AN

ESSAY on SATIRE.

OW vain, and how infen

fible a Beast

Is Man! who yet would

lord it o'er the rest!

Philofophers and Poets

vainly ftrove

In every Age, the lumpish Mafs to move:

But

But those were Pedants, if compar'd with thefe, Who knew not only to inftruct, but please:

Poets alone found the delightful Way,

Mysterious Morals gently to convey

In charming Numbers, that when once Men grew Pleas'd with their Poems, they grew wifer too.

Satire has always fhin'd among the reft,

And is the boldest Way, perhaps the beft,

To fhew Men freely all their foulest Faults;
To laugh at their vain Deeds and vainer Thoughts.
In this great Work the Wife took diff'rent ways,
Tho' cach deferving its peculiar Praise:
Some did our Follies with juft Sharpnefs blame;
While others laugh'd, and fcorn'd us into Shame;
But, of these two, the last fucceeded beft;
As Men hit righteft, when they fhoot in jeft.

Yet, if we may prefume to blame our Guides,
And cenfure those who cenfur'd all befides:
In all things clfe they juftly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd:

Against

Against the groffeft Follies they declaim,

Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble Game.
Nothing is cafier than fuch Blots to hit,

And but the Talent of a vulgar Wit:

Befides 'tis Labour loft; for who would teach

W-SLY

-SLY to write, or TE

to preach?

'Tis being devout at Play, wife at a Ball,

Or bringing Wit and Friendship to Whitehall.

But, with fharp Eyes thofe nicer Faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wisest Mind,
That little Speck, which all the reft will spoil;
To wash off this, would be a noble Toil;

Beyond the loofe-writ Libels of this Age,

Or the forc'd Scenes of our declining Stage:
Above the reach of ev'ry Little Wit,

Who yet will fimile to fee a Greater hit.

But ev'n the greatest, tho' expos'd the most,

Of fuch Correction fhou'd have cause to boast:

In fuch a Satire they might court a Share,

And each Vain Fool would fancy he was there,

VOL. I.

I

Old

Old Story-tellers then will pine, and die,
To find their antiquated Wit laid by ;
Like her who mifs'd her Name in a Lampoon,
And figh'd, to find herself decay'd so soon.

No common Coxcomb must be mention'd here, Nor the dull Train of dancing Sparks appear; No feather'd Officers who never fight;

Of fuch a wretched Rabble who would write?

Much less Half-Wits; that's more against our Rules;
For they are Fops, the others are but Fools:
Who would not be as filly as D-R,

Or dull as W-LY, rather than Sir CR?
The cunning Courtier fhould be flighted too,
Who with dull Knav'ry makes fo much ado,
Till the fhrewd Fool by thriving too too fast,
Like Esop's Fox, becomes a Prey at laft.

Nor should the royal Miftreffes be nam'd;

Too ugly, or too eafy to be blam'd;

With whom each rhiming Fool keeps such a pother, They are as common that way as the other.