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.
Ev'n 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 1 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 sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The Trebles squeak for 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 rhyme;
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 stop'd 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 to' 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 2,
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:
Pure clinches the suburban muse affords,
And Panton, waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecnoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne:

1 Parodies on these lines of Cowley, (Davideis, Book I.) Where their vast courts the mother-waters keep, And, undisturb'd by moons, in silence sleep.

Where unfledg'd tempests lie,

And infant Winds their tender voices try.

For ancient Decker prophesied long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit and flail of sense:
Twhom true Dulness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of misers from his pen should flow;
Humourists 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 the' imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay;
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and relics 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 :
The' 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 continued 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;

6

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 author's want of sense.
Let them 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 differing but in name:
But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose:
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst 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 Flecnoe 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-stich, Kiss my a-e,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.