AN EPISTLE TO Sir Richard Blackmore . NOT that you need Assistance in your Wars , Or have receiv'd dishonourable Scars , By Criticks worried , as by Beasts of Prey , Men void of Sense , and full as wild as they ; Who against Wit Infernal Batt'ries raise , And tear with Envy what they ought to praise . Yet tho undaunted you maintain the Fight , And force your Foes within the Shades of Night , Groveling far distant from the Realms of Light , Suffer an humble Unexperienc'd Muse Your sacred Harp and trembling Strings to use ( A Muse was only by your Self inspir'd , And only by the Heat you gave her , fir'd ) Who owns what Merit may to her belong , Is always due to your Immortal Song . How blest , how happy were the Infant days , When Poets only sang their Maker's Praise ? When in united Notes they did reherse The mighty Founder of the Universe , Who forc'd out Light from the Abyss of Shade , And this vast Orb of slender nothing made ; Whose Surface , water'd with Celestial Dew , Unto our sight most pleasing Objects threw ; Of Flow'rs and Herbs a Treasure did unfold , Wondrous in shape , and beauteous to behold ; Whose fertil Womb did every thing produce , Which might suffice for Ornament or Use ? They saw with wonder the amazing Sea , How near the Earth it kept its rapid Sway , And yet eternal Orders did obey ; How its vast Waves in wat'ry Mountains rise , Whose foaming Pyramids do threat the Skies ; Lash'd by the Winds , how bulky Billows roar , Yet know their Bounds , and break upon the Shoar : They saw the Rack dividing from afar With weighty Clouds the thinner space of Air ; Thunder they heard , which thro the Aether rang ; They saw God's Works , and what they saw , they sang . The self-same God in antient times did raise The Heathen Bards to celebrate his Praise . Tho by Eternal Wisdom he was seen Only to them with a thick Veil between ; Yet such their Knowledg , that their Harps they strung , And an Eternal Deity they sung ; They taught the Nations its indulgent Sway , And by Example drew them to obey : They kept their Passions in severest awe , And made Lust stoop unto impartial Law ; When men grew vicious , and enclin'd to Hell , They did the Lash of pointed Satyr feel . Both for their Counsel and their Justice fear'd , No vicious Kings or Potentates they spar'd : To future Times they did the Truth declare , Which were the Lewd , and which the Virtuous were . So much we now decline from Virtue's ways , The Poet works his Labours into Plays ; Each Bard is grown a Mimick or Buffoon , And what was Satyr once , is now Lampoon : They meanly flatter for the Bread they eat , And not by Virtue , but by Crimes grow great . 'Tis true , your Genius was by Fate design'd To shew us Virtue and exalted Mind ; And those blest Paths , alas ! we seldom find . Like Daedalus , an equal distance show , You neither soar too high , nor creep too low ; 'Tis natural all , and not attain'd by Force , You guide with steddy Reins th' unruly Horse ; Whilst those who neither Rule nor Distance keep , Like Icarus descend into the Deep . To move their Rubbish you your self demean , Yet cannot this Augean Stable clean ; The nest of Viper-Criticks there you found , Their snaky Heads erect , and hissing round ; Like the old Serpent , ne'er will they grow wise , Nor quit their Venom , but retain their Vice . Of all your Foes , the Rhymer of most note Is he who the new Session lately wrote , Who , that his Lines may better pass for Wit , Has stamp'd with Honour all the stuff he writ . If we mistrust him , we are not to blame , Who shews his Honour , but conceals his Name ; No Suit of Scandal can we undergo , His mighty Honour being incognito . And cou'd we see this wondrous Son of Wit , Who late as Scribe did to Apollo sit , I dare believe his Title he'd disown , Nor call himself Apollo's hopeful Son : In thredbare Verse , perhaps in thredbare Clothes , He do's his honourable Wit impose ; Whose show of Honour signifies as much As Citt's confin'd within a Booby-Hutch . Tho he attempts the Regions of the Sky , Flutters o'er Earth , nor can ascend on high ; His Pinions broken , and his Lute unstrung , He sings a horrid and confounded Song . His mighty Dr—n to the Shades is gone , And Con—ve leaves Successor of his Throne : Tho long before his final Exit hence He was himself an abdicated Prince , Disrob'd of all Regalities of State , Drawn by a Hind and Panther from his Seat : Heir to his Plays , his Fables and his Tales , Con— is the Poetick Prince of Wales ; Not at St. Germains , but at Will's his Court , Whither the Subjects of his Dad resort ; Where Plots are hatch'd , and Councils yet unknown , How young Ascanius may ascend the Throne , That in despite of all the Muses Laws He may revenge his injur'd Father's Cause . Go nauseous Rhymers , into Darkness go , And view your Monarch in the Shades below , Who takes not now from Helicon his Drink , But sips from Styx a Liquor black as Ink ; Like Sisyphus a restless Stone he turns , And in a Pile of his own Labours burns ; Whose curling Flames most ghastly Fiends do raise , Supply'd with Fuel from his impious Plays ; And when he fain would puff away the Flame , One stops his Mouth with bawdy Limberham : There , to augment the Terrors of the Place , His Hind and Panther stare him in the Face ; They grin like Devils at the cursed Toad , Who made 'em draw on Earth so vile a Load . Cou'd some Infernal Painter draw the Sight , And once transmit it to the Realms of Light , It might our Poets from their Sins afright : Or cou'd they hear how there the Sons of Verse In dismal Yells their Tortures do express ; How scorch'd with Ballads on the Stygian Shoar , They Horrors in a dismal Chorus roar ; Or see how th' Lawreat do's his Grandeur bear , Crown'd with a Wreath of flaming Sulphur there . Tho Con— may in time , when he has merit , The Prophet's Throne in peaceful sway inherit , The Poets all with one consent agree His Mantle falls to G— by Destiny , Who did whilst living wear his Livery ; Who never did a Hero form in Verse , But what he fashion'd still in Dr—n's Dress ; Like him's ill-natur'd , and abounds in spleen , As if his nat'ral Issue he had been ; Like him's Malicious , Envious , and Uncivil , The three good Properties of Mr. Devil , Which Dr—n held unto the very last , Improv'd in Malice as his Life did wast : His dying Epilogue with Curses cramm'd , Has both the Arthurs , and their Author damn'd . No one so fit as G— in all the Nation T' harangue the Crowd in Funeral Oration : That nauseous Crowd of Mourners , void of Brains , Stood more in need of Ty—ns Bedlam Pains . The former Times produc'd prodigious Men During the Reigns of Chaucer and of Ben , Who show'd a Virtuous and exalted Mind , Which from that time has ever since declin'd . Cowley indeed endeavour'd to retrieve The Fame of Verse , and Life to Virtue give ; But that vile Age was in a League with Hell , And he in the Attempt successless fell . A Court debauch'd , a Theatre profane , Were all the Blessings of that virtuous Reign : Poets themselves by Lewdness then did raise , By servile Flatt'ry , and by fulsom Praise ; He then wrote best , that made the lewdest Plays . The Poet now the self-same method takes , His Reason , Virtue , and his God forsakes , Declines Instructions of the Good and Wise , By Vanity and Vice attempts to rise ; Some Packhorse for a Pegasus he strides , And stumbles on Preferment as he rides . No matter how unfurnish'd be his Scull , Be he a Sot , incorrigibly dull : If some lewd Courtier he can meanly praise , He never fails of Honour and the Bays . Thus St—ey rose to be a Chit of State , And Pr—r grew magnificently great ; P—r , who was with M—ue ally'd , For by their Hands the Hind and Panther dy'd ; They both in Partnership the Monsters shot , But M—ue the praise of Conquest got . Great M—ue , the wonder of the Nation , Only a Poet is by Imputation , And others Works of Supererrogation . Haughty and proud , he highly do's disdain To bless us with the Labours of his Brain . When e'er we see a Comet in the Sky , We strait conclude some Potentate will die ; So when the stormy Winds come puffing on , Disturb the Waters of smooth Helicon , This Mountain Poet does bring forth a Mouse , Larger and bigger than a Souldiers Louse . What need he write to make Mankind abhor him , Who has so many Bards to scribble for him ? Not one dares boggle , or his Patron lash , Who has the hap to keep the Muses Cash , Which bribes into his Service all the Rhymers , The Sonneteers and little Dogrel Chimers ; Yet always culls amidst the Multitude Such as are very dull , or very lewd . He plants fresh Laurels for each Impious Head , And builds fine Tombs and Statues for the Dead . But what vile Bard will e'er lament his Fall , Or write a Poem on his Funeral ? He like a Tyrant on the Earth will drop , And no one deign to take the Monster up . Some Fumes of Claret do from Hogsheads drown , Such as Ned W—d , or libelling Tom Br—n ; Others being made of different sort of Metal , Are leud as De—is , or as dull as Sc—le ; Yet all in Council do together sit How to dethrone the beamy God of Wit ; How to defame all virtuous Men that write , They rally Forces , and their Strength unite . This , Sir's your Fate , curs'd Criticks you oppose , The most Tyrannical and cruel Foes : Dr—n their Huntsman dead , no more he wounds , But now you must engage his Pack of Hounds . So have I seen an English Mastiff pass Along the Streets with a Majestick Grace ; The little Dogs come barking from their Cell , And whine and growl with a confounded Yell ; The num'rous Crowd on the bold Mastiff stare , And think each minute he the Curs will tear , When he who with his Jaws might have undone 'em , Lift up his Leg , and only piss'd upon 'em . You need not value what the Criticks say , Keep on your Course , and lead in Virtue's way : Col—r already has undone the Stage ; But if you strive to mend this vicious Age , You must with Ty—n , Sir , employ your Pains , And try if you can cure their want of Brains . FINIS .