For ancient Decker prophefy'd long. fince,
That in this pile fhould reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense:
To whom true dulness should fome Psyches owe,
But worlds of mifers from his pen fhould flow
Humorists and hypocrites it fhould produce,."
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now emprefs fame had publish'd the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation thro the town.
Rouz'd by: report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and diftant Watling-street.
No Perfian carpets fpread th' imperial way,
But fcatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay :
From dufty fhops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almoft chok'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen ftood prepar'd,
And Herringman was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labors rear'd.
At his right hand our young Afcanius fate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, inftead of glories, grace,
And lambent dulnefs plaid around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Swore by his fire, a mortal foe to Rome;
So Shadwell fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain,
That he till death true dulnefs 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 facred unction made,
As king by office, and as prieft by trade.
In his finister hand, inftead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his fceptre, and his rule of sway;
Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd
And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung.
His temples, laft, with poppies were o'erfpread,
That nodding feem'd to confecrate his head.
Juft at the point of time, if fame not lye,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tyber's brook,
Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then shook the honors of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulnefs: long he stood,
Repelling from his breaft the raging God;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens bless my fon, from Ireland let him
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 continu'd he: My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let virtuofos in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accufe 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 fhew the writers wit.
Yet ftill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.
But let no alien Sedley interpofe,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And when falfe flowers of rhetoric thou would'st
Truft nature, do not labor to be dull;
But write thy beft, and top; and, in each line, Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :
Sir Formal, tho unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonfon's hoftile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonfon 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 fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble ftrain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-ftitch, kifs my arfe,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doft transfufe to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humors to invent for each new play :
This is that boafted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide ftill,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of fenfe.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic muse gives fmiles, thy comic fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fett'ft thyself to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.
In thy felonious heart tho venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command, Some peaceful province in Acroftic land.
There thou may'ft wings difplay and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
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