Part 1

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY

POETA DE TRISTIBUS: OR, THE Poet's Complaint

(1682)

_Introduction and Notes by_

HAROLD LOVE

PUBLICATION NUMBER 149

WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

1971

GENERAL EDITORS

William E. Conway, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_ George Robert Guffey, _University of California, Los Angeles_ Maximillian E. Novak, _University of California, Los Angeles_

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

David S. Rodes, _University of California, Los Angeles_

ADVISORY EDITORS

Richard C. Boys, _University of Michigan_ James L. Clifford, _Columbia University_ Ralph Cohen, _University of Virginia_ Vinton A. Dearing, _University of California, Los Angeles_ Arthur Friedman, _University of Chicago_ Louis A. Landa, _Princeton University_ Earl Miner, _University of California, Los Angeles_ Samuel H. Monk, _University of Minnesota_ Everett T. Moore, _University of California, Los Angeles_ Lawrence Clark Powell, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_ James Sutherland, _University College, London_ H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., _University of California, Los Angeles_ Robert Vosper, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_ Curt A. Zimansky, _State University of Iowa_

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Lilly Kurahashi, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_

INTRODUCTION

_Poeta de Tristibus: or, the Poet's Complaint (PdT)_ was published by two newly established booksellers, Henry Faithorne and John Kersey, early in November 1681 (title-page dated 1682). The poem is only one of a large number of Restoration satires on writers as a group, its nearest neighbors in time being the pseudo-Rochester "A Session of the Poets," the anonymous "Advice to Apollo," Mulgrave's "An Essay upon Satyr," Otway's _The Poet's Complaint_, Robert Gould's "To Julian, Secretary to the Muses," the anonymous "Satire on the Poets," Shadwell's _The Tory Poets_, and Thomas Wood's _Juvenalis Redivivus_. It differs from these in its Hudibrastic meter, the richness of its biographical detail, and a relatively mild degree of animus against its victims, though there is quite a deal against poetry as art and trade.

In the two introductory epistles, we are asked to believe first that the poem is the work of a young writer driven into exile by his poverty and secondly that the manuscript was sent from Dover to a relative on 10 January 1681 in acknowledgment of a piece of gold. It is possible, as will be seen, that this reflects an actual history; however, the matter is complicated by the existence of a second text, published by 12 November 1681 (Luttrell's date on his copy, now at Harvard, and apparently the only one still extant) as _The Poet's Complaint (PC)_ in which the story is presented in a slightly different form and the text of the poem is little more than a third the length of _PdT_. An advertisement placed in Nathaniel Thompson's _Loyal Protestant and True Domestick Intelligence_ on 19 November 1681 claims that the rival version, published by Dan Brown, was printed from a "spurious and very imperfect Copy which contains only the first Part of the said Poem, the three last Parts (which are the most considerable) being wholly left out, excepting some few lines of them foisted in here and there without any Sense or Coherence" and describes the Faithorne and Kersey manuscript as "from the Authors Original Copy in four parts (together with several Additions and Corrections by an Ingenious Person)." In a recent article (_PQ_, XLVII [1968], 547-562) the present editor has argued against this account of the poem's genesis, and has proposed the following hypothetical order of versions. (For the details of the argument the reader is referred to the article.)

(1) An impromptu written as _The Poet's Complaint_ on or about 30 December 1680, for despatch to "a Person of Quality," using materials from a commonplace book dating from circa 1677. This assumption is based on the terminal dates of its collection of quotations from other writers which differs from that of _PdT_, and a disparity between the times of composition alleged in the epistles to the two poems--_PdT_ claiming "less than a fortnight's space" and _PC_ "less than three days space."

(2) An enlarged version of #1 in four cantos completed by 10 January 1681. (The "Authors Original Copy.")

(3) The version of #2 revised and augmented by "The Ingenious Person," who may or may not have been identical with the "Publisher," and printed as _Poeta de Tristibus_.

It would follow that the near-simultaneous publication of versions #1 and #3 in November 1681 was wholly coincidental. My initial assumption that _PC_ represents an early draft rather than a truncated copy of _PdT_ has been reviewed with approval by my colleague David Bradley, using criteria developed during a study of analogous situations among Elizabethan dramatic texts. One of his most valuable observations is that the two versions are thematically distinct, _PC_ being a satire on backbiting, attacking those who abuse poets and poetry, and _PdT_ a more general study of the notion "Wit versus Wealth." It is unfortunately impossible to reproduce his more detailed comments since this would also involve reproducing sizeable sections of _PC_; however, the basic point concerning the direction of copying can be made in another way through the pattern of variants revealed in extracts from the epilogue to Lacy's _The Old Troop_ and Dryden's prologue to _Aureng-Zebe_ which are quoted in both _PC_ and _PdT_. Collation shows that both texts are derived from a lost intermediary which was in close though not complete agreement with _PC_ against _PdT_. This rules out any chance that this section of _PC_ could be derived from the printer's copy of _PdT_, and suggests that the intermediary is more likely to have been the hypothetical commonplace book or the MS of _PC_ than any four-canto text, though the second possibility cannot be dismissed on textual grounds alone.

The only real clues to the authorship of the poem are the biographical details of the preface and the signature initials "T.W." following the author's epistle of _PC_--either or both of which may of course result from a conscious intention to deceive. Surprisingly, both seem to be relevant to the history of Thomas Ward, the author of the hudibrastic anti-protestant satire, _England's Reformation_ (1719), who is known to have left England at roughly the time suggested as that of the poem's composition. In the life of Ward prefixed to _An Interesting Controversy with Mr. Ritschel, Vicar of Hexham_ (1819), which appears to be based at an unknown degree of removal on a personal memoir, he is said to have been born on 13 April 1652, and to have returned to England in the thirty-fourth year of his age after at least "five or six years" abroad, a figure which may just be reconciled with a departure date in January 1680/1. However, other details of the case do not fit so well. To start with, it is hard to see how a man of twenty-eight could refer, as the author does in both epistles, to his "want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages humour." Nor is it easy to reconcile Ward's fervent Catholicism with a satiric allusion in _PC_ to non-preaching bishops--a favorite topic of Puritan polemic--or with a reference to the Pope as "Rome's great Idol." Ward is said in the _Life_ to have been a Catholic before his departure, and writes movingly in _England's Reformation_ of his friendship with the Yorkshire anchorite Father Posket, executed in March 1679. The matter is further complicated by the appearance of the initials "T.W." together with the dateline "Rome, June 10. 79. Stilo Novo." on a broadsheet of 1679, _A letter from Rome to a Friend in London in Relation to the Jesuits Executed, and those that are to be Executed in the Countryes_, which is in fact an anti-Catholic tract vigorously supporting the executions. For this to have been the work of Ward we would have to assume that he had set out for Rome at least two years before the departure of the Poeta and then suffered a violent relapse into Puritanism. On the other hand, if the pamphlet, as is quite probable, was really the work of one of Shaftesbury's propagandists in London, there would have been excellent reasons for attaching the initials of a known Catholic exile. As the year 1679 is also within the stated date-range of Ward's departure, the existence of the broadsheet must count marginally against his being the author of _PdT_.

I can cast no further light on this mystery beyond proposing that if the story of the exiled poet is in fact a fabrication, the poem may have been the work of a younger (b. 1661) and Protestant "T.W." in the person of Thomas Wood, Anthony à Wood's nephew, later celebrated as a legal writer, poet, and controversialist and for his fondness for anonymous and pseudonymous publication. Two of Wood's poems, _Juvenalis Redivivus_ (published anonymously in 1683) and an elegy on the death of Oldham (included with Dryden's lines in the _Remains_ of 1684), are satires on the poets of a similar kind to _PdT_, while the second has a striking structural similarity to its opening canto. Neither _PdT_ nor _PC_ is included in Wood's list of his writings sent to his uncle in 1692 for inclusion in _Athenae Oxonienses_ (Bodl. MS. Wood F.45, f.#229), nor do they appear in _A Catalogue of Part of the Library of the Reverend Dr. Wood_ (London, 1723); however, neither omission need be significant. A third possibility is Thomas Walters, claimed by Anthony à Wood as the true author of William Bedloe's tragedy, _The Excommunicated Prince_ (1679); but I have found nothing beyond the fact he was an author to connect him with _PdT_, nor any evidence that either he or Thomas Wood spent the years 1681-1682 otherwise than accumulating time for their degrees at Oxford.

Monash University

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

This facsimile of _Poeta de Tristibus_ (1682) is reproduced from a copy (*PR3291/P795) in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library.

POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

OR, THE

Poet's Complaint.

A

POEM

_In Four_ CANTO'S.

_Ovid de Trist._

_Parve, nec invideo, sine me Liber ibis in Urbem: Hei mihi! quò_----

_LONDON_,

Printed for _Henry Faitborne_ and _John Kersey_, at the _Rose_ in St. _Paul_'s Church-Yard. 1682.

_The Publisher's Epistle to the_

READER.

_Courteous Reader_,

The following Poem was presented me about a year ago; and (as it appears by the Author's Epistle to me) was designed only for my Private Divertisement: But numerous Draughts being dispers'd abroad, by the Unworthiness of a Gentleman I Trusted it withal, I was more easily perswaded to Publish the Original, to prevent the Inconveniencies of a Surreptitious Copy, which, without my Allowance, was designed for the Press.

The Author being out of _England_, I would not venture to set his Name to it; nor have I presumed thus far, without extraordinary regret; not that I know any other Reason that enforces a concealment, besides that it was sent to me with such a Bond. I am sure no particular Person can pretend to any distaste; and _Satyr_ on general Subjects was ever Allowable, _Religion_ and _Government_ only excepted.

But I must Confess, that in the Third Part of this Poem, there were some Capital Letters which began the Names of certain Poets of this Age, but them I have so altered, lest any Offence should be given, that by them I am sure no Discovery can be made. I will no longer detain you from your better Divertisement in the following Poem; which, if you have any good Nature, you cannot chuse but favour, especially if you carry along with you those several Circumstances which in the way will offer themselves to you in the Author's behalf.

_Farewel._

The Author's Epistle.

SIR,

_My Obedience to your desire so happily concentring with my Inclination to this Subject, has in less than a fortnight's space produc'd what here you see. To you I need not make any Apology for its Artless Habit, who very well know my want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages humour; nor can you reasonably expect any extraordinary strokes from one whose thoughts are divided between so many various Afflictions; since_ Ovid _himself, when Condemn'd to Banishment, was forc'd to resign that Spirit of Poetry, which animated all his Works, besides that of his_ De Tristibus. _Besides, I must desire your Patience to observe, that (the Verse I use being a kind of Doggrel) it is but Natural that now and then it should run harsh and rugged; nor do I believe I have done amiss by forcing my self sometimes to be so very plain and familiar. As for the Rhyme and Measure, though perhaps they may not always answer the strictest Law, yet I do not think it worth the while to make any excuse for that, being faults so inconsiderable, that they are seldom reflected on, but by the meanest sort of Criticks, who want judgment to discern the Intrigues of Humour and Invention, which are the Principal Ingredients of a Poem, and which I must needs confess are here extreamly deficient: For as this little Poem was written_ extempore, _so it presumes to kiss your hand in its Native unpolish'd shape, not having the least thought or word of it Corrected; for to Morrow being the time we design to take Shipping, I had not so much leisure as to Transcribe it._

_I must Confess, it seems unnatural, that one who pretends to the Title of a Poet, should endeavour, as I have done, to disparage his own Profession. However, the Poets of this Age, whom it most concerns, I hope will not take it unkindly of me, since doing thus, I only follow the Example they have given me; for in that short time of my Residence in_ London, _among all the Poets I was in Company with, I heard little else besides their Complaints, and unmerciful damnings both of the Times and one another. Neither have I seen a Modern Play but either began or ended in the same Tune. Some few of which I have, for Example-sake, here presumed to quote._

In the Prologue to _Aurenzebe_.

_The Clergy thrives, and the Litigious Bar,_ _Dull Heroes fatten by the Spoils of War._ _All Southern Vices (Heav'n be prais'd) are here,_ _But Wit's a Luxury you count too dear._

In the Epilogue to the _Libertine_.

_S Death! What a Devil would you have us do?_} _Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue,_ } _Angling for single Money in a Shoe?_ }

In the Epilogue to _Monsieur Rogooe_.

_I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,_ _Both by my empty Purse, and empty Brain._ _I've other Reasons to confirm it too;_ _I've great, and self-conceits of all I do._ _As for my Play, I Pawn'd it to some Cit,_ _At least six Months before my Play was writ._ _But when the third day comes, away I run,_ _Knowing that then in sholes come all my Duns._ _If these things make me not a proper Poet,_ _He that has better Title, let him shew it._

In the Prologue to _Theodosius_; Or the Force of Love.

_On Poets only no kind Star e're smil'd,_ _Curst Fate has damn'd 'em every Mothers Child._ _Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage_ _To write no more to an ingrateful Age._ _Think what penurious Masters you have serv'd;_ Tasso _ran mad, and Noble_ Spencer _starv'd_. _Turn then, who e're thou art, that canst Write well,_ _Thy ink to Gall, and in Lampoons excell._ _Forswear all Honesty, traduce the Great,_ _Grow Impudent, and rail against the State;_ _Bursting with Spleen, abroad thy Pasquils send,_ _And choose some Libel-spreader for thy Friend._ _The Wit and Want of_ Timon _point thy Mind,_ _And for thy Satyr-subject chuse Mankind._

In the Prologue to the Unhappy Favourite; or the Earl of _Essex_.

_The Merchant, joyful with th' hopes of Gain,_ _Ventures his Life and Fortunes on the Main;_ _But the poor Poet oft'ner does expose_ _More than his Life, his Credit, for Applause._

In the Epilogue to the same Play.

_Let those who call us Wicked, change their Sence,_ _For never Men liv'd more on Providence:_ _Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half so poor,_ _Nor broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore;_ _Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents_ _Of the three last ungiving Parliaments._ _So Wretched, that if_ Pharaoh _could Divine,_ } _He might have spar'd his Dream of seven lean Kine,_} _And chang'd the Vision for the Muses Nine._ }

And a little after.

_'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,_ _For then the Printer's Press would suffer more:_ _Their Pamphleteers their Venom daily spit,_ _They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit._

_Now I do not blame these Ingenuous Gentlemen for inveighing against the thing to which they owe their Ruin; nor were it to any purpose to endeavour to conceal a Truth so generally taken notice of: For who is Ignorant of this, that a Man, in all Professions, except that of Poetry, may with Honour advance a Livelihood? But that (though it may be sometimes found proper for the Divertisement of those few who have leisure to read it) was ever known to be most unprofitable to the Authors; for few or none have been Advanced by it, though many have been hindred by this Art of Versifying, from making their Fortune otherwise in the World. Yea, this Profession is grown so Vile and abject, that whereas others count it an Honour to be stiled Physicians, Barristers, or the like; these are offended with the very Name of Poet: And that with good Reason too, since Poetry only glories in Disguising the Truth; for which cause it begins to be Banished even from Theatres, to which alone it was Destinated; and Prose is now come in request, being prefer'd for its Gracefulness and Naturalness above it: By which means this Art is in danger to be confin'd to the Corners of Streets; to serve only for Songs and Ballads. Hence it was that_ Ovid _was so severely Punished by his Father, to make him leave off this Art, which proved so unlucky to him, that he became of a Rich_ Roman _Knight, a Miserable Exile among_ Barbarians. _Hence_ Plato _was pleased to Banish it out of his imaginary Common-Wealth. And_ Philip, _the first Christian Emperour, denied them those Immunities which he granted to all others. Numerous Instances of this Nature offer themselves to my Pen, but I must take care not to stretch my Epistle too far, for fear you should Reflect on it, what was formerly said on Sir_ William D'avenant's _Preface before his_ Gondibert,

A Preface to no Book, a Porch to no House, Here is the Mountain, but where is the Mouse?

_However, I must not neglect to desire this one Favour of you, that after you have taken the pains to peruse these undigested Lines, you would be pleased to bestow on them a Funeral Fire; or if you apprehend that Sentence to be too severe, I do most earnestly beg of you to keep them Secret to your self, without shewing them to your trustiest Friend, at least, with my Name_ _to them. It were superfluous now to engage you not to convey them to the Censorious World through the Press, since that, and more was already by the precedent Caution imply'd; besides, the Opinion I have of your Candour, is better grounded, than to admit of any such Jealousie._

_I will now only add my most hearty Thanks for all your Favours, particularly for the Piece of Gold I Received inclosed in your last Letter; and had some others of my Relations proved as kind to me as your self, or had I in my own Countrey met with encouragement any way sutable to my Endeavours, I had not in this Passion shaken hands with it. But now I am in hast to be gone, yet will for ever remain,_

_Dearest Cousin!_

Your assured, Faithful Friend, and most Humble Servant.

Dated at _Dover_ the Tenth day of _January, 1680/1_.

POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

OR, THE

Poet's Complaint.

A

POEM.

_The First CANTO._

Since here I'm bandy'd up and down By the keen blows of Fortunes frown, Whil'st Art and Nature vainly strive To make th' unhappy Poet live; I'le fly such Native Plagues as these For Refuge, to the calmer Seas: And try if boading Stars dispence Ev'ry where the same influence. Climes vary Constitutions, so Why may not they change Fortunes too? Through th' habitable World I'le go, And if that fails, I'le search for new. Wit somewhere has a happy Reign, Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain. Tho' here her bounty she provides For ev'ry thing which breaths besides.

The Dunce made Batchelor of Art, Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart, Then Preaches 'fore a Country Squire,} Who his deep Learning does admire, } And gives him sixscore pounds a year.} But he must Marry th' Chamber-Maid, Who is, forsooth, a Mistress made: So he goes on with a fair hope, And of his Pulpit makes a Shop.

So Quacks as eas'ly as they will, Can get Licenses to kill, Whil'st the hungry Poet may } For an _Imprimatur_ stay, } Till h'has eaten up his Play.}

Yet since the Press has lately had Its Liberty, 'tis near as bad. For scarce a broken Shop-keeper, Or a cast Serving man grown bare, But herds among our starved Crew, And falls a Writing Poems too. The Plot, the Jesuit, and the Pope Are now grown Theams for ev'ry Fop. Who by such wretched, Ballad-ware, Makes Writing cheap, and Paper dear.

See how the gaping Merchants range, Hunting their Chapmen on the Change, Whose Various Voices frame a sound, Like Billows when their Ships are drown'd, And in one hour more fat do sweat Than th' Poet in a year can get. Those worst of Atheists! who do hold There is no Deity but Gold! They hate the Poet 'cause he's poor, And only th' Golden Calf adore. Our Plays, they say, are wicked dear, Th' expence in Ballads will go far. Nay, I protest I've heard some say Plays are a kind of Popery. I'th' City-shops they're thought Profane, As were Minc'd-pies in _Cromwel_'s Reign. Where, when for _Dryden_'s Works I came, They vow'd they never heard his Name. But they had _Baxter_'s, if you please, And such-like precious things as these. Bless 'em from Plays; they'd rather go Unto a Conventicle, or so.

The Stationer grows fat on th' gain, He sucks from the poor Poet's brain. He, and the Printer, who does know Nothing beyond the Cris-cros-row, Do still their Heads together joyn To cheat the Poet of his Coyn. Whil'st he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat Honourable stabs to get; And is forc'd to sigh, and stay For the Lawrel 'till he's gray: And at last together come To his Honour, and his Tomb. Tho' when dead, his Friends may'nt raise Enough to gild his Fun'ral Bays.

The Players, who scarce know to write Their Names, or spell one word aright, Or read their Parts, unless writ fair In a large _Roman_ Character, Call us their Slaves, who for their gain Must toil, and all their faults sustain. In gay Attire each day they shine; Eat well, and drink the Richest Wine, All fat and plump, except some few The _French-man_ prov'd invet'rate to. Look how they strut it as they go! } And in the streets make such a show,} As if they'ld there Act Princes too!} While th' Poet sneaking all alone In some by-lane where he's unknown; No farther than his Pot can go, And has a Pipe to th' bargain too.