'ry street; At six-and-twenty, ripe. You shall 'em meet, And have him yield no favour, but of state. Ripe are their ruffs, their cuffs, their beards, their gate, And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces. They know the states of Christendom, not the places: Yet have they seen the maps, and bought 'em too, And understand 'em, as most chapmen do. The counsels, projects, practices they know, And what each prince doth for intelligence owe, And unto whom; they are the almanacks For twelve years yet to come, what each state lacks. They carry in their pockets Tacitus, And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus: And talk reserv'd, lock'd up, and full of fear; Nay, ask you how the day goes, in your ear. Keep a Star-chamber sentence close twelve days: And whisper what a Proclamation says. They meet in sixes, and at ev'ry mart, Are sure to con the catalogue by heart; Or ev'ry day, some one at Rimee's looks, Or bills, and there he buys the name of books. They all get Porta, for the sundry ways To write in cypher, and the several keys, To ope the character. They've found the slight With juice of lemons, onions, piss, to write; To break up seals and close 'em. And they know, If the states make peace, how it will go With England. All forbidden books they get, And of the powder-plot, they will talk yet. At naming the French king, their heads they shake, And at the Pope, and Spain, slight faces make. Or 'gainst the bishops, for the brethren rail Much like those brethren; thinking to prevail With ignorance on us, as they have done On them: and therefore do not only shun Others more modest, but contemn us too, That know not so much state, wrong, as they do.



XIII. ON DON SURLY.

Don Surly to aspire the glorious name Of a great man, and to be thought the same, Makes serious use of all great trade he knows. He speaks to men with a rhinocerote's nose, Which he thinks great; and so reads verses too: And that is done, as he saw great men do. He has tympanies of business, in his face, And can forget men's names, with a great grace. He will both argue, and discourse in oaths, Both which are great. And laugh at ill-made clothes; That's greater yet: to cry his own up neat. He doth, at meals, alone his pheasant eat, Which is main greatness. And, at his still board, He drinks to no man: that's, too, like a lord. He keeps another's wife, which is a spice Of solemn greatness. And he dares, at dice, Blaspheme God greatly. Or some poor hind beat, That breathes in his dog's way: and this is great. Nay more, for greatness' sake, he will be one May hear my epigrams, but like of none. Surly, use other arts, these only can Style thee a most great fool, but no great man.



SAMUEL BUTLER.

(1612-1680.)

XIV. THE CHARACTER OF HUDIBRAS.

This extract is taken from the first canto of Hudibras, and contains the complete portrait of the Knight, Butler's aim in the presentation of this character being to satirize those fanatics and pretenders to religion who flourished during the Commonwealth.

When civil dudgeon first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why; When hard words, jealousies and fears, Set folks together by the ears, And made them fight like mad or drunk, For Dame Religion as for punk: Whose honesty they all durst swear for, Though not a man of them knew wherefore: When gospel-trumpeter surrounded With long-ear'd rout to battle sounded, And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick: Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rode a-colonelling, A wight he was, whose very sight wou'd Intitle him, Mirrour of Knighthood; That never bow'd his stubborn knee To any thing but chivalry; Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right Worshipful on shoulder-blade: Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for chartel or for warrant: Great in the bench, great in the saddle, That could as well bind o'er as swaddle: Mighty he was at both of these, And styl'd of war, as well as peace, (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water). But here our authors make a doubt, Whether he were more wise or stout. Some hold the one, and some the other: But howsoe'er they make a pother, The diff'rence was so small his brain Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain; Which made some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, call'd a fool. For 't has been held by many, that As Montaigne, playing with his cat, Complains she thought him but an ass, Much more she would Sir Hudibras, (For that the name our valiant Knight To all his challenges did write) But they're mistaken very much, 'Tis plain enough he was no such. We grant although he had much wit, H' was very shy of using it; As being loth to wear it out, And therefore bore it not about Unless on holidays, or so, As men their best apparel do. Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak: That Latin was no more difficile, Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle. B'ing rich in both, he never scanted His bounty unto such as wanted; But much of either would afford To many that had not one word. For Hebrew roots, although they're found To flourish most in barren ground, He had such plenty as suffic'd To make some think him circumcis'd: And truly so he was, perhaps, Not as a proselyte, but for claps, He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic; He could distinguish, and divide A hair 'twixt south and south west side; On either which he could dispute, Confute, change hands, and still confute; He'd undertake to prove by force Of argument, a man's no horse; He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee-men and trustees, He'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination: All this by syllogism, true In mood and figure, he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope; And when he happened to break off I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, H' had hard words, ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by: Else when with greatest art he spoke, You'd think he talk'd like other folk, For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. But, when he pleas'd to show't his speech In loftiness of sound was rich; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect: It was a party-coloured dress Of patch'd and pye-ball'd languages; 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin. It had an odd promiscuous tone, As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; Which made some think when he did gabble, Th' had heard three labourers of Babel; Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. This he as volubly would vent As if his stock would ne'er be spent; And truly, to support that charge, He had supplies as vast as large: For he could coin or counterfeit New words with little or no wit: Words so debas'd and hard, no stone Was hard enough to touch them on: And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, The ignorant for current took 'em, That had the orator who once Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones When he harangu'd but known his phrase, He would have us'd no other ways. In mathematics he was greater Then Tycho Brahe, or Erra Pater: For he, by geometric scale, Could take the size of pots of ale; Resolve by sines and tangents, straight, If bread and butter wanted weight; And wisely tell what hour o' th' day The clock does strike by algebra. Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, And had read ev'ry text and gloss over; Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, He understood b' implicit faith: Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For every why he had a wherefore, Knew more than forty of them do, As far as words and terms could go. All which he understood by rote, And as occasion serv'd, would quote: No matter whether right or wrong, They must be either said or sung. His notions fitted things so well, That which was which he could not tell; But oftentimes mistook the one For th' other, as great clerks have done. He cou'd reduce all things to acts, And knew their natures by abstracts; Where entity and quiddity, The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly; Where Truth in persons does appear, Like words congeal'd in northern air. He knew what's what, and that's as high As metaphysic wit can fly. In school divinity as able, As he that hight, Irrefragable; A second Thomas, or at once To name them all, another Duns: Profound in all the Nominal And Real ways beyond them all; For he a rope of sand could twist As tough as learned Sorbonist: And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scull; That's empty when the moon is full: Such as lodgings in a head That's to be let unfurnished. He could raise scruples dark and nice, And after solve 'em in a trice, As if divinity had catch'd The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd; Or, like a mountebank, did wound And stab herself with doubts profound, Only to show with how small pain The sores of faith are cur'd again; Although by woful proof we find, They always leave a scar behind. He knew the seat of paradise, Cou'd tell in what degree it lies; And, as he was dispos'd could prove it, Below the moon, or else above it. What Adam dream'd of when his bride Came from her closet in his side; Whether the devil tempted her By a High-Dutch interpreter; If either of them had a navel; Who first made music malleable; Whether the serpent, at the fall, Had cloven feet, or none at all; All this without a gloss or comment, He could unriddle in a moment, In proper terms such as men smatter, When they throw out and miss the matter. For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit; 'Twas Presbyterian true blue, For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant: Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done: As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended. A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies: In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick That with more care keep holiday The wrong, than others the right way: Compound for sins they are inclin'd to, By damning those they have no mind to. Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipp'd God for spite. The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for. Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow.



XV. THE CHARACTER OF A SMALL POET.

From Butler's "Characters", a series of satirical portraits akin to those of Theophrastus.

The Small Poet is one that would fain make himself that which nature never meant him; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. He sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very small stock and no credit. He believes it is invention enough to find out other men's wit; and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his own. This he puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit as the rickets, by the swelling disproportion of the joints. You may know his wit not to be natural, 'tis so unquiet and troublesome in him: for as those that have money but seldom, are always shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he, when he thinks he has got something that will make him appear witty. He is a perpetual talker; and you may know by the freedom of his discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery; so sure is he to cry down the man from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass unsuspected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, as if they were but disparagements of his own; and cries down all they do, as if they were encroachments upon him. He takes jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do false weights, and pots that want measure. When he meets with anything that is very good, he changes it into small money, like three groats for a shilling, to serve several occasions. He disclaims study, pretends to take things in motion, and to shoot flying, which appears to be very true, by his often missing of his mark. As for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the sense. Such matches are unlawful and not fit to be made by a Christian poet; and therefore all his care is to choose out such as will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that wants a foot or two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into the bargain, or run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. For similitudes, he likes the hardest and most obscure best; for as ladies wear black patches to make their complexions seem fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than the sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear clearer than it did; for contraries are best set off with contraries. He has found out a new sort of poetical Georgics—a trick of sowing wit like clover-grass on barren subjects, which would yield nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some men say, there is no room left for new invention. He will take three grains of wit like the elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron age, turn it immediately into gold. All the business of mankind has presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday; there has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphs and shepherdesses: trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed plum-porridge. When he writes, he commonly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art in the world so rich in terms as poetry; a whole dictionary is scarce able to contain them; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep-walk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as dryades, hamadryades, aoenides, fauni, nymphae, sylvani, &c. that signify nothing at all; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and "thorough reformations" that can happen between this and Plato's great year.



ANDREW MARVELL.

(1621-1678.)

XVI. NOSTRADAMUS'S PROPHECY.

From Political Satires and other Pieces. It is curious to note how much of the prophecy was actually fulfilled.

For faults and follies London's doom shall fix, And she must sink in flames in "sixty-six"; Fire-balls shall fly, but few shall see the train, As far as from Whitehall to Pudding-Lane; To burn the city, which again shall rise, Beyond all hopes aspiring to the skies, Where vengeance dwells. But there is one thing more (Tho' its walls stand) shall bring the city low'r; When legislators shall their trust betray, Saving their own, shall give the rest away; And those false men by th' easy people sent, Give taxes to the King by Parliament; When barefaced villains shall not blush to cheat And chequer doors shall shut up Lombard Street. When players come to act the part of queens, Within the curtains, and behind the scenes: When no man knows in whom to put his trust, And e'en to rob the chequer shall be just, When declarations, lies and every oath Shall be in use at court, but faith and troth. When two good kings shall be at Brentford town, And when in London there shall not be one: When the seat's given to a talking fool, Whom wise men laugh at, and whom women rule; A minister able only in his tongue To make harsh empty speeches two hours long When an old Scots Covenanter shall be The champion for the English hierarchy: When bishops shall lay all religion by, And strive by law to establish tyranny, When a lean treasurer shall in one year Make himself fat, his King and people bare: When the English Prince shall Englishmen despise, And think French only loyal, Irish wise; When wooden shoon shall be the English wear And Magna Charta shall no more appear: Then the English shall a greater tyrant know, Than either Greek or Latin story show: Their wives to 's lust exposed, their wealth to 's spoil, With groans to fill his treasury they toil; But like the Bellides must sigh in vain For that still fill'd flows out as fast again; Then they with envious eyes shall Belgium see, And wish in vain Venetian liberty. The frogs too late grown weary of their pain, Shall pray to Jove to take him back again.



JOHN CLEIVELAND.

(1613-1658.)

XVII. THE SCOTS APOSTASIE.

From Poems and Satires, posthumously published in 1662.

Is't come to this? What shall the cheeks of fame Stretch'd with the breath of learned Loudon's name, Be flogg'd again? And that great piece of sense, As rich in loyalty and eloquence, Brought to the test be found a trick of state, Like chemist's tinctures, proved adulterate; The devil sure such language did achieve, To cheat our unforewarned grand-dam Eve, As this imposture found out to be sot The experienced English to believe a Scot, Who reconciled the Covenant's doubtful sense, The Commons argument, or the City's pence? Or did you doubt persistence in one good, Would spoil the fabric of your brotherhood, Projected first in such a forge of sin, Was fit for the grand devil's hammering? Or was't ambition that this damned fact Should tell the world you know the sins you act? The infamy this super-treason brings. Blasts more than murders of your sixty kings; A crime so black, as being advisedly done, Those hold with these no competition. Kings only suffered then; in this doth lie The assassination of monarchy, Beyond this sin no one step can be trod. If not to attempt deposing of your God. O, were you so engaged, that we might see Heav'ns angry lightning 'bout your ears to flee, Till you were shrivell'd to dust, and your cold land Parch't to a drought beyond the Libyan sand! But 'tis reserv'd till Heaven plague you worse; The objects of an epidemic curse, First, may your brethren, to whose viler ends Your power hath bawded, cease to be your friends; And prompted by the dictate of their reason; And may their jealousies increase and breed Till they confine your steps beyond the Tweed. In foreign nations may your loathed name be A stigmatizing brand of infamy; Till forced by general hate you cease to roam The world, and for a plague live at home: Till you resume your poverty, and be Reduced to beg where none can be so free To grant: and may your scabby land be all Translated to a generall hospital. Let not the sun afford one gentle ray, To give you comfort of a summer's day; But, as a guerdon for your traitorous war, Love cherished only by the northern star. No stranger deign to visit your rude coast, And be, to all but banisht men, as lost. And such in heightening of the indiction due Let provok'd princes send them all to you. Your State a chaos be, where not the law, But power, your lives and liberties may give. No subject 'mongst you keep a quiet breast But each man strive through blood to be the best; Till, for those miseries on us you've brought By your own sword our just revenge be wrought. To sum up all ... let your religion be As your allegiance—maskt hypocrisie Until when Charles shall be composed in dust Perfum'd with epithets of good and just. He saved—incensed Heaven may have forgot— To afford one act of mercy to a Scot: Unless that Scot deny himself and do What's easier far—Renounce his nation too.



JOHN DRYDEN.

(1631-1700.)

XVIII. SATIRE ON THE DUTCH.

Originally printed in broadside form, being written in the year 1662. It was bitterly resented by the Dutch.

As needy gallants, in the scriv'ner's hands, Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd lands; The first fat buck of all the season'd sent, And keeper takes no fee in compliment; The dotage of some Englishmen is such, To fawn on those, who ruin them, the Dutch. They shall have all, rather than make a war With those, who of the same religion are. The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too; Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. Some are resolv'd, not to find out the cheat, But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat. What injuries soe'er upon us fall, Yet still the same religion answers all. Religion wheedl'd us to civil war, Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now wou'd spare. Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true, They have no more religion, faith! than you. Int'rest's the God they worship in their state, And we, I take it, have not much of that. Well monarchies may own religion's name, But states are atheists in their very frame. They share a sin; and such proportions fall, That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. Think on their rapine, falsehood, cruelty, And that what once they were, they still wou'd be. To one well-born th' affront is worse and more, When he's abus'd and baffl'd by a boor. With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do; They've both ill nature and ill manners too. Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation; For they were bred ere manners were in fashion: And their new commonwealth has set them free Only from honour and civility. Venetians do not more uncouthly ride, Than did their lubber state mankind bestride. Their sway became 'em with as ill a mien, As their own paunches swell above their chin. Yet is their empire no true growth but humour, And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour. As Cato did in Africk fruits display; Let us before our eyes their Indies lay: All loyal English will like him conclude; Let Caesar live, and Carthage be subdu'd.



XIX. MACFLECKNOE.

This satire was written in reply to a savage poem by the dramatist, Thomas Shadwell, entitled "The Medal of John Dayes". Dryden and Shadwell had been friends, but the enmity begotten of political opposition had separated them. Flecknoe, who gives the name to this poem, and of whom Shadwell is treated as the son and heir, was a dull poet who had always laid himself open to ridicule. It is not known (says W.D. Christie in the Globe Dryden) whether he had ever given Dryden offence, but it is certain that his "Epigrams", published in 1670, contain some lines addressed to Dryden of a complimentary character.

All human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey; This Flecknoe 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 Nonsense, 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 only rule, who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years: Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he, Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabrick fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. Heywood and Shirley 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, coarsely 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 didst 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 fail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore, The trebles squeak with fear, the basses roar: Echoes from Pissing-Alley Shadwell call, And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall. About thy boat the little fishes throng As at the morning toast, 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 ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rime: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology, they fell, 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 sire, and wept for joy, In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, 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 fabric, rais'd t' inform the sight 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 heroes 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 Jonson dares in socks appear; But gentle Simkin just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: Poor 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 Shadwell's throne. For ancient Dekker prophesy'd long since, That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail 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 publish'd the renown Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, 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, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way. Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd, And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labours rear'd. 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 play'd around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Swore by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dulness would maintain; And, in his father's right, and realm's 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 loins recorded Psyche sprung. His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head. Just at the point of time, if Fame not lie, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take. The sire then shook the honours of his head, And from his brows damps of oblivion shed Full on the filial dulness: Long he stood, Repelling from his breast the raging god: At length burst out in this prophetic mood. "Heav'ns! 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 Love's 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 Virtuosos in five years be writ; Yet not one thought accuse thy toil 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 show the writer's wit. Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, And justify their authors' 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 diff'ring but in name. But let no alien Sedley interpose, To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. And when false flowers of rhetorick 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 Jonson's hostile name. Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. Thou art my blood, where Jonson 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-stitch, kiss my arse, Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce? When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine? But so transfus'd, as oil and 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 bias of thy mind, By which, one way, to dulness 'tis inclin'd: 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 tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. With whate'er gall thou set'st thyself to write, Thy inoffensive satires never bite. In thy felonious heart though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land, There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. Or if thou would'st thy different 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 the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.



XX. EPISTLE TO THE WHIGS.

This excellent specimen of Dryden's prose satire was prefixed to his satiric poem "The Medal", published in March, 1682. It was inspired by the striking of a medal to commemorate the rejection by the London Grand Jury, on November 24, 1681, of a Bill of High Treason presented against Lord Shaftesbury. This event had been a great victory for the Whigs and a discomfiture for the Court.

For to whom can I dedicate this poem, with so much justice, as to you? 'Tis the representation of your own hero: 'Tis the picture drawn at length, which you admire and prize so much in little. None of your ornaments are wanting; neither the landscape of the tower, nor the rising sun; nor the Anno Domini of your new sovereign's coronation. This must needs be a grateful undertaking to your whole party; especially to those who have not been so happy as to purchase the original. I hear the graver has made a good market of it: all his Kings are bought up already; or the value of the remainder so enhanced, that many a poor Polander, who would be glad to worship the image, is not able to go to the cost of him; but must be content to see him here. I must confess, I am no great artist; but sign-post-painting will serve the turn to remember a friend by, especially when better is not to be had. Yet, for your comfort, the lineaments are true: and though he sat not five times to me, as he did to B. yet I have consulted history; as the Italian painters do, when they would draw a Nero or a Caligula; though they have not seen the man, they can help their imagination by a statue of him, and find out the colouring from Suetonius and Tacitus. Truth is, you might have spared one side of your medal: the head would be seen to more advantage, if it were placed on a spike of the tower; a little nearer to the sun; which would then break out to better purpose. You tell us, in your preface to the No-Protestant Plot, that you shall be forced hereafter to leave off your modesty. I suppose you mean that little, which is left you: for it was worn to rags when you put out this medal. Never was there practised such a piece of notorious impudence in the face of an established Government. I believe, when he is dead, you will wear him in thumb-rings, as the Turks did Scanderbeg; as if there were virtue in his bones to preserve you against monarchy. Yet all this while, you pretend not only zeal for the public good, but a due veneration for the person of the king. But all men, who can see an inch before them, may easily detect those gross fallacies. That it is necessary for men in your circumstances to pretend both, is granted you; for without them there could be no ground to raise a faction. But I would ask you one civil question: What right has any man among you, or any association of men (to come nearer to you) who, out of Parliament cannot be consider'd in a public capacity, to meet, as you daily do, in factious clubs, to vilify the Government in your discourses, and to libel it in all your writings? Who made you judges in Israel? Or how is it consistent with your zeal for the public welfare, to promote sedition? Does your definition of loyal, which is to serve the King according to the laws, allow you the licence of traducing the executive power, with which you own he is invested? You complain, that his Majesty has lost the love and confidence of his people; and, by your very urging it, you endeavour, what in you lies, to make him lose them. All good subjects abhor the thought of arbitrary power, whether it be in one or many; if you were the patriots you would seem, you would not at this rate incense the multitude to assume it; for no sober man can fear it, either from the King's disposition or his practice; or even, where you would odiously lay it, from his ministers. Give us leave to enjoy the Government, and the benefit of laws, under which we were born, and which we desire to transmit to our posterity. You are not the trustees of the public liberty; and if you have not right to petition in a crowd, much less have you to intermeddle in the management of affairs, or to arraign what you do not like; which in effect is everything that is done by the King and Council. Can you imagine, that any reasonable man will believe you respect the person of his Majesty, when 'tis apparent that your seditious pamphlets are stuffed with particular reflections on him? If you have the confidence to deny this, 'tis easy to be evinced from a thousand passages, which I only forbear to quote because I desire they should die and be forgotten. I have perused many of your papers; and to show you that I have, the third part of your No-Protestant Plot is much of it stolen from your dead author's pamphlet called the Growth of Popery; as manifestly as Milton's defence of the English people is from Buchanan, de jure regni apud Scotos; or your first covenant, and new association, from the holy league of the French Guisards. Anyone, who reads Davila, may trace your practices all along. There were the same pretences for reformation and loyalty, the same aspersions of the King, and the same grounds of a rebellion. I know not whether you will take the historian's word, who says, it was reported, that Poltrot a Huguenot murder'd Francis Duke of Guise, by the instigations of Theodore Beza; or that it was a Huguenot minister, otherwise called a Presbyterian (for our Church abhors so devilish a tenet) who first writ a treatise of the lawfulness of deposing and murdering Kings, of a different persuasion in religion. But I am able to prove from the doctrine of Calvin, and principles of Buchanan, that they set the people above the magistrate; which, if I mistake not, is your own fundamental; and which carries your loyalty no farther than your liking. When a vote of the House of Commons goes on your side, you are as ready to observe it, as if it were passed into a law: but when you are pinch'd with any former, and yet unrepealed, Act of Parliament, you declare that in some cases you will not be obliged by it. The passage is in the same third part of the No-Protestant Plot; and is too plain to be denied. The late copy of your intended association you neither wholly justify nor condemn: but as the Papists, when they are unoppos'd, fly out into all the pageantries of worship, but, in times of war, when they are hard pressed by arguments, lie close intrenched behind the Council of Trent; so, now, when your affairs are in a low condition, you dare not pretend that to be a legal combination; but whensover you are afloat, I doubt not but it will be maintained and justified to purpose. For indeed there is nothing to defend it but the sword: 'Tis the proper time to say anything, when men have all things in their power.

In the meantime, you would fain be nibbling at a parallel betwixt this association, and that in the time of Queen Elizabeth. But there is this small difference betwixt them, that the ends of the one are directly opposite to the other: one with the Queen's approbation and conjunction, as head of it; the other, without either the consent or knowledge of the King, against whose authority it is manifestly design'd. Therefore you do well to have recourse to your last evasion, that it was contriv'd by your enemies, and shuffled into the papers that were seized; which yet you see the nation is not so easy to believe, as your own jury. But the matter is not difficult, to find twelve men in Newgate, who would acquit a malefactor.

I have one only favour to desire of you at parting; that, when you think of answering this poem, you would employ the same pens against it, who have combated with so much success against Absalom and Achitophel: for then you may assure yourselves of a clear victory, without the least reply. Rail at me abundantly; and, not to break a custom, do it without wit. By this method you will gain a considerable point, which is, wholly to waive the answer of my argument. Never own the bottom of your principles, for fear they should be treason. Fall severely on the miscarriages of Government; for if scandal be not allowed, you are no free-born subjects. If GOD has not blessed you with the talent of rhyming, make use of my poor stock and welcome; let your verses run upon my feet: and for the utmost refuge of notorious blockheads, reduced to the last extremity of sense, turn my own lines upon me, and, in utter despair of your own satire, make me satirize myself. Some of you have been driven to this bay already; but above all the rest, commend me to the Non-conformist parson, who writ The Whip and Key. I am afraid it is not read so much as the piece deserves, because the bookseller is every week crying Help, at the end of his Gazette, to get it off. You see I am charitable enough to do him a kindness, that it may be published as well as printed; and that so much skill in Hebrew derivations may not lie for waste-paper in the shop. Yet I half suspect he went no farther for his learning, than the index of Hebrew names and etymologies, which is printed at the end of some English bibles. If Achitophel signify the brother of a fool, the author of that poem will pass with his readers for the next of kin. And, perhaps, 'tis the relation that makes the kindness. Whatever the verses are, buy them up, I beseech you, out of pity; for I hear the conventicle is shut up, and the brother of Achitophel out of service.

Now footmen, you know, have the generosity to make a purse, for a member of their society, who has had his livery pulled over his ears: and even Protestant flocks are brought up among you, out of veneration to the name. A dissenter in poetry from sense and English, will make as good a Protestant rhymer, as a dissenter from the Church of England a Protestant parson. Besides, if you encourage a young beginner, who knows but he may elevate his style a little, above the vulgar epithets of profane and saucy Jack, and atheistic scribbler, with which he treats me, when the fit of enthusiasm is strong upon him? By which well-manner'd and charitable expressions, I was certain of his sect, before I knew his name. What would you have more of a man? He has damned me in your cause from Genesis to the Revelations; and has half the texts of both the Testaments against me, if you will be so civil to yourselves as to take him for your interpreter, and not to take them for Irish witnesses. After all, perhaps, you will tell me, that you retained him only for the opening of your cause, and that your main lawyer is yet behind. Now, if it so happen he meet with no more reply than his predecessors, you may either conclude, that I trust to the goodness of my cause, or fear my adversary, or disdain him, or what you please; for the short on it is, it is indifferent to your humble servant, whatever your party says or thinks of him.



DANIEL DEFOE.

(1661-1734)

XXI. INTRODUCTION TO THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN.

"The True-born Englishman" was a metrical satire designed to defend the king, William III., against the attacks made upon him over the admission of foreigners into public offices and posts of responsibility.

Speak, satire; for there's none can tell like thee Whether 'tis folly, pride, or knavery That makes this discontented land appear Less happy now in times of peace than war? Why civil feuds disturb the nation more Than all our bloody wars have done before? Fools out of favour grudge at knaves in place, And men are always honest in disgrace; The court preferments make men knaves in course, But they which would be in them would be worse. 'Tis not at foreigners that we repine, Would foreigners their perquisites resign: The grand contention's plainly to be seen, To get some men put out, and some put in. For this our senators make long harangues, And florid members whet their polished tongues. Statesmen are always sick of one disease, And a good pension gives them present ease: That's the specific makes them all content With any king and any government. Good patriots at court abuses rail, And all the nation's grievances bewail; But when the sovereign's balsam's once applied, The zealot never fails to change his side; And when he must the golden key resign, The railing spirit comes about again. Who shall this bubbled nation disabuse, While they their own felicities refuse, Who the wars have made such mighty pother, And now are falling out with one another: With needless fears the jealous nation fill, And always have been saved against their will: Who fifty millions sterling have disbursed, To be with peace and too much plenty cursed: Who their old monarch eagerly undo, And yet uneasily obey the new? Search, satire, search; a deep incision make; The poison's strong, the antidote's too weak. 'Tis pointed truth must manage this dispute, And downright English, Englishmen confute. Whet thy just anger at the nation's pride, And with keen phrase repel the vicious tide; To Englishmen their own beginnings show, And ask them why they slight their neighbours so. Go back to elder times and ages past, And nations into long oblivion cast; To old Britannia's youthful days retire, And there for true-born Englishmen inquire. Britannia freely will disown the name, And hardly knows herself from whence they came: Wonders that they of all men should pretend To birth and blood, and for a name contend. Go back to causes where our follies dwell, And fetch the dark original from hell: Speak, satire, for there's none like thee can tell.



THE EARL OF DORSET.

(1637-1705.)

XXII. SATIRE ON A CONCEITED PLAYWRIGHT.

The person against whom this attack was directed was Edward Howard, author of The British Princess.

Thou damn'd antipodes to common-sense, Thou foil to Flecknoe, pr'ythee tell from whence Does all this mighty stock of dulness spring? Is it thy own, or hast it from Snow-hill, Assisted by some ballad-making quill? No, they fly higher yet, thy plays are such, I'd swear they were translated out of Dutch. Fain would I know what diet thou dost keep, If thou dost always, or dost never sleep? Sure hasty-pudding is thy chiefest dish, With bullock's liver, or some stinking fish: Garbage, ox-cheeks, and tripes, do feast thy brain, Which nobly pays this tribute back again. With daisy-roots thy dwarfish Muse is fed, A giant's body with a pigmy's head. Canst thou not find, among thy numerous race Of kindred, one to tell thee that thy plays Are laught at by the pit, box, galleries, nay, stage? Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find Thy body made for labour, not thy mind. No other use of paper thou shouldst make Than carrying loads and reams upon thy back. Carry vast burdens till thy shoulders shrink, But curst be he that gives thee pen and ink: Such dangerous weapons should be kept from fools, As nurses from their children keep edg'd tools: For thy dull fancy a muckinder is fit To wipe the slobberings of thy snotty wit: And though 'tis late, if justice could be found, Thy plays like blind-born puppies should be drown'd. For were it not that we respect afford Unto the son of an heroic lord, Thine in the ducking-stool should take her seat, Drest like herself in a great chair of state; Where like a Muse of quality she'd die, And thou thyself shalt make her elegy, In the same strain thou writ'st thy comedy.



JOHN ARBUTHNOT.

(1667-1735.)

XXIII. PREFACE TO JOHN BULL AND HIS LAW-SUIT.

First published as a political pamphlet, this piece had an extraordinary run of popularity. It was originally issued in four parts, but these afterwards were reduced to two, without any omission, however, of matter. They appeared during the years 1712-13, and the satire was finally published in book form in 1714. The author was the intimate friend of Swift, Pope, and Gay. The volume was exceedingly popular in Tory circles. The examples I have selected are "The Preface" and also the opening chapters of the history, which I have made to run on without breaking them up into the short divisions of the text.

When I was first called to the office of historiographer to John Bull, he expressed himself to this purpose: "Sir Humphrey Polesworth[166], I know you are a plain dealer; it is for that reason I have chosen you for this important trust; speak the truth and spare not". That I might fulfil those his honourable intentions, I obtained leave to repair to, and attend him in his most secret retirements; and I put the journals of all transactions into a strong box, to be opened at a fitting occasion, after the manner of the historiographers of some eastern monarchs: this I thought was the safest way; though I declare I was never afraid to be chopped[167] by my master for telling of truth. It is from those journals that my memoirs are compiled: therefore let not posterity a thousand years hence look for truth in the voluminous annals of pedants, who are entirely ignorant of the secret springs of great actions; if they do, let me tell them they will be nebused.[168]

With incredible pains have I endeavoured to copy the several beauties of the ancient and modern historians; the impartial temper of Herodotus, the gravity, austerity, and strict morals of Thucydides, the extensive knowledge of Xenophon, the sublimity and grandeur of Titus Livius; and to avoid the careless style of Polybius, I have borrowed considerable ornaments from Dionysius Halicarnasseus, and Diodorus Siculus. The specious gilding of Tacitus I have endeavoured to shun. Mariana, Davila, and Fra. Paulo, are those amongst the moderns whom I thought most worthy of imitation; but I cannot be so disingenuous, as not to own the infinite obligations I have to the Pilgrim's Progress of John Bunyan, and the Tenter Belly of the Reverend Joseph Hall.

From such encouragement and helps, it is easy to guess to what a degree of perfection I might have brought this great work, had it not been nipped in the bud by some illiterate people in both Houses of Parliament, who envying the great figure I was to make in future ages, under pretence of raising money for the war,[169] have padlocked all those very pens that were to celebrate the actions of their heroes, by silencing at once the whole university of Grub Street. I am persuaded that nothing but the prospect of an approaching peace could have encouraged them to make so bold a step. But suffer me, in the name of the rest of the matriculates of that famous university, to ask them some plain questions: Do they think that peace will bring along with it the golden age? Will there be never a dying speech of a traitor? Are Cethegus and Catiline turned so tame, that there will be no opportunity to cry about the streets, "A Dangerous Plot"? Will peace bring such plenty that no gentleman will have occasion to go upon the highway, or break into a house? I am sorry that the world should be so much imposed upon by the dreams of a false prophet, as to imagine the Millennium is at hand. O Grub Street! thou fruitful nursery of towering geniuses! How do I lament thy downfall? Thy ruin could never be meditated by any who meant well to English liberty. No modern lyceum will ever equal thy glory: whether in soft pastorals thou didst sing the flames of pampered apprentices and coy cook-maids; or mournful ditties of departing lovers; or if to Maeonian strains thou raisedst thy voice, to record the stratagems, the arduous exploits, and the nocturnal scalade of needy heroes, the terror of your peaceful citizens, describing the powerful Betty or the artful Picklock, or the secret caverns and grottoes of Vulcan sweating at his forge, and stamping the queen's image on viler metals which he retails for beef and pots of ale; or if thou wert content in simple narrative, to relate the cruel acts of implacable revenge, or the complaint of ravished virgins blushing to tell their adventures before the listening crowd of city damsels, whilst in thy faithful history thou intermingledst the gravest counsels and the purest morals. Nor less acute and piercing wert thou in thy search and pompous descriptions of the works of nature; whether in proper and emphatic terms thou didst paint the blazing comet's fiery tail, the stupendous force of dreadful thunder and earthquakes, and the unrelenting inundations. Sometimes, with Machiavelian sagacity, thou unravelledst intrigues of state, and the traitorous conspiracies of rebels, giving wise counsel to monarchs. How didst thou move our terror and our pity with thy passionate scenes between Jack Catch and the heroes of the Old Bailey? How didst thou describe their intrepid march up Holborn Hill? Nor didst thou shine less in thy theological capacity, when thou gavest ghostly counsels to dying felons, and didst record the guilty pangs of Sabbath-breakers. How will the noble arts of John Overton's[170] painting and sculpture now languish? where rich invention, proper expression, correct design, divine attitudes, and artful contrast, heightened with the beauties of clar. obscur., embellished thy celebrated pieces, to the delight and astonishment of the judicious multitude! Adieu, persuasive eloquence! the quaint metaphor, the poignant irony, the proper epithet, and the lively simile, are fled for ever! Instead of these, we shall have, I know not what! The illiterate will tell the rest with pleasure.

I hope the reader will excuse this digression, due by way of condolence to my worthy brethren of Grub Street, for the approaching barbarity that is likely to overspread all its regions by this oppressive and exorbitant tax. It has been my good fortune to receive my education there; and so long as I preserved some figure and rank amongst the learned of that society, I scorned to take my degree either at Utrecht or Leyden, though I was offered it gratis by the professors in those universities.

And now that posterity may not be ignorant in what age so excellent a history was written (which would otherwise, no doubt, be the subject of its inquiries), I think it proper to inform the learned of future times, that it was compiled when Louis XIV. was King of France, and Philip, his grandson, of Spain; when England and Holland, in conjunction with the Emperor and the Allies, entered into a war against these two princes, which lasted ten years under the management of the Duke of Marlborough, and was put to a conclusion by the Treaty of Utrecht, under the ministry of the Earl of Oxford, in the year 1713.

Many at that time did imagine the history of John Bull, and the personages mentioned in it, to be allegorical, which the author would never own. Notwithstanding, to indulge the reader's fancy and curiosity, I have printed at the bottom of the page the supposed allusions of the most obscure parts of the story.

[Footnote 166: A Member of Parliament, eminent for a certain cant in his conversation, of which there is a good deal in this book.]

[Footnote 167: A cant word of Sir Humphrey's.]

[Footnote 168: Another cant word, signifying deceived.]

[Footnote 169: Act restraining the liberty of the press, &c.]

[Footnote 170: The engraver of the cuts before the Grub Street papers.]



XXIV. THE HISTORY OF JOHN BULL.

The Occasion of the Law-suit.

I need not tell you of the great quarrels that have happened in our neighbourhood since the death of the late Lord Strutt[171]; how the parson[172] and a cunning attorney got him to settle his estate upon his cousin Philip Baboon, to the great disappointment of his cousin Esquire South. Some stick not to say that the parson and the attorney forged a will; for which they were well paid by the family of the Baboons. Let that be as it will, it is matter of fact that the honour and estate have continued ever since in the person of Philip Baboon.