Urge not, for 'tis to vindicate the wrong,
It causes Emulation in the young,
A Thirst to Fame, while fome high Act they read,
That prompts 'em to the fame Romantick Deed.
As if fome pow'rful Magick lay in Rhimes,
That made 'em braver than at other times.
'Tis falfe and fond; Hero's may huff and fight;
But who can merit fo as he can write?
To say a Glow-worm is the Morning Star,
And that it may with ease be seen as far,
Were most ridiculous; fo far from Truth,
It justly wou'd deferve a fharp Reproof.
That Slave is more to blame, whofe hireling Pen
Calls Knaves and Coxcombs wife deserving Men;
Says the rank Bawds are all with Sweetness grac❜d,
Courtiers all juft, and all Court-Strumpets chaste.
If to be prais'd does give a Man pretence
To Glory, Learning, Honesty and Sense,
Cromwell had much to say in his Defence:
Who, tho' a Tyrant, which all Ills comprize,
Has been extoll'd and lifted to the Skies.
Whilft Living, fuch was the Applause he gave,
Counted High, Princely, Pious, Juft, and Brave;
And with Encomiums waited to his Graye.
Who then wou'd give this for a Poet's Praise,
Which rightly understood does but debase,
And blast the Reputation it wou'd raise?
Hence 'tis, and 'tis a Punishment that's fit,
They are contemn'd and scorn'd by Men of Wit.
'Tis true fome Sotts may nibble at their Praise,
And think it great to stand i' th' Front of Plays;
Tho' most to that Stupidity are grown,
They wave their Patron's Praise to write their own:
And yet they never fail of their Rewards
And faith in that I cannot blame the Bards.
If Coxcombs will be Coxcombs, let 'em rue;
If they love Flatt'ry let 'em pay for❜t too.
'Tis one fure method to convince the Elves,
They spare my Pains, and Satyrize themselves.
In short, nought helps like Satyr to amend, While in huge Volumes Motley Priests contend, And let their vain Disputes ne'er have an end: They plunge us in those Snares we else shou'd shun; Like Tinkers, make ten Holes in mending one. Our dearest Friends too, tho' they know our Faults, For Pity or for Shame conceal their Thoughts; While we, who fee our Failings not forbid, Loosely run on in the vain Paths we did.
'Tis Satyr then that is our trueft Friend;
For none before they know their Faults can mend:
That tells us boldly of our foulest Crimes,
Reproves ill Manners, and reforms the Times.
How am I then to blame, when all I write
Is honest Rage, not Prejudice or Spight?
Truth is my Aim, with Truth I fhall impeach;
And I'll spare none that comes within its reach.
On then, my Mufe, the World before thee lies,
And lash the Knaves and Fools that I despise.
Young, Fluttering, Noifie Diftur
Entle Reproofs have long been try'd in vain,
Men but despise us while we but complain
Such Numbers are concern'd for the wrong fide,
A weak Resistance still provokes their Pride,
And cannot ftem the Fiercenefs of the Tide.
Laughers, Buffoons, with an unthinking Crowd
Of gaudy Fools, impertinent and lowd,
Infult in ev'ry Corner; want of Sense,
Confirm'd with an Outlandish Impudence,
Among the rude Disturbers of the Pit,
Has introduc'd ill Breeding and false Wit.
To boast their Lewdness here young Scourers meet,
And all the vile Companions of a Street
Keep a perpetual Bauling near that Door,
Who beat the Bawd laftNight, who bilk'd the Whore.
They fnarl, but never fight, nor pay a Farthing;
A Play-Houfe is become a meer Bear-Garden.
While every one with Infolence enjoys
His Liberty, and Property of Noife.
Shou'd true Sense with revengeful Fire come down, Our Sodom wants Ten Men to fave the Town: Each Parish is infected; to be clear,
We must lose more than when the Plague was here.
While every little Thing pricks up fo foon,
That at Fourteen it Hectors up and down, (Town:
With the best Cheats, and the worst Whores in
Swears at a Play, who shou'd be whip'd at School;
The Foplings must in time grow up to Rule;
The Fashion must prevail to be a Fool.
Some pow'rful Mufe, infpir'd for our Defence,
Arife, and fave a little common Sense.
In fuch a Cause let thy keen Satyr bite,
Where Indignation bids thy Genius write.
Mark a bold leading Coxcomb of the Town,
And fingle out the Beast, and hunt him down;
Hang up his mangled Carkass on the Stage,
To fright away the Vermin of the Age.
The Nature of Women;
A Translation of Part of the fourth Eclogue of Mantuan.
SATYR.
Fæminium fervile genus crudele fuperbum.
EE Sacred Nymphs of Lebethra be by,
While you, Polymnia, prompt my Memory;
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