A NEW ESSAY In Defence of VERSE, With a SATYR Upon the Enemies of POETRY.

WHat time was ever blest to that degree
As that fam'd golden Age of Poetry?
When th' Oaken Garland, and the Laurel Crown
Flourish'd, as equal Trophies of Renown.
When Great Augustus did the Scepter weild,
And glittering Arts th' Imperial Crown did guild,
Poets and Heroes alike honour'd were,
The one to do great deeds, the other to declare.
Horace, and Ovid, charm'd the Courtly throng;
Majestick Maro sung his lofty Song,
And by the Worlds great Monarch was so grac'd,
The awful Bard he on his right Hand plac'd.
Nay even the lesser Genius was not scorn'd,
But each to his desert with praise adorn'd;
From Pindar's height, to Cinna's low degree,
Some Honor still was done to Poetry.
The Nation cherish'd each Harmonious strain,
And Tuneful Numbers charm'd each Infant Brain:
Whilst jocond Muses Danc'd about their Spring,
And Caesar's glories did to Caesar Sing.
Momus his malice was asham'd to use;
Nor durst discountenance a bashful Muse.
The sober Criticks were all Judges then,
And what they cavill'd at, could well maintain.
Instruction, and not Envy, fill'd their minds;
The Wits, and would be Wits, were diff'rent kinds.
Reason and Judgment founded their Disputes,
And Orpheus there was safe amongst the Brutes;
But here where Routs of Bachanals do throng,
Alas, What Orpheus can defend his Song!
In this lewd Age, each raw pert callow Chit,
Drunk with the sumes of undigested Wit;
As much by Wine inspir'd to play the Fool:
One that a month before was whipt at School
For grovelling Dulness, with inervate force
Shall dare to back the Muses soaring Horse.
So Maggots bred by the Suns Genial Eye,
I'th' Morning Crawl, and before Evening Fly.

How, Sacred Art, shall thy fame disperse!
How shall I sing the dignity of Verse!
From whence the sweetness of each Language springs,
By which of Heavenly Gods, and Conquering Kings,
Are writ, in mighty Numbers, mighty things,
Extracted from the Flowers of every Tongue,
The Artful Poet frames his pleasing Song.
Like Bees, by Heaven inspir'd to influence
The World, with Works unknown to vulgar sence,
And does from Powers Divine a gift receive,
The Crowd may Emulate, but nee'r atcheive.
'Tis this that does their sordid Spleens Alarm,
Unskill'd in th'Magick, tho they feel the Charm.
Tho Tuneful Verse delights each clodded Brain;
Poet, and Science both, all Fools disdain.
Fools ever hate an Art they can't attain.
With black reproach they a fam'd Work defile,
Despise the Vertue, and abhor the Stile,
And Books adorn'd with Jems of Learning Spoil.
So have I seen a Brute tread down and tear
A Laurel, he could ne'er deserve to wear.

Thus is Instruction lost, for to what end
Is found Reproof to such as cannot mend.
Ignorance, in Ages past, a Curse has bin,
But in our time 'tis grown a wilful sin.
Now Fortune, not Desert, acquires Mens fame:
He that best knows to Crimp shall win the Game
Time serving Parisites prefer'd shall be,
Of any Nation, Notion, or Degree,
But the Poetick Loyal Fool like me.
In vain is Study, useless is the School,
Since every Art's abus'd by every Fool.
Where Verse has not the power to Influence,
What method ever can reform the Sence?
What would a Cato, or a Virgil be,
Iohnson, or Shakespeare, to the Mobile?
Or how would Iuvenal appear at Court,
That writing Truth had his Bones broken for't?
When times are so corrupt they cannot bear
Reproof, it is a sign Confusion's near:
And when harmonious Poetry design'd
To calm wild griefs, and still the stormy mind;
And by a soft and pleasing Elegance,
The sweets of Artful Rhetorick t'advance,
Is by the Town decry'd, it does declare
Folly, and not Philosophy Rules there.

Yet though good Writing be a gift sublime;
How do the Poetasters of the time;
Debauch the Science still with Dogril Rhime.
Ne'er heeding what degrees of Nonsence swell;
The guilty Lines, if they but Jingle well.
'Tis Rhime the Readers reason must controul,
Rhime is the Sence, the Substance, and the Soul.
In a whole Poem let no Wit be found.
If every Couplet end the with same sound.
Poets, that justly would their fame advance,
Should make Rhimes fall as if they came by chance.
A Tuneful word the Verse more sweet to make,
And not as studied for the Meeters sake.
Such chiming still from solid dulness springs,
Rhimers and Poets are vast diff'rent things.
Verses with Rhime, are proper several ways,
In great Heroicks, Satyrs, and Essays,
But most ridiculous when tag'd in Plays.
First from the Siege of Rhodes that method sprung,
And there most fitly since the Verse was sung.
But your stiff Herods, or Cambises strains,
Your Maximins, or hot Almanzors veins,
Show rather than the Wit, the heat of Brains.
Since Nature bears chief Rule in Poetry,
Than this, what more unnatural can be?
To hear a King, in Rhime express his Rage,
Or for his Cloak, in Verse to ask his Page.
A Lady too in sounding Numbers tell,
How oft she took a Glister, and how well.
Such stuff the Reader every day may meet,
Too silly, and too tedious to repeat.

Verse without Rhime delightful may appear,
Where Sence in equal Measures charms the Ear.
This first to use Seraphick Milton brought:
And great Roscommon since has better taught,
Who more Correct than any of our times,
Oft show'd, true Reason had no use of Rhimes:
Patron of Verse, thy soul on Earth did move,
In the same glory now it shines above.

Kindle in me, oh mighty Bard, thy fire,
And with thy powerful Art my Muse inspire.
So the wrong'd Sisters shall their griefs disperse,
And th' Age reform by my Satyrick Verse:
Whilst the wise few, do in this mirror see
The sordid enemies of Poetry.
First the Town Fop, in modern Stile, the Beau,
Inspir'd by learn'd Pontack, or wise Grilleau:
Dress'd like a Wax-Work-Baby in a Glass,
That wasts the Morn consulting his odd Face.
Studies his Stockins with a pensive Head,
To know which best becomes, the Green or Red;
And Patches cuts, sented with Amber-Greise,
To hide the Rubies in his pudled Phiz:
Is one that does to Poetry worst spite,
By the pretences that he has to write,
Flush to Wills Coffee House he comes each night.
Confirm'd those Wits are all charm'd with his parts,
As with his Beau Visage the Ladies Hearts.
To prove this, straight some Poem is inspected,
And by this Farrier barb'rously dissected:
The mirth goes round, the Paper they condemn,
Some at the Verses laugh, and more at him;
But that's not heeded by his grinning Crew,
Fools always laugh, when e'er their fellows do:
And when a Jest is put, each has a pride
To think whoever laughs 'tis on their side.
Thus 'tis not known which Verse is good or bad,
Because this Fop the Criticism made:
For all the Wise owe Poetry a grudge,
When such as he pretend to Write, or Judge.
His praise is fatal still, and if he Reads,
The Martyr'd Poem still the worse succeeds.
So Rats, that build in Country Barns their Nest,
Part of the Corn devour, and spoil the rest.
Such Fops as this the Poet's fame expose;
This still is one of their invet'rate Foes:
His managing the state of Verse so ill,
On the whole Science brings a scandal still.
In vain, alas, toils the aspiring Drudge:
'Tis only Wit, that Wit can Write, or Judge.
A Jewel rated at a price so high,
That few have stock of Brains enough to buy,
Yet all aim at the Jem to make'em fine;
Nay, rather than they'll not be thought to shine:
Deck'd with dull Pebbles, not true Warts of Rocks,
Th' appear like Mrs. H—ton in a Box.

Tho Wit, within it self, a Beauty be,
'Tis still more charming dress'd in Poetry:
A Robe, which is by Heavens peculiar care,
Design'd for very, very few to wear.
For as an awkard, ill bred, Country Clown,
From his dull Parents newly come to Town:
Though his Court Taylor racks his Brain to dress
The Booby, and set off his silly Face,
Yet all find out the brutish soul within,
The Ass is seen for all the Lions skin.
So th' noisie Bully that oft plagues the Pit,
Tho dress'd in the cast Robes of antick Wit,
The braying Momus is not hid from view,
For the dull Ears will still be peeping through.

The next ill Tribe that Poetry disgrace,
Is, to their shame, amongst the Female race:
A Wanton sort of Town Coquets there are,
That Poets hate, because they Poets fear.
Wholesom Reproof, like Age, still comes too soon,
And worse than the Small-Pox, is a Lampoon.
For tell but Lais there's Satyr writ,
Struck with a conscious guilt she leaves Basset. 
Tears each Alpieu, hates even dear Sonica,
And against Poets does with rage inveigh.
Rogues, to expose her faults to all the Town,
And make th' intreigue with the dear Coachman known.
What though to wanton Plays she'll railing come,
Yet Act each night far lewder Scenes at home?
What though her fame is known so well abroad,
The Court and Town can prove her Whore and Bawd?
Yet if she Prim and swear she's very Chast,
Shall homely Satyr dare to spoil the jest?
When she has bosom Friends, to prove untrue
Each Amorous slip, though done in open view.
For whether she's a Devil, or a Saint,
As Woman-kind, she can no Party want.
Vertue on single Innocence depends,
But favourite Vice is stor'd with many Friends.

Howe'r of these, a numerous Tribe there are,
We have (thank Heaven) some for desert as rare:
Though Lais does the Poets Art abuse,
Divine Asteria dignifies a Muse.
Souls most Divine, inspiring Verse approve,
Verse that improves the Saints in Songs above,
Of charming Honor, and more charming Love.
And as she, sweetest of that lovely kind,
An Angels Body, with an Angels mind,
In Beauties Synod takes the formost place,
Excelling all in Feature, as in Grace:
So does her Wit each fond admirer warm,
And with her killing Eyes has equal Charm.
In her dear Breast, the Arts will flourish still,
There lies no Malice, nor there wants no Skill;
Her Divine Soul enjoys a blest Repose,
And, except gentle Love, no Passion knows:
Nor that, but in so awful a degree,
'Twere fitter stil'd a Heavenly Charity.
In vain her Vertue, Envy seeks to stain:
The horny Satyr lifts his Scourge in vain.
Instead of finding Vice he might reprove,
The Monster kneels, and sighs, and falls in Love.
Like her, each Soul embellish'd with desert,
That Sacred Learning loves, applauds this Art.
But besides these I have expos'd to view,
There are a third, dull, dosing, canting Crew;
That Noble Sciences so little heed,
Their Clodpate Off-spring scarce are bred to Read.
Hence 'tis that by the curse of vacant Brains,
So many whimsies in the Nation raigns:
Hence Pipe and Tabor, Hum and Buz, are priz'd,
And each inspiring Muse as much despis'd.
With little Band, and piqued Beard, new prun'd,
Their Brains unsettled, and their Souls untun'd:
They sordidly the generous Art decry,
And from Tub Pulpits knock down Poetry.

The Swordman, yet unmark'd with honor'd Scar,
Routs Poets too, with Criticisms of War:
I mean the Spark that Whores, Drinks, Games, and Swears,
Whose Valour more in Scarf, than Man appears:
One whose hot Brain, believes, that if he be
Inclin'd to Wit, Religion, Modesty,
A Scholar, and a friend to Poetry;
'Tis the next way, his Credit to abuse,
His Honor and Commission both to lose.
Ah, Dunce, look back on glorious ancient times,
And see how Arts the Martial Soul sublimes.
See there a Race of Conquering Emperors,
With Sciences improve their idle hours:
Wise Antoninus, Nerva, Adrian,
Great Iulius, and Ador'd Vespasian,
Thought it a luster to their dignity,
T' advance, and be well skill'd in Poetry.
How brutish then must be that grovelling Race,
That to bright knowledge ne'er erect their Face,
But with the down-look'd Herd unminded Graze.
And how secure are Arts, and Sciences,
Though darted at by such weak foes as these.
What though the name of Poet, in the vogue
O'th' Mobile, is full as bad as Rogue,
As wretched, and as scandalous to them,
As if he were for some vile Theft Condemn'd.
Desert should smile, rather than take offence,
They act according to their Dole of Sence.
Wit will be still a Jem, though slighted by a Clown,
As Roses will be sweet, tho Asses tread 'em down:
Or if, which is their greatest infamy,
A Poet's general state is Poverty.
As those that slight the World, t'inrich the Mind,
From thence small favour can expect to find:
Suppose no Sun shines on him from the Court,
His Labours to reward, or Life support;
Suppose he is deceiv'd in some redress,
As if he's honest, ten to one he is;
Philosophy does his ill Stars controul,
And far above the vulgar seats his Soul.
Besides, Mecaenas will be still alive,
And bountious Cesar every Age survive.
Some Albem—le, or Dor—tt, will be found;
Ess—x, or Car—le, with true merit Crown'd;
By grateful Poets deathless Verse renown'd:
That o'r the bladder'd Crowd will make 'em swim,
And lift their sinking Heads above the stream.
Hail, therefore, Patrons of the Muses all,
Low at your Feet the Nine do humbly fall.
You that their Works with generous pleasure see,
And shine upon the Flowers of Poetry,
Encourage Satyr, that exposes Crimes,
And Version praise for Wit, and not for Rhimes:
To you, with them, I dedicate my part,
A weak defender of a Noble Art:
Glad of applause from Judges, but not griev'd
If by the Crowd my Lines are not receiv'd.
Heaven does Mankind to different Wits condemn;
The Vulgar hate me, and I pity them:
But when I with a Man of Judgment meet,
Or with a virtuous Lady, that has Wit,
My Breast entire, between 'em both they part,
He has my faithful Service, she my Heart.
For blasted be my Muse, when it shall dare
To wrong a worthy Friend, or hurt the Fair.