A NEW ESSAY In Defence of VERSE, With a SATYR Upon the Enemies of POETRY. Thomas D'Urfey Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. R17889 D'Urfey, Thomas, 1653-1723. New poems, consisting of satyrs, elegies, and odes together with a choice collection of the newest court songs set to musick by the best masters of the age / all written by Mr. D'Urfey. London Printed for J. Bullord ... and A. Roper ... 1690 pp. 1-18. [16],207,[1]p.

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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 Snetonius writes of Augustus , that he was not only an extraordinary lover of the ingenious Authors of that Age , but also an excellent Poet himself : he once writ a bitter Satyr against a Poet , who durst return no answer , only saying , Periculosum est in eum scribere , qui potest proscribere . 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 A Cant amongst Gamesters , signifying a Cheat . 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 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus , was Sirnamed Philosophus , not only for his knowledge , but also practice of Philosophy ; and was observed to have often in his Mouth that speech of Plato , Tunc florent Respublicae quando Philosophus Regit , vel Rex Philosophatur . Antoninus ,

This Emperor was also very Eloquent , and a good Poet , as Martial testifies of him , vid. his Epigram of him , lib. 11. Epig. 6.

Quanta quies placidi tanta est facundia Nervae , 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 .