Chapter 7

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 damnéd 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--incenséd 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 Cæsar 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.