The Wits are jarring, and the Witlings strive,
To keep the dying Quarrel still alive;
So shallow Gamesters, tho’ they nothing get,
All blind the Dupe, and aid the sly Deceit.
Attend, ye Scriblers! to your Leader’s Call,
Good Sense condemn, and pointed Satire maul;
Ye Dunces too! for ye not differ more
Than Bluff and Wittol, or than Bawd and Whore:
High on the Pedestal of Rank and State,
Mounts rich Sir Dunce, and seems to ape the Great;
Whilst low beneath the wretched Scribler lies,
And his Inscription unrewarded eyes;
Equal are they, whom blund’ring Measures raise,
And Bards who sasly censure, as they praise;
The Statesman, well examin’d, will appear
But Counterpart of his dear Gazetteer:
Tho’ One in his gilt Chariot proudly rolls,
Or heads in D——g-Room his Brother Tools—
And Th’ other labours hard whate’er he says,
Shining in Coffee-house with doubtful Phrase;
Still restless in all Stations, pleas’d with none;
For ever climbing, yet for ever down:
Oft have we seen, that Noblemen have wrote,
And Authors sometimes, strutting in lac’d Coat;
But widely then from Nature’s Ends they err,
And play the Farce quite out of Character.
As well may pious Jobbers of the Alley
Pretend the flying Troops of France to rally.
To proper Spheres, my Friends! yourselves confine!
When Colley writes, a Dunce may praise each Line;
Whether my Lord at Length, he views the Plan,
Or sculks beneath a certain Gentleman;
But if that Lord the Pen or Press invade,
Rouse, rouse, ye Tribe! he’ll undermine your Trade,
Tho’ not one brilliant Thought should hurt the whole,
And ev’ry Verse be bad, or lame, or stole,
Still, like a mad Dog, hunt th’ Usurper dead,
Tho’ he for Fame, ye scribble to be fed;
He stands condemn’d, who robs ye of your Bread.
But if a Genius rise, whose pointed Wit
Corrects your Morals, and all Tastes shall fit,
Claim then the Privilege to be his Foes,
Ye cannot shine, but when ye Worth oppose.
When ye deny him Fame, ye fix your own,
And to be satirized, is to be known.
Some hold, they’re better in a cursed State,
Than to be totally annihilate;
Thrice happy then, ye deathless, duncely Train!
The Subjects of the higher Dunciad’s Strain.
How many, who have Reams of Paper spoil’d,
Have often sleepless Nights obscurely toil’d,
And buried in their Eggs, like Silkworms, lay
’Till his warm Satire shew’d them Life and Day?
Here then, my Sons, is all your living Hope,
To be immortal Scriblers, rail at Pope.
Snatch’d from Oblivion, there the Dunces soar,
Tibbald their Monarch dubb’d, can ask no more,
Nor less shall ye——now Colley gives the Word,
Rouse up! and crowd into the next Record,
Or, lost to Memory, no other Page
Can possibly retrieve ye half an Age;
And now the glad Occasion aptly calls,
To break more Printers, and to spread more Stalls;
To save your Names from Lethe, tho’ your Books
Are doom’d the Prize of Fruiterers and Cooks.
The Streams of Helicon once clearly flow’d,
And Heav’n in their resplendent Bosom shew’d,
Whilst verdant Groves the sacred Mountain spread;
Then Pegasus on Balms and Myrtles fed:
Now blighted Thistles only crown the Top,
Which Herds of young poetic Asses crop;
And, choak’d with common Sew’rs, like Fleet-ditch Flood,
Its sable Waters writhe along the Mud;
Nor murm’ring wake, nor seem they quite asleep,
Whilst Wits, like Water-rats, around them creep.
If any shou’d attempt to cleanse your Streams,
Or wake ye from your kind lethargic Dreams,
Assert your Right, and render vain their Toil;
Yours is the Filth, then join and guard your Soil!
And lest ye’re diffident to aid the Cause,
Not wholly yet broke loose from Reason’s Laws,
View the strange Wonders of the present Times,
Let Empires sleep, but hear the Fate of Rhimes.
Let Pope lull all his Dunces with a Yawn,
Wrapt in their Robes of P—ple or of L—wn,
Whilst he shall leave one tatter’d Muse awake;
That Muse his own and others Rest shall break.
A Prostitute, her Charms their Vigour lose,
Now Colley keeps her, and she sups on Prose;
But free and common, hack’d about the Town,
Each of ye claim her! for she’s all your own.
With him, unmov’d by Salary or Sack,
She d——ns his Impotence of Brain and Back;
That thus in Age he strains at Wit’s Embrace,
And follows W—ff—n from Place to Place;
But tho’ cold Prose to him she’ll only give,
Ye, my pert Sons! who with more Ardour strive,
May raise the bastard Issue of a Verse,
To wear the wither’d Bays, or deck his Hearse.
Now for six Months had O——d shook the State
With grand Removals, and a grand Debate:
Dunce elbow’d Dunce, each foremost wou’d advance,
But backward fell, as in old Bayes’s Dance:
When Dulness spread her pow’rful Yawn around,
“And Sense and Shame, and Right and Wrong were drown’d,
Enquiry ceas’d, and, touch’d by magic Wand,
Ev’n Opposition’s self was at a Stand;
On well-oil’d Hinges creaks the Prison Gate,
And Pains and Penalties will come too late.
’Twas Night’s high Noon at P—is and the H—ge,
And Politics had died, but for poor P—gue;
For why, “The Goddess bade Britannia sleep,
“And pour’d her Spirit o’er the Land and Deep.”
And now the Scriblers, motionless and mute,
Sit down to count their Gains by the Dispute,
To see on which Side Victory hath run;
Like Mackbeth’s Witches, when the Mischief’s done,
They tell ye, that the Battle’s lost and won:
Contriving whom to greet, or whom disgrace,
As Gazettes speak them in or out of Place;
For Panegyrics drein their tilted Wit
On Peers new-made, against the House shall sit,
Or saucily appear before their Betters
In sage Advice, or on an old Member’s Letters:
Thus fate, they waiting the approaching Yawn,
Wishing for Sleep till the next Sessions’ Dawn,
When the kind Goddess did her Jaws unclose,
She snor’d aloud, and strait a Vapour rose,
Unwholsome as the Damps a Collier meets
Too often in his subterraneous Pits;
For Dulness taints all round her where she breathes,
As witness, Colley, thy dry blighted Wreaths:
Nor cou’d the upward Gasp disperse the Steam,
But from below disturb’d her Consort’s Dream;
Yet from her downy Lap he started not,
But mutter’d something thus—as loose of Thought;
“He hurts not me—my Cæsar—Satire—dull,
“Why all the World knows I’ve been long—a F—l;
“But now—I’ll do’t—Yae—ough”—so said, he drops,
Salutes his Queen’s Effulgence, and thus stops.
The Throne where Dulness sate, maintaining Right,
Resembled much some Monarch’s of the Night,
Where gloomy Myrmidons and Punks resort,
And snore on Benches round his ample Court.
Both there and here, as in the busy World,
Lords, Draymen, Linkboys, in Confusion hurl’d;
Beneath the Monarch, fond to be employ’d,
Narcissus lay with too much Tully cloy’d;
As Gluttons gorg’d at City Feasts too soon,
Oft get their Naps before the rest lye down;
Their heaving Stomachs turn’d at something tart,
When others doze, oft make them wildly start:
So he—“Why, what a Pax! who’d be a L—d,
“If Worth and Merit only Praise afford?
“I can’t be prais’d as Poet, Wit, or P——r,
“But that dem’d Twick’nam Bard my Parts will jeer;
“If I can’t write myself, here’s Colley shall;
“I’ve often heard him swear—he’ll stand ’em all:
“If he refuse me, I have still another,
“I’ll hammer him conjointly with my B——r;
“But sure the Laureat Harp must tune a Strain,
“New mended by a late V——e C—mb—n;
“For he, to give his Due unto the Devil,
“Was always to us Folks of Fashion civil.”
Resolv’d at once, he tweaks the Monarch’s Nose,
The Monarch snor’d—new Streams from Dulness rose.
Close to his Ear he lays his dimpled Cheek,
And in soft Accents speaks, or seem’d to speak,
“Dear Laureate, rouse, the Enemy’s at Hand,
“Another Dunciad travels round the Land,
“Whence all the sole Proprietors of Trash,
“Thy Friends and mine, most justly fear the Lash.
Vain are his Efforts—yet again he tries,
“Thy Odes!—oh save thy Odes!—dear Laureat rise;
“If not for Odes—yet for Love’s Riddle wake—
“Nor that?—thy Careless Husband’s then at Stake.
All wou’d not do—his soft Distress preferr’d,
Nor the great Mother, nor the Laureat heard;
For on her Lap so daintily he lay,
His Senses, breath’d into her, stole away;
All Aims at a Recovery were vain,
Till she vouchsaf’d to breathe them back again.
“One gentle Imprecation more and then,
“He cries, Farewel the Laureat and his Pen:
“Thy Country calls, if thou resign’st thy Sense,
“Yet rouse to be a Man of Consequence.
“Who calls thee Dunce, abuses too thy K—g,
“Whose Praises, by thy Place, thou’rt bound to sing;
“O! grant me Aid, assume the pleasing Task,
“In thy Nonjuror’s fav’rite Name I ask.
Thrice groan’d the Ompha, and in Thunder spoke,
The Blast his Sense return’d, and Slumber broke;
Nonjure! That Word alone unbinds the Charms,
For Party-Dulness always sounds to Arms;
Upstarts the Sire—“Mistake me not, he cries,
“Whoever says I was asleep———he lies;
“You know, my L—d, how I my Wits exert,
“How always pleasing, and how always pert;
“I know your Grief, before the Cause is told;
“Then here my Pen in Readiness I hold.
“Since by Desire I enter thus the Lists,
“I vow Revenge—know, Colley ne’er desists:
“Then I’ll pursue him with my latest Breath,
“Nor drop this Pen ’till quite benum’d with Death.
High on the Muses Pegasus Dan P—pe
Mounts full of Spirit, nor vouchsafes to stoop,
But hears the Murmurs of the Dull upborn,
Low empty Curses, or vain stingless Scorn;
One Dash strikes all the mean Revilers down,
As sure as Jove should swear by Acheron:
Whether his Person be their standing Jest,
Or his Religion suits their Libels best;
Whether the Author forms his crude Designs,
As the deserted Bookseller repines,
Who, after all his Boasts, is tumbled by,
And looks at D——ley with an evil Eye;
Or if their standing Topics, Spleen and Spite,
A Jesuit,——an Atheist,——Jacobite.
In all their hard-strain’d Labours, squeez’d by Bits,
Mark well the Triumph of these wou’d-be Wits;
Like Village Curs, kick’d backward by the Steed,
Their Noise and Yelping their Destruction breed;
Or if the Rider smacks them with his Whip,
’Tis more t’ unbend the Lash, than make them skip:
Yet still they rise and at it——Goddess hail!
Who o’er thy Suns spread’st such a thick’ning Veil,
That Sense of Pain, as well as Shame, is lost,
And you reward those best, who blunder most;
For where are Honours, Places, Gifts bestow’d,
But where thy Influence is most avow’d?
Rest, while more modern Miracles I sing,
Of Minor Dunces that from thee first spring;
But all who Recreants thy Pow’r disclaim,
And, Laureat-like, to Pertness change thy Name;
And ye, her Sons, who’ve nothing else to do,
Wait, if you please, the——Vision thro’:
You, who in Manuscript your Works retale,
And tag with Rhimes the latter Ends of Ale,
But vow th’ ungrateful Age shall never see,
In Print, how wond’rous wise and smart ye be;
Or you, whose Muse has run you out of Breath,
Or rode you like a Night-mare hagg’d to Death;
Attend and learn from Dulness’ sleeping Shade,
Another Goddess rises to your Aid.
Pleas’d with the Vow, the glad submissive P—r,
Thence leads the Monarch to a nobler Chair;
For why shou’d he at Dulness’ Footstool wait,
Who knows so well to entertain with Prate;
Some g—rt—r’d Dupes no nobler Titles boast,
Than to have been the Objects of his Roast;
For which they fill his Groupe, his Praises have,
And shine like Salmon’s Dolls in Merlin’s Cave.
The young Narcissus, whom (wou’d you believe,
The Cornhill Priest, who never cou’d deceive)
Had robb’d the Sibil of whate’er was sage,
Or Good, or Wise, except her Gums and Age,
Was the old Woman, tho’ in Youth renew’d,
Who led Æneas when he H—ll review’d;
Wrapt in the Steam that spread from Dulness’ Jaws,
From her Posterior’s, perch’d, pert C——r draws,
Conveys him to the Club—the Club despair,
Till they the Snuff-box smell, and see the Chair.
Then all the Dunciad d——n, and, grown elate,
Prick up their Ears, and bray, “To the Debate!
“The Chiefs were sate, the Scriblers waited round
“The Board with Bottles, and with Glasses crown’d,
“When he, the Master of the Seven-fold Face,
“Rose” gleaming thro’ his own Corinthian Brass,
And thus—my L—s, we once again are met,
Nor Sense hath robb’d us of a Vot’ry yet;
Pleas’d, I the present Danger undertake,
And gladly suffer, for my Country’s Sake;
For I a prompt Alacrity agnize
To be esteem’d or witty, smart or wise.
This present War then with the Pope be mine;
But one Thing beg, I, bending to your Shrine,
Due Preference of Honour, Time and Place,
And your Desires my Title Page to grace,
He said and bow’d—a Whisper trill’d the Air
Much as when C—mp—n wou’d have been L—d M—r.
However, each assents, then forth he drew
An Oglio Letter ready cook’d for View;
Taste it had none; for, having long lain by,
’Twas lost like Camphire that doth quickly fly;
But, as it never was in Print before,
’Twas new, they all believe, for Colley swore.
When one, as Deputy for all the rest,
Thus, in due Form, their Advocate addrest.
Great Laureat, thou whose yearly tuneful Notes
Deafen the Court from Chappel-royal Throats,
Oft has this Enemy to our Repose
Wak’d us from Slumbers where we quiet doze,
Reeking with Malice, and of Satire full,
He neither lets us sin in quiet, or be dull:
You too, with us, have his Attacks withstood,
Have answer’d not, or wou’d not, if you cou’d;
And to receive his Insults, in your Life,
You offer’d him Release from all your Strife:
So once did Cu—l, but he accepted not,
As if ye both contemptible he thought;
But sure this last Affront must give you Pain;
Can you your usual Temper now retain?
If this not rouse you, all our Hopes we’ll quit,
And sue out Bankruptcy against your Wit:
Therefore, as Monarch of the scribling Crew,
This is a Debt to both our Int’rests due,
For us he d—ns at once, in lashing you.
Let L—is then the happy Offspring rear,
Tis safe, if once committed to his Care.
He yields to their Intreaties, and then smil’d,
The Goddess spread her Vapour round more mild,
And strait a Form appear’d, like ancient Fame,
Her Wings, her Trumpet, and her Robe the same,
Each rous’d at once, and thought he grasp’d the Dame;
But found ’twas all a Cloud or empty Space;
No Substance, tho’ the Out-line they cou’d trace.
And, thus disturb’d, a strange unsav’ry Fume
Diffus’d itself around th’ Assembly Room:
The Scent each mad’ning Brain did instant strike,
All star’d, and thought it Fame, it look’d so like;
Colley at once disclaim’d her—“For, says he,
“I even Bread and Cheese prefer to thee;
“The Smiles of Monarchs may no Comfort bring;
“But then the Sack’s a wholsome pleasing Thing:
“Had I won thee, I might have scap’d a Sneer,
“And lost the twice One Hundred Pounds a Year.
“Then pray, dear Madam, if you please, be gone;
“Come you a Spy to make our Counsels known?”
When thus the Fantom——“Ye’re my Children all;
“Thee, Colley, I my eldest Darling call;
“Mistake not, I usurp no borrow’d Name,
“And hate, as much as you, the Sound of Fame;
“Tho’ I a Shadow on her Steps attend,
“When she appears, my Empire’s at an End:
“Your stern Antagonist draws Dulness right,
“Daughter of Chaos, and eternal Night;
“Wits boast their Pallas sprung from Brain of Jove;
“We too had our Original above,
“And claim the Heraldry of God-like Race,
“Part of the Cloud Ixion did embrace;
“Whence form’d in Aid of Dulness and her Train,
“I oft her sinking Works in Air sustain;
“And when they otherwise wou’d fall downright,
“I waft them upwards to a second Flight:
“So when the new-made Honours were confer’d
“On all your earthly Recantation Herd,
“The Deities of Air, in Mirth and Sport,
“Made me a Goddess, and allow’d a Court;
“Long ye have known me—I o’er Puffs preside,
“But ne’er, till now, appear’d in so much Pride.
The whole Assembly to her Presence press,
All own her, but, their Ignorance, confess,
Was wholly owing to th’ inverted Dress:
But both her Hands Eliza first uprear’d,
Insisting only she the Pow’r rever’d:
Oh make my Shop, she cries, thy fav’rite Shrine;
You must, you shall, I have you on my Sign:
All scold, and Indignation bent each Brow,
None wou’d the other’s Privilege allow;
When lo, a Youth of most distinguish’d Grace
(Well known for pressing first in ev’ry Place,
Whether he heads the Orders in the Pit,
Or doth at B——n’s Judge of Boxing sit)
Conspicuous mounts, and thus, in formal Speech,
Begins——“Statesmen and Morals I impeach,
“Write Satires, and deny them for my own
“In Advertisements, that I may be known;
“Grant me thy Aid, great Goddess, but once more;
“Not for myself alone I thee implore,
“But for this Saint, who breathing now her last,
“Wou’d fain retrieve Disreputation past.
“If Gold you ask, long-hoarded Bags shall fly”—
The Goddess smil’d, and puff’d it to the Sky.
“Children, says she, Distinction should be made
“To Scriblers, who are thus above the Trade;
“For ye, who equal in all Prospects are,
“To gain our Favour, we a Test prepare.
“He that has oft’nest most disguis’d the Truth,
“And render’d Sense and Reason quite uncouth;
“Who Learning hath, by Artifice abus’d,
“And by false Glasses vulgar Eyes amus’d;
“Who seldom in his real Shape was seen,
“For ever different to what h’ hath been;
“Him for our royal Consort we select:
“Begin—and Pertness all your Aims direct;
“And still to urge ye on to further Hope,
“These Trophies wait the Man who lashes Pope.
“The Wings from one of Mercury’s new Suits;
“These grac’d his Cap, and these adorn’d his Boots;
“But who shall mention Merit, or presume
“To talk of Wit, him we forbid the Room.”
Then first a Sage, of rev’rend hoary Years,
The Chief of the translating Bards appears;
And thus, in their Behalf—O pow’rful Maid!
“Daily and nightly we invoke thy Aid;
“In Pamphlets, numberless, have fully shown,
“Nor Language dead or live to Sawney’s known;
“Yet, spite of all the Methods we can try,
“The silly World will yet his Homer buy:
“But next we think”—the Goddess stopt them short!
“All ye have done, but makes the Learned Sport;
“To rail and call his Homer wretched Stuff;
“To censure and condemn, is well enough;
“But here’s the Curse on’t, ye’re such silly Elves
“To shew the Diff’rence ye translate yourselves,
“Or T——ld else had, not five Years and more,
“Hawk’d Æschylus about from Door to Door.
“Terence’s Eunuch the same Fate partook,
“Murder’d by merciless and mangling C——k.
“But cease we this, the recent Matter try,
“All who the present pidling Quarrel ply,
“Stand forth”——In Party-colour’d Vest
Cloddy appear’d, his Dialogue addrest,
And swore he’d study’d Swift with so much Pains,
He thought, at last, he’d gain’d his very Strains:
The Piece perus’d, this Answer she return’d,
“Obscenity, when dull, is always scorn’d;
“And who puffs this, will, to his Sorrow, find
“’Tis but a F—t will stink to all Mankind.”
Blast claim’d the Prize, and said, he did deride
The Poet, by appearing on his Side;
The Goddess sent her Maid to kick him down,
But e’er she rais’d her Foot, the Wretch was gone.
Next, in a borrow’d Shape, by Clytus worn,
In fierce theatric Battles hackt and torn,
A Wight stalkt in, and, under Virtue’s Name,
On Horace, Salust, Seneca and Pope cry’d Shame;
False English! baul’d he loud—the Goddess heard,
And to the School-boys his Address preferr’d.
He disappear’d, nor know we if he’s found,
But horse him, horse him, dy’d in distant Sound.
And now of ev’ry Sort came rushing in,
Scriblers and Puffers, with a horrid Din;
All who in various Occupations strive
To keep their sev’ral Mist’ries alive,
From Statesmen, who, for Coronets resign’d,
To the Dutch Kettle, and the Window-Blind;
But far above the rest, each Rival Stage
The Favour of the Goddess wou’d engage;
The angry Quack his Nostrums all forsakes,
And, in Revenge, his Gallipots he breaks,
’Cause R—ch bestows an Orpheus on the Town,
When he had, long before, run mad with one:
Then Paper Wars, and long-ear’d Quarrels rise,
And each the Goddess sues for fresh Supplies.
In spite of City Wrath and Aldermen,
A Concert takes the Dregs of Drury-Lane:
In pompous Stanzas they their Genius raise,
And sound, in ev’ry Paper, their own Praise,
From Rome and Death old surly Cato tear,
To see the modern Liliputian lear,
Greece is outdone, and learned Athens yields
To the politer Stage of G———n’s-F—ds.
Ambivius Turpia, the Stage ’Squire appear’d,
The Nurse, who ev’ry modern Terence rear’d;
A meagre Shade, quite uninform’d and wild,
Yet still he flatter’d, smooth’d, and still he smil’d:
Ne’er, but when frighten’d, cou’d he be sincere,
And ne’er ap’d Honesty, but ’twas thro’ Fear;
Revil’d, exploded on a rival Stage,
To dull the Sting the Libellers engage;
If double Pay is given them on his own,
He smil’d Consent, and turns them on the Town.
Then thus—Great Pow’r! thy darling Child behold,
I’ve courted thee with Orders and with Gold,
This Scheme let the contending Pollys tell,
This ev’ry Inns o’ Court Man knows full well.
But mark, dear Goddess, this my Master-piece,
Thus I revive the Arts of Rome and Greece;
For Shakespear’s Monument I gave a Play,
And stopp’d the starving Actors hard-got Pay,
Yet bore I all the Praise and Puff away.
Beasts graze the Plain, the Fishes skim the Sea,
Cars are for Peers, Streets for Mechanics free;
Thy Empire, Goddess, still hath been my Care,
My Life’s a Puff, my Deeds, like Words, are Air.
He spake, to grasp the Prize his Fingers stretch,
As feeble Reeds spent Swimmers strive to catch;
But finds himself pusht instantly away,
And by young Ptolomy is kept at Bay.
Give him the Prize, O Goddess, if thou durst,
A Wretch beneath his lowest Puppets curst.
The Claim he makes is owing to my Parts;
I taught him Management, and all its Arts,
From my great Sire alone deriv’d, to me
He gave it yet a living Legacy:
In what theatric Region are unknown
Our Puffs in ev’ry Bill, in ev’ry Paper shown?
And where his short ones fail’d, I, better skill’d,
The groaning Page with long Epistles fill’d:
If Falsehood claims it, end the vain Dispute;
’Tis mine, avaunt, ye Puffers, and be mute;
All Grubstreet tells——At this Conundrum rose,
And thus—Fond Youth, no more thy Gifts expose;
Tho’ the Foundation of this Art is Lies,
Yet Truth is sometimes proper for Disguise:
He who is always false, is ne’er believ’d,
Who’s always honest, is sometimes deceiv’d;
The Prize we’ll yield, prove it upon Record,
That he or you e’er spoke but one true Word.
Dismist—The Fantoms hover round the Place,
And shew their Crimes in Mirrors to their Face?
Each on the other gazing, ghastly stood,
And wou’d have blush’d, or hid them, if they cou’d.
Then thus the Goddess—“Cease all further Strife,
“Colley, thy Hand! I’m thine alone for Life;
“Thine be the Prize, an Emblem of thy Wit,
“Which tho’ not so, yet some will take for it:
“But ’tis not long, ev’n me thou must forsake;
“My last, my best, Advice then friendly take,
“Dear Scriblers, all Adventurers in Wit,
“Who scorn the Field of fell Debate to quit,
“Howe’er he lash ye, still the War pursue,
“Your Ignorance brings all his Wit to View;
“The Insects hov’ring in the breezy Air
“Shew th’ approaching vernal Season near;
“The Maggot that in Sun-beams basking lies,
“Tho’ the Heat scorch him, by that Heat he flies.”
She spake, and then, unseen, unheard retir’d,
Born in a Breath, she with a Sigh expir’d. |