'Tis faid, he fev'n long moons bewail'd his lofs
To bleak and barren rocks, on whofe cold mofs
While languishing he fung his fatal flame
He mov'dev'n trees, and made fierce Tigers tame.
So the fad Nightingale, when childless made 60
By fome rough Swain who ftole her young away,
Bewails her lofs beneath a poplar shade.
Mourns all the night, in murmurs wastes the day;
Her melting fongs a dolefull pleasure yield,
And melancholy mufick fills the field.
Marriage, nor love, could ever move his mind;
But all alone, beat by the Northern-wind,
Shiv'ring on Tanais banks the Bard remain'd
And of the Gods unfruitfull gift complain'd.
Ciconian Dames, enrag'd to be defpifs'd
As they the feaft of Bacchus folemniz'd,
Slew the poor youth, and ftrew'd about his limbs;
His head, torn off from the fair body, fwims
Down that fwift current where the Heber flows,
And fill its tongue in dolefull accents goes.
Ah, poor Eurydice! he dying cry'd;
Eurydice refounds from every fide.
An Efay on Satyre;
Writen in 1675.
His Man who yet would lord it o'er the reft!
Ow vain, and how infentible a beast
Philofophers and Poets vainly ftrove
In every age, the lumpish mafs to move:
But thofe were Pedants, if compar'd with these, 5
Who knew not only to inftruct, but please:
Poets alone found the delightfull way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers, that when once men grew
Pleas'd with their Poems, they grew wiser too.
Satyre has always fhin'd among the reft,
And is the boldeft way, perhaps the best,
To fhew men freely all their fouleft faults,,
To laugh at their vain deeds and vainer thoughts.
In this great work the wife took diff'rent ways, 15 Tho each deferving its peculiar praise.
Some did our follies with juft (harpness blame;
While others laugh'd, and fcorn'd us into shame;
But, of thefe two, the laft 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 elfe they juftly are preferr'd,
In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd;
Againit the groffeft follies they declaim,
Hard they purfue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit,
And but the talent of a vulgar wit:
Befides 'tis labour loft; for who would teach
Wy to write, or to preach?
'Tis being devout at play, wife at a Ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But, with sharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind,
That little fpeck, 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 fcenes of our declining stage:
A bove the reach of ev'ry little Wit,
Who yet will fmile to fee a greater hit.
But ev n the greateft, tho' expos'd the moft,
Offuch correction fhou'd have caufe to boast;
In fuch a Satyre they might court a share,
And each vain Fool would fancy he was there.
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 her felf 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;
Offuch a wretched rabble who would write!
Much lefs half-wits; that's more againft 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 C----r ?
The cunning Courtier fhould be flighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes fo much ado,
Till the fhrewd fool by thriving too too fast,
Like Elop's fox, becomes a prey at laft.
Nor fhould the Royal Miftreffes be nam'd;
Too ugly, or too easy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhiming fool keeps fuch a pother,.
They are as common that way, as the other:
While fauntring Charles betwixt fo mean a brace,
Meets with diffembling ftill in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him
How one has jilted him, the other fold him,
How that affects to laugh, and this to weep;
But who fo long can rail, as he can keep?
Was ever Prince by two at once mis-led,
Foolish, and falfe, ill-natur'd and ill-bred?
E----y and A-------y, with all the race
Offormal blockheads fhall have here no place;
At Council fet, as foils, on Danby's score,
To make that great false jewel fhine the more;
Who all the while is thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains, and telling lyes..
But there's no medling with fuch nauseous men,
Their very names have tir'd,my nicer pen ;
Tis time to quit their company, and chuse
Some nobler fubject for a fharper Muse.
And firft behold the merrieft man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear ease fome deep defign to lay,
Appoint the hour, and then forget the day.
Yet he will laugh, ev'n at his friends, and be
Juft as good company as Nokes, or Lee;
But when he would the Court, or Nation rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
When ferious, few for great affairs more fit,
But fhew him mirth, and bait that mirth with wit,
That fhadow of a jeft fhall be enjoyed,
Tho' he left all mankind to be destroyed.
So pufs transform'd fate like a mumping Bride,
Penfive and prudent, till the Mouse the spy'd;
But foon the Lady had him in her eye
And from the board did just as odly fly.
Straining above our Nature does no good;
We muft fink back to our old flesh and blood.
As by our little Machiavel *
we find
That nimbleft creature of the busy kind:
His legs are crippled, and his body shakes,
Yet his bold mind, that all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes ;
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To fee that lug his feeble limbs about?
Like hounds ill coupled, fowler is too ftrong,
He jades poor Trip, and drags him all along.
'Tis fuch a cruelty as ne'er was known,
To use a body thus, tho' 'tis ones own.
Yet this vain comfort in his mind he keeps;
His foul is foaring, while his body creeps.
Alas! that foaring, to those few who know,
Is but a bufy flutt'ring here below.
So vifionary brains afcend the sky,
While on the ground entranc'd the wretches lie.
And fo late Fops have fancy'd they can fly.
Next, our new Earl† with parts deferving praise
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet lofes all foft days, and fenfual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune flights,
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a bufy man :
And what is that at beft, but one whofe mind
Is made to vex himself, and all mankind?
Drudging for wealth, a Courtier let him live;
For, iffome odd fantastick Lord will drive
A hackney Coach, and meaner business do,
We should both pay him, and admire him too. 130
But is there any other beast alive,
Can his own harm so wittily contrive?
* E. of Shaftsbury. † Effex,
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