LL human things are fubject to decay,
And when fate fummons, monarchs must
This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguftus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;
In profe and verfe, was own'd, without difpute,
Thro all the realms of Nonfenfe, abfolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in
And bleft with iffue of a large increase;
Worn out with bufinefs, did at length debate To fettle the fucceffion of the ftate:
And, pond'ring, which of all his fons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cry'd, 'tis refolv'd; for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who moft refembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dullness from his tender
Shadwell alone, of all my fons, is he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into fenfe.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike thro, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rifing fogs prevail upon the day.
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the
eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtless majesty :
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And spread in folemn ftate fupinely reign..
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of tautology.
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarfely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom ftrung,
When to king John of Portugal I fung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver 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 Epfom blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar:
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'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 Pfyche's rhime:
Tho they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here stopt the good old fire, and wept for joy, In fileat raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.
Clofe to the walls which fair Augufta bind,
(The fair Augufta much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric rais'd t'inform the fight,
There flood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tower once; but now fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains ;
From its old ruins brothel-houfes rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where there vaft courts the mother-ftrumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.
Near thefe 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 bufkins here,
Nor greater Jonfon dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin juft reception finds
Amidft this monument of vauifh'd minds:
Pure clinches the fuburbian mufe affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously defign'd his Shadwell's throne.
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