Chorus poetarum, or, Poems on several occasions by the Duke of Buckingham, the late Lord Rochester, Sir John Denham, Sir Geo. Etheridge, Andrew Marvel, Esq., the famous Spencer, Madam Behn, and several other eminent poets of this age.

A Satyr against Poetry.

In a Letter to the Lord D.—

LET my Endeavours, as my Hopes, depend On you, the Orphan's Trust, the Muse's Friend: The Great good Man, whose kind Resolves declare Vertue and Verse, the Object of your Care, When hungry Poets now abdicate their Rhimes, For some more darling Folly of the Times. S—l and—I here forbear to name, Condemn'd to Lawrel, tho' unknown to Fame: Recanting S—tle brings the tuneful Ware, Which wiser Smithfield damn'd to Sturbridge-Fair; Protests his Tragedies, and Libels fail To yield him Paper, Penny-Loaves, and Ale;

And bids our Youth by his Example fly, The Love of Politicks and Poetry; And all Retreats, except New-hall, refuse, To shelter tuneful D—'s Jockey Muse.

Is there a Man to these Examples blind, To chinking Numbers fatally enclin'd; Who by his Muse, wou'd purchase Meat and Fame, And in th' next Miscellanies plant his Name? Were my Beard grown, the wretch l'd thus advise; Repent, fond Mortal, and be timely wise. Take heed, be not by gilded Baits betray'd, Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade. By Verse you'll starve, John * 1.1 Saul cou'd never live, Did not the Bell-man make the Poet thrive. Go rather to some little Shed, near Paul's, Sell Chevy-Chase, and Baxter's Salve for Souls.

Cry Raree-S••ows, sing Ballads, transcribe Vote: Be Carr, or Ketch, or any thing but—Oats.

Hold, Sir, some Bully of the Muses cries, Methinks you're more Satyrical than wise. You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme, At once encourage, and condemn the Crime. —True, Sir, I write, and have a Patron too, To whom my Tributary Songs are due: Yet, with your leave, I d honestly disswade Those wretched Men from Pindus's barren Shade. Who, tho' they tire their Muse, and rack their Brains With blust'ring Heroes and with piping Swains, Can no Great Patient-giving-Man engage, To fill their Pockets, and their Title Page.

Were I like these, by angry Fate decreed, By Penny Elegies to get my Bread,

And want a Meal, unless George Croome and I Cou'd strike a Bargain for my Poetry; I'd damn my Works, to wrap up Soap & Cheese, Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess. But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue, Herd with the little hungry chiming Crew; Obtain the airy Title of a Wit, And be on free-cost, noisie in the Pit. Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place A Crown of Lawrel, and a Meagre Face; And may just Heav'n thy hated Life prolong, Till thou (bless'd Author) feest thy deathless Song The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall, And find'st thy Picture starch d to stubborn Wall With Jonny Armstrong, and the Prodigal.

And to compleat the Curse— When Age and Poverty come faster on, And sad Experience tells thee thou'rt undone; May no king Country Grammar-School afford Ten Pounds a Year for Lodging, Bed and Board: Till void of any fixt Employ, and now Grown useless to the Army and the Plough, You've no Friend left but trusting Land-lady, Who stows you in kind truckle Garret-high, To dream of Dinners, and curse Poetry.

Still I've a Patron, you reply, 'tis true; Fate, and good Parts, you say, may get one too: Why faith, e'en try, write, flatter, dedicate; Your Lords, and his fore-Fathers Deeds relate. Yet know, he'll wisely strive Ten Thousand ways, To shun a Needy Poet's fulsom Praise.

Nay, to avoid thy Importunity, Neglect his State, and condescend to be A Poet, tho' perhaps a worse than thee. Thus from a Patron he becomes a Friend, Forgetting to reward, learns to commend; Receives your long six Months succesless Toil, And talks of Authors Energies, and Style; Damns the dull Poems of the scribling Town, Applauds your Writings, and repeats his own. Thou Wretch, in Complaisance oblig'd must sit, Extol his Judgment, and admire his Wit. Tho' this Poetic Peer perhaps scarce knows, With jingling Sounds to tagg insipid Prose; And shou'd be by some honest Manly told, He'd lost his Credit to secure his Gold.

But if thou'rt bless'd enough to write a Play, Without the hungry Hopes of kind third day; And he presumes, that in thy Dedication, Thou'lt fix his Name, nor bargain for his Station; My Lord, his useless kindness then assures, And vows to th'utmost of his Power he's yours; Likes the whole Plot, and praises e'ery Scene, And play'd at Court, 'twou'd strangely please the Queen. And you may take his Judgment sure, for he Knows the true Spirit of good Poetry.

All this you see, and know, yet cease to shun, And seeing, knowing, strive to be undone. So Kidnap'd Slave, when once beyond Gravesend, Rejects the Counsel of recalling Friend; Is sold to dreadful Bondage he must bear, And see's unable to avoid the Snare.

So practis'd Thief, if taken, ne'er dismay'd, Forgets the Sentence, and pursues the Trade; Tho'yet he almost feels the smoaking Brand, And sad T. R. stand fresh upon his Hand.

The Author then with daring Hopes wou'd strive, With well-built Verse, to keep his Fame alive: And something to Posterity present, That's very new, and very excellent. Something beyond the uncall'd drudging Tribe, Beyond what BEN cou'd write, or I describe; Shou'd in substantial Happiness abound, HisMind withPeace, his Board withPlenty crown'd. No early Duns shou'd break his Learned Rest, No sawcy Cares his nobler Thought-molest; Only th'ent'ring God shou'd shake his lab'ring Breast.

In vain we bid dejected S—tle hit The Tragic Flights of Tow'ring Shakespear's Wit: He needs must miss the Mark, who's kept so low, He has not Strength enough to draw the Bow. In vain from our starv'd Songsters we require, The height of COWLEY's, and ANACREON's Lyre. In vain we bid them fill the Bowl, Large as their Capacious Soul; Who, since the King was crown'd, ne'er tasted Wine, But write at Eight, and know not where to dine. D—t indeed, and R—r might write, For their own Credit, and their Friend's Delight: Shewing how far they cou'd the rest outdo, As in their Fortunes, in their Writings too, There was a time, when OTWAY charm'd the Stage, OTWAY, the Hope, and Sorrow of the Age:

When the full Pit, with pleas'd Attention hung, Charm'd on each Accent of Castalio's Tongue: With what a Laughter was his SOLDIER read? How mourn'd we, when his JAFFIER struck, and bled? Yet this great Poet, who with so much Ease Still drew his Pen, and still was sure to please: The Light'ning is less lively than his Wit, And Thunder-Claps less loud, than those o'th' Pit: Had of his many Wants much earlier dy'd, But that kind Banker E—n supply'd, And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play, Till he cou'd pay himself next sull third Day.

Were Shakespear's self alive again, he'd ne'er Degenerate to a Poet srom a Player.

For now no Sidneys will three Hundred give, That needy Spencer and his Fame may live; None of our poor Nobility can send To his Kings-Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend. Chymists and Whores by this great Lord were fed, (These by their honest Labours earn'd their Bread;) But he was never so expensive yet, To keep a Creature meerly for its Wit. But now your Yawning prompts me to give o'et, Your humble Servant, Sir—I've done—no more.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The Cambridge Bell∣man, a Poctaster.