102:001,00@@@@@| 102:001,00[' ]| 102:001,00[' ]| <\or, A Satire upon$4$ the True-Blue-Protestant Poet T%*S%\> 102:001,01[' ]| <\By$4$ the Author of Absalom*and*Achitophel\> 102:001,02[' ]| All human things are subject to$4$ decay, 102:001,03[' ]| And when fate summons, monarchs must obey. 102:001,04[' ]| This Flecknoe found, who$6#1$, like$4$ Augustus, young 102:001,05[' ]| Was called to$4$ empire, and had governed long; 102:001,06[' ]| In$4$ prose and verse, was owned, without dispute, 102:001,07[' ]| Through all the realms of nonsense, absolute. 102:001,08[' ]| This aged prince, now flourishing in$4$ peace, 102:001,09[' ]| And blessed with issue of a large increase; 102:001,10[' ]| Worn out with business, did at length debate 102:001,11[' ]| To$9$ settle the succession of the state; 102:001,12[' ]| And, pondering which$6#1$ of all his sons was fit 102:001,13[' ]| To$9$ reign, and wage immortal war with wit, 102:001,14[' ]| Cried: 102:001,14[A ]| "It is resolved; for$3$ nature pleads, that$3$ he 102:001,15[A ]| Should only rule, who$6#1$ most resembles me. 102:001,16[A ]| Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, 102:001,17[A ]| Mature in$4$ dullness from his tender years: 102:001,18[A ]| Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he 102:001,19[A ]| Who$6#1$ stands confirmed in$4$ full stupidity. 102:001,20[A ]| The rest to$4$ some faint meaning make pretence, 102:001,21[A ]| But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 102:001,22[A ]| Some beams of wit on$4$ other souls may fall, 102:001,23[A ]| Strike through, and make a lucid interval; 102:001,24[A ]| But Shadwell's genuine night admits no$2$ ray, 102:001,25[A ]| His rising fogs prevail upon$4$ the day. 102:001,26[A ]| Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, 102:001,27[A ]| And seems designed for$4$ thoughtless majesty; 102:001,28[A ]| Thoughtless as monarch oaks that$6#1$ shade the plain, 102:001,29[A ]| And, spread in$4$ solemn state, supinely reign. 102:001,30[A ]| Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, 102:001,31[A ]| Thou last great prophet of tautology. 102:001,32[A ]| Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, 102:002,01[A ]| Was sent before but to$9$ prepare thy way; 102:002,02[A ]| And, coarsely clad in$4$ Norwich drugget, came 102:002,03[A ]| To$9$ teach the nations in$4$ thy greater name. 102:002,04[A ]| My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung, 102:002,05[A ]| When to$4$ King*John of Portugal I sung, 102:002,06[A ]| Was but the prelude to$4$ that$6#2$ glorious day, 102:002,07[A ]| When thou on$4$ silver Thames didst cut thy way, 102:002,08[A ]| With well-timed oars before the royal barge, 102:002,09[A ]| Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge; 102:002,10[A ]| And big with hymn, commander of a host, 102:002,11[A ]| The like$0$ was never in$4$ Epsom blankets tossed. 102:002,12[A ]| Methinks I see the new Arion sail, 102:002,13[A ]| The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 102:002,14[A ]| At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore to$4$ shore 102:002,15[A ]| The treble squeaks for$4$ fear, the basses roar; 102:002,16[A ]| Echoes from Pissing*Alley Shadwell call, 102:002,17[A ]| And Shadwell they resound from Aston*Hall. 102:002,18[A ]| About thy boat the little fishes throng, 102:002,20[A ]| As at the morning toast that$6#1$ floats along. 102:002,21[A ]| Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, 102:002,22[A ]| Thou wieldst thy papers in$4$ thy threshing hand. 102:002,23[A ]| St*Andre='s feet never kept more equal time, 102:002,24[A ]| Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme; 102:002,25[A ]| Though they in$4$ number as in$4$ sense excel: 102:002,26[A ]| So$5#1$ just, so$5#1$ like$4$ tautology, they fell, 102:002,27[A ]| That$3$, pale with envy, Singleton forswore 102:002,28[A ]| The lute and sword, which$6#1$ he in$4$ triumph bore, 102:002,29[A ]| And vowed he never would act Villerius more." 102:002,30[' ]| Here stopped the good old sire, and wept for$4$ joy 102:002,31[' ]| In$4$ silent raptures of the hopeful boy. 102:002,32[' ]| All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, 102:002,33[' ]| That$3$ for$4$ anointed dullness he was made. 102:002,34[' ]| Close to$4$ the walls which$6#1$ fair Augusta bind, 102:002,35[' ]| (The fair Augusta much to$4$ fears inclined,) 102:002,36[' ]| An ancient fabric raised to$9$ inform the sight, 102:002,37[' ]| There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: 102:003,01[' ]| A watchtower once; but now, so$5#2$ fate ordains, 102:003,02[' ]| Of all the pile an empty name remains. 102:003,03[' ]| From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, 102:003,04[' ]| Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, 102:003,05[' ]| Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, 102:003,06[' ]| And, undisturbed by$4$ watch, in$4$ silence sleep. 102:003,07[' ]| Near these a Nursery erects its head, 102:003,08[' ]| Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred; 102:003,09[' ]| Where unfledged actors learn to$9$ laugh and cry, 102:003,10[' ]| Where infant punks their tender voices try, 102:003,11[' ]| And little Maximins the gods defy. 102:003,12[' ]| Great Fletcher never treads in$4$ buskins here, 102:003,13[' ]| Nor greater Jonson dares in$4$ socks appear; 102:003,14[' ]| But gentle Simkin just reception finds 102:003,15[' ]| Amidst this monument of vanished minds: 102:003,16[' ]| Pure clinches the suburbian Muse affords, 102:003,17[' ]| And Panton waging harmless war with words. 102:003,18[' ]| Here Flecknoe, as a place to$4$ fame well known, 102:003,19[' ]| Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne; 102:003,20[' ]| For$3$ ancient Dekker prophesied long since, 102:003,21[' ]| That$3$ in$4$ this pile should reign a mighty prince, 102:003,22[' ]| Born for$4$ a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; 102:003,23[' ]| To$4$ whom true dullness should some Psyches owe, 102:003,24[' ]| But worlds of misers from his pen should flow; 102:003,25[' ]| Humorists and hypocrites it should produce, 102:003,26[' ]| Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. 102:003,27[' ]| Now Empress Fame had published the renown 102:003,28[' ]| Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. 102:003,29[' ]| Roused by$4$ report of Fame, the nations meet, 102:003,30[' ]| From near Bunhill, and distant Watling*Street. 102:003,31[' ]| No$2$ Persian carpets spread the imperial way, 102:003,32[' ]| But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay; 102:003,33[' ]| From dusty shops neglected authors come, 102:003,34[' ]| Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum. 102:003,35[' ]| Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, 102:003,36[' ]| But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way. 102:004,01[' ]| Bilked stationers for$4$ yeomen stood prepared, 102:004,02[' ]| And Herringman was captain of the guard. 102:004,03[' ]| The hoary prince in$4$ majesty appeared, 102:004,04[' ]| High on$4$ a throne of his own labours reared. 102:004,05[' ]| At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, 102:004,06[' ]| Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. 102:004,07[' ]| His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, 102:004,08[' ]| And lambent dullness played around his face. 102:004,09[' ]| As Hannibal did to$4$ the altars come, 102:004,10[' ]| Sworn by$4$ his sire a mortal foe to$4$ Rome; 102:004,11[' ]| So$5#2$ Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, 102:004,12[' ]| That$3$ he till death true dullness would maintain; 102:004,13[' ]| And, in$4$ his father's right, and realm's defence, 102:004,14[' ]| Never to$9$ have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. 102:004,15[' ]| The king himself the sacred unction made, 102:004,16[' ]| As king by$4$ office, and as priest by$4$ trade. 102:004,17[' ]| In$4$ his sinister hand, instead of ball, 102:004,18[' ]| He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; 102:004,19[' ]| Love's Kingdom to$4$ his right he did convey, 102:004,20[' ]| At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway; 102:004,21[' ]| Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young, 102:004,22[' ]| And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung. 102:004,23[' ]| His temples, last, with poppies were overspread, 102:004,24[' ]| That$6#1$ nodding seemed to$9$ consecrate his head. 102:004,25[' ]| Just at that$6#2$ point of time, if fame not lie, 102:004,26[' ]| On$4$ his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. 102:004,27[' ]| So$5#2$ Romulus, it is sung, by$4$ Tiber's brook, 102:004,28[' ]| Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. 102:004,29[' ]| The admiring throng loud acclamations make, 102:004,30[' ]| And omens of his future empire take. 102:004,31[' ]| The sire then shook the honours of his head, 102:004,32[' ]| And from his brows damps of oblivion shed 102:004,33[' ]| Full on$4$ the filial dullness: long he stood, 102:004,34[' ]| Repelling from his breast the raging god; 102:004,35[' ]| At length burst out in$4$ this prophetic mood: 102:004,36[A ]| "Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign 102:005,01[A ]| To$4$ far Barbadoes on$4$ the western main; 102:005,02[A ]| Of his dominion may no$2$ end be known, 102:005,03[A ]| And greater than his father's be his throne; 102:005,04[A ]| Beyond Love's Kingdom let him stretch his pen!" 102:005,05[' ]| He paused, and all the people cried, 102:005,05[X ]| "Amen." 102:005,06[' ]| Then thus continued he: 102:005,06[A ]| "My son, advance 102:005,07[A ]| Still in$4$ new impudence, new ignorance. 102:005,08[A ]| Success let others teach, learn thou from me 102:005,09[A ]| Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. 102:005,10[A ]| Let Virtuosos in$4$ five years be writ; 102:005,11[A ]| Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 102:005,12[A ]| Let gentle George in$4$ triumph tread the stage, 102:005,13[A ]| Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; 102:005,14[A ]| Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, 102:005,15[A ]| And in$4$ their folly show the writer's wit. 102:005,16[A ]| Yet still thy fools shall stand in$4$ thy defence, 102:005,17[A ]| And justify their author's want of sense. 102:005,18[A ]| Let them be all by$4$ thy own model made 102:005,19[A ]| Of dullness, and desire no$2$ foreign aid; 102:005,20[A ]| That$3$ they to$4$ future ages may be known, 102:005,21[A ]| Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 102:005,22[A ]| Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, 102:005,23[A ]| All full of thee, and differing but in$4$ name. 102:005,24[A ]| But let no$2$ alien Sedley interpose, 102:005,25[A ]| To$4$ lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. 102:005,26[A ]| And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull, 102:005,27[A ]| Trust nature, do not labour to$9$ be dull; 102:005,28[A ]| But write thy best, and top; and in$4$ each line, 102:005,29[A ]| Sir*Formal's oratory will$1$ be thine: 102:005,30[A ]| Sir*Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, 102:005,31[A ]| And does thy northern dedications fill. 102:005,32[A ]| Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to$4$ fame, 102:005,33[A ]| By$4$ arrogating Jonson's hostile name. 102:005,34[A ]| Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, 102:005,35[A ]| And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. 102:005,36[A ]| Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no$2$ part: 102:006,01[A ]| What share have we in$4$ nature, or in$4$ art? 102:006,02[A ]| Where did his wit on$4$ learning fix a brand, 102:006,03[A ]| And rail at arts he did not understand? 102:006,04[A ]| Where made he love in$4$ Prince*Nicander's vein, 102:006,05[A ]| Or swept the dust in$4$ Psyche's humble strain? 102:006,06[A ]| Where sold he bargains, ""whip-stitch, kiss my arse,"" 102:006,07[A ]| Promised a play and dwindled to$4$ a farce? 102:006,08[A ]| When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, 102:006,09[A ]| As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to$4$ thine? 102:006,10[A ]| But so$5#1$ transfused, as oil on$4$ water's flow, 102:006,11[A ]| His always floats above, thine sinks below. 102:006,12[A ]| This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, 102:006,13[A ]| New humours to$9$ invent for$4$ each new play: 102:006,14[A ]| This is that$6#2$ boasted bias of thy mind, 102:006,15[A ]| By$4$ which$6#1$ one way, to$4$ dullness, it is inclined; 102:006,16[A ]| Which$6#1$ makes thy writings lean on$4$ one side still, 102:006,17[A ]| And, in$4$ all changes, that$6#2$ way bends thy will$0$. 102:006,18[A ]| Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence 102:006,19[A ]| Of likeness; thine is a timpani of sense. 102:006,20[A ]| A tun of man in$4$ thy large bulk is writ, 102:006,21[A ]| But sure thou art but a kilderkin of wit. 102:006,22[A ]| Like$4$ mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; 102:006,23[A ]| Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. 102:006,24[A ]| With whatever gall thou settst thyself to$9$ write, 102:006,25[A ]| Thy inoffensive satires never bite. 102:006,26[A ]| In$4$ thy felonious heart though venom lies, 102:006,27[A ]| It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. 102:006,28[A ]| Thy genius calls thee not to$9$ purchase fame 102:006,29[A ]| In$4$ keen iambics, but mild anagram. 102:006,30[A ]| Leave writing plays, and choose for$4$ thy command 102:006,31[A ]| Some peaceful province in$4$ acrostic land. 102:006,32[A ]| There thou mayst wings display and altars raise, 102:006,33[A ]| And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. 102:006,34[A ]| Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, 102:006,35[A ]| Set thy own songs, and sing them to$4$ thy lute." 102:006,36[' ]| He said: but his last words were scarcely heard; 102:007,01[' ]| For$3$ Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepared, 102:007,02[' ]| And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. 102:007,03[' ]| Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, 102:007,04[' ]| Borne upwards by$4$ a subterranean wind. 102:007,05[' ]| The mantle fell to$4$ the young prophet's part, 102:007,06[' ]| With double portion of his father's art.