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THE EXAMINER. A SATIRE. By ARTHUR MURPHY, Eſq
Te Lupe, te Muti; et Genuinum fregit in illis.
PERSEUS.
LONDON: Printed for J. COOTE, at the King's Arms in Pater-noſter-Row.
MDCCLXI.
[Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]
THE EXPOSTULATION. A SATIRE.
[5]WITH thee, thou inward ſpark of vital fire,
Who do'ſt each function and each thought inſpire,
Who now impell'ſt me into ſcenes of ſtrife,
Now wiſer bid'ſt me ſeek the calms of life;
With thee, my mind, now muſt I converſe hold,
And all I think and feel ſhall now be told.
Too long my indolence forbore to weed
Thy rankling faults, which now have grown to ſeed.
[6] But ſince at length you've fairly rouz'd my gall;
Now hear your own, my friend, and once for all.
To hear thee in thy wild capricious vein,
At dulneſs rail, the cauſe of wit ſuſtain;
Diſcourſe of authors, and decide their fate,
Important maſter of each learn'd debate!
And boldly thunder out thy claſſic lore,
We'd ſwear above all modern fame you ſoar;
For juſt expreſſion, and conception true,
For genius, taſte, and ſpirit — who but you?
You, one would think, in this degen'rate time,
Alone ſhou'd wear the meed of ſacred rhyme,
And boaſt, (ſo freely all around you deal)
No pore to ſmart at, and no nerve to feel.
But I, who know your very inmoſt part;
(Come, ſit you down, and let me wring your heart!)
Yes I, who know which way your folly tends,
Who count your vices at my fingers ends;
Laugh in my ſleeve, whene'er ſo pert and vain,
You dogmatiſe in high Parnaſſian ſtrain;
Or, when incens'd, your neighbours faults you ſcan,
Forget the author, and diſſect the man:
No barriſter harrangues with half your ſpleen;
When lords refuſe her, not Miſs F — D ſo keen.
But tell me, Sir, does heav'n thy breaſt inſpire
With emanations of aetherial fire?
[7] Does that fine phrenzy in thy boſom roll
Which fires a genius, and pervades his ſoul?
To thee, propitious have th' Aonian maids,
Led thy young footſteps to their ſprings and ſhades?
Know, whoe'er fails Parnaſſus' height to climb,
And taſte the well, whence flows immortal rhyme;
On wings Icarian, vain excurſions tries,
And downward cleaves the unelaſtic ſkies:
Ranks not with DRYDEN on the rubric row,
But crawls with LLOYD among the weeds below.
But if advice unheard, remonſtrance vain,
You needs muſt follow ſtill this idle ſtrain;
By fairer methods aim at gen'ral praiſe,
Nor on the thorns of ſatire graft your bays.
With a bold hand bid Clio ſweep the ſtring,
And ſound the virtues of a Britiſh king.
Shew him with all his ſubjects bleſſings crown'd,
In war victorious, and in arts renown'd.
Tell how the Muſes with a gen'rous ſtrife,
Rouze at his voice, and waken into life.
Swell, at his word, the Rhine with Gallic blood,
And bid thy verſe devolve a crimſon flood.
Sing how the Indian, near the riſing day,
Lays down his arms, and venerates his ſway.
What, tho' Apollo ſhould his aid refuſe,
You'll ſhew, at leaſt, a kind good-natur'd muſe.
[8] Perhaps may ſell (reflect what gain 'twill bring ye)
An ounce of incenſe for a ſolid guinea;
But I, you'll ſay, your feeble pow'rs invite
To regions that demand an eagle's flight.
A Britiſh king ſhould have a muſe of fire;
To ſing Auguſtus calls for Virgil's lyre:
But LLOYD and I, who, without Phoebus' aid,
Are doom'd to follow ſtill the rhyming trade;
A theme ſo lofty we can ne'er rehearſe,
Mere ſpider-ſpinners of a cobweb verſe!
For us 'twere beſt not tempt forbidden lays;
Nothing diſhonours like inſipid praiſe.
At fulſome panegyrick, void of ſkill,
Bluſh, tho' the poet can't, the patron will.
And thus, my mind, thus would you hide your ſpleen,
And to malignity give candour's mien?
Were it not better mount in Epic bold,
And be whate'er Rome's Querno was of old?
Like him, in fuſtian prove the public ſport,
And be the rhyming blockhead of a court,
Than ſtrive with wit to ſay the piercing thing,
And dart your ſoul in each envenom'd ſting?
Hop'ſt thou to rival Pope's immortal page,
And ſmile at folly in a future age?
Caſt but your eye around you, and ſurvey
Books once admir'd, now with'ring in decay;
[9] Whole poems, for their time delightful found,
All now transferr'd to grocers by the pound.
Verſe, that could once a lady's toilet grace,
'Gainſt a dead wall attracts the livried race.
Elſe to High Holborn, or Moorfields conſign'd,
'Midſt other ſtill-born embryos of the mind,
It lies for ages doom'd, in ſilence deep,
With Shirley's Pepin, or Black Prince, to ſleep;
Where worms ſubſiſt on rhymes once counted terſe,
And elegantly feed on mouldring verſe.
But grant your works may ſhare a better fate,
And taſte, or true or falſe, prolong their date;
Grant that your foes may all well-nich'd in rhyme,
Go down ridiculous to lateſt time;
Yet, while you live, if mankind hate or fear,
What can avail the laurel on your bier?
Slow comes, if warfare is the author's doom,
Slow comes the praiſe engraven on his tomb.
What daemon then inflames your angry fits?
Why wage a war with blockheads, or with wits?
Th' envenom'd ſhaft they've levell'd at your name;
Has the blow reach'd you? — have they hurt your ſame?
And why then drag them to the public eye?
In their obſcurity let libels die.
LLOYD'S poetry is quietly inurn'd,
From dirt 'twas born, and is to dirt return'd.
[10] Incog, the Craftſman vented all his ſpite;
His periſh'd eſſays never ſaw the light.
Th' Apology is number'd with the Dead;
Each trunk it decks lie lightly on its head!
In peace henceforth may ev'ry ſcribbling ſlave
Creep to oblivious ſlumber in his grave.
Yes, write who will; each blockhead ſtill poſſeſs
The liberty, or licence of the preſs.
Each modern Curl ſtill has his rubric poſt,
And ev'ry preſs maintains a ſcribbling hoſt.
Hence England's navy oft defrauded ſtands,
And the ſoil loſes its manuring hands;
Bankrupts in trade, their pens that moment dip,
As rats will iſſue from a ſinking ſhip.
Each printer perks ſubſcriptions in your face;
Propoſals croud each diuretic place:
And yet no patriot reformation makes,
Nor yet, whom hunger ſpares, the preſs-act takes;
Writers abound; no bard ſo void of fire,
But finds his fools to purchaſe and admire.
You, only you remain diſguſted ſtill,
The fancied regent of the Muſes hill!
But ſince on others works you muſt refine,
And trace new blemiſhes in ev'ry line;
Since Cenſor like you judge each writer's wit,
Think in your turn to what muſt you ſubmit.
[11] Nought can eſcape thy ſtrong ſatyric force,
But of yourſelf how does the world diſcourſe?
Firſt, LLOYD will cry — (now eſtimate your fame!)
"MURPHY, or DURFEY, for 'tis all the ſame." *
Ev'n he, the adverb-teacher of a ſchool,
To nonſenſe verſe who ſtriplings form'd by rule;
Beneath the influence of ſome full-orb'd moon,
Or elſe inſpir'd by Bacchus' ſprightly boon,
Shall a bag-wig with a ſubſcription get,
And give for ready gold inſolvent wit:
Then ſhall the birch, thirſting for youthful gore,
Stream like a meteor in his hand no more;
But at Bob Derry's for inſtruction ſtill
The unfledg'd pupil ſhall attend his will;
There ſhall he to his circle, wiſely drunk!
Now praiſe the Jealous Wife, and now a punk:
Then vent his ſpleen in his malignant fit,
Againſt thy life, thy morals, and thy wit;
His meagre cheek, 'midſt his nocturnal ſport
With envy pale, and his lips black with port;
Beware, he cries, of that proud haughty ſpirit,
Who views malignly ev'ry poet's merit.
Still fond in letter'd warfare to engage,
Some gad-fly bites, and ſtings him to a rage.
A fool, who thinks his notions to diſpenſe,
The legiſlator of all taſte and ſenſe!
[12] He runs a muck, and quite a coxcomb grown,
Hates COLMAN'S comedies, and likes his own.
At bar or ſenate ne'er approves a ſpeech,
And falls aſleep, tho' CHURCHILL'S ſelf ſhould preach.
CHURCHILL, a rough unwieldy ſon of earth,
Warm for his friends, and foe to other's worth;
Inflam'd with malice, in invective fierce,
A vigorous day-labourer in verſe!
Who by ſharp ſcandal hopes in wit to ſway,
As Hannibal by vinegar made way;
He too ſhall rouze your writings to revile,
And make more deſert ſtill the Deſert Iſle.
He to the world ſhall tell the horrid ſtory,
How Metaſtaſio had a fawn before ye.
Th' impaſſion'd tear if China's Orphan drew,
The plan freſh-modell'd, the ſcenes chiefly new,
The whole, intrepid genius! he'll advance,
Was plunder'd from the fopperies of France.
His friend the while may alien wit attack,
And the wren mount upon an eagle's back;
From the Spectator ſafely may purloin,
Fine-draw each ſhred, and vamp, and piece, and join;
From Fielding's page raiſe contributions due,
And claſſically drunk — ſing, "I love Sue;"
From bards exploded incidents may glean;
Take from Alſatia's ſquire a fainting ſcene;
[13] Spunge-like abſorb whate'er comes croſs his way,
'Till Garrick ſqueeze him dry into a play;
Then how the ſhouts of fond applauſe rebound!
Each ancient laurel withers at the ſound!
He ranks with all whom former ages ſaw;
Congreve's his brother-ſtudent of the law!
Ye moderns kneel at his thrice-honour'd ſhrine!
Worſhip the author of a work divine!
Now a new progeny ſhall glad our days,
A better order of ſucceeding plays.
New manners in high life ſhall ſtrike our eyes,
And from the Iriſhman new bulls ariſe;
By him ingrafted ſhall the country ſquire,
New ſhapes and beauties, not his own admire.
Kneel and adore ye bards: This, this is He,
The great reſtorer of true comedy!
Thus Io Paean! all his friends ſhall ſing,
From lads at ſchool conſenting ſhouts ſhall ring.
Upborne by them he'll ſoar aloft to fame;
But thou a helpleſs, an inglorious name,
With not a friend to deck thy brow with bays,
Doſt thou, alas! aſpire to gen'ral praiſe?
To draw from books in him is great, indeed;
In ſuch as thee 'tis criminal to read.
Seated by party on the Muſe's throne.
Whate'er he takes by conqueſt is his own.
[14] If e'er he deign to ſhine in borrow'd lays,
For him they'll quote immortal Homer's days.
But thou preſume to imitate a line,
No ſtar Maeonian on thy head ſhall ſhine.
Whatever praiſe with all thy toil and pain
Thou gain'ſt, my friend, thou muſt with envy gain;
Declar'd a plagiary, proclaim'd aloud
A mere jack-daw in furtive colours proud.
Thus do they treat you; an auxiliar band
Liſt in their cauſe, and thicken round the land.
"To arms, to arms," the ſcribbling legion cries,
"Your gooſequills ſeize; his reputation dies."
See Shirley ruſhes on, devoid of fear,
And leads his Craftſman, and his Gazetteer.
In tenfold braſs behold the MURPHYAD riſe,
Arm'd at all points with ribaldry and lies.
See Grub-ſtreet opens her ten thouſand doors,
See Billingſgate unſluices all her ſtores;
See eſſays, fables, puns, aſſiſt the fray,
Abuſe deſcending from confed'rate SAY; *
See authors on all ſides deſert their dens,
New edge their blunted wits, and nib their pens;
All who in diſtant Hockley-Hole reſide,
And they who drink, Fleet-ditch, thy ſable tide!
Who in Moorfields have ſcrawl'd a darken'd cell,
In the King's-Bench, or in the Compter dwell;
[15] On Ludgate-Hill, who bloody murders write,
Or paſs in Fleetſtreet ſupperleſs, the night;
The bards who doze around an alehouſe fire,
Who tipple drams, or fatten with entire;
Thick as when locuſts o'er the land appear,
And ruin all the promiſe of the year;
Thick as when piſmires crawl along the plain,
Or half-ſtarv'd crows around ſome ripen'd grain,
They ſorm their ranks; they rail, they doom me dead,
And the preſs aims its thunders on my head.
Their ſooty Naiads you addreſs in vain;
Their Naiads ſore will madden ev'ry brain.
And tell me, was it not a crying ſin!
To repreſent poor Shirley drunk with gin?
Why deal on Churchill the malicious blow,
And hurl him down to grots of mud below?
Muſt you ſor ever in new broils engage?
Muſt I ſtill be a victim for your rage?
Muſt ſtill your petulance mankind provoke?
Anſwer me fairly; for 'tis paſt a joke.
What can you urge? — muſt I then bear, you ſay,
To be made ſtill the topic of the day?
Still muſt I hear, and never once reply,
Teaz'd as I am by all the ſcribbling fry?
Muſt I not dare reſent, tormented ſore
With Churchill's rumbling Roſciad o'er and o'er?
[16] Shall Lloyd with fables and epiſtles teaze,
And dine upon me whenſoe'er he pleaſe?
I never can, (and let the vermin know it)
Bear in the dog-days a reciting poet:
A bard who takes a mean clandeſtine aim,
To raiſe himſelf, and wound another's fame;
Or if of open combat not afraid,
Calls in his brother bravoes to his aid;
On ſtrength of numbers his whole courage grounds,
And, whom he ſingle dreads, with clans ſurrounds.
For me, I never form'd a junto yet,
Ne'er made a black conſpiracy in wit.
At other's fortune never heav'd a ſigh,
Nor view'd a rival with an eunuch's eye.
Ne'er ſought the ſilent covert of the night,
To ſteal unſeen, and ſtab with coward ſpite;
If e'er provok'd to tempt the letter'd fray,
I ſtill, like Ajax, wiſh'd for open day;
And may my name ſtand, ay! accurs'd by men,
If e'er I hold a dark inſidious pen.
Ill fare the page, tho' all the Nine ſhould join,
To point each thought, and harmonize the line;
Ill fare the page, by envy's breath inſpir'd,
And not with gen'rous emulation fir'd,
That anger bears without occaſion fit,
And quarrels for the vain renown of wit;
[17] In an ingenuous mind that plants a ſting,
Or of young genius hurts the trembling wing:
To war with merit that would rather chuſe,
Than glow with gen'rous rapture for the muſe.
But ſhall each mean, each vulgar ſon of earth,
My fame attack, my morals, and my birth?
Shall groveling LLOYD deride the AUTHOR SQUIRE,
Nor I indignant kindle into fire?
Gods! ſhall an upſtart grow up into life,
A peer's dependant by a ſtrumpet wife;
Titles aſſume, free from invective ſpite,
And honour's ſons not claim an equal right?
Still on my head ſhall furious Churchill's rage,
Come inexhauſted foaming o'er his page?
What crime has made it my unhappy lot
To bear his phrenzy? — I provok'd him not.
When he my enemy avow'd became,
Had I e'er ſtain'd my volume with his name?
His bread to injure did I ever ſtrive?
Kind heav'n! I knew not ſuch a thing alive.
His rage announe'd him firſt; as bugs by night,
To warn ye of their being, ſtink and bite.
And thus attack'd, ſhall I not ward the blow?
Not bid defiance to th' inſulting foe?
Shall I not tell the ſcurrilous divine,
The Naiads of Fleetditch inſpire his line?
[18] Not tell his pious leer and double chin,
That arrogance and venom dwell within?
As ſome huge marble goodly to the ſight,
Where the blue veins meander and unite;
Where nature throws a grace on ev'ry part,
And with a caſual hand outrivals art;
Soon as the workman cleaves it's pond'rous ſide,
And bids the maſs in various parts divide,
Within the center of th' enormous load,
Strange to relate! he finds a lurking toad.
Is it injuſtice, is it barb'rous ſkill,
With his own arts the murderer to kill?
Conſider well the matter, and you'll find
I only claim what's claim'd by all mankind,
The gen'rous freedom to declare my mind.
Each reader claims it, ſtanding at a ſtall;
Each critic claims it, who ne'er reads at all.
Who can behold a ſelf-applauded bard,
Whoſe ev'ry line doth common ſenſe diſcard,
But inſtant cries, "The ſilly ſcribbling fool!
"Of a brib'd bookſeller the venal tool!
"Or elſe the madman! ſhut from pen and ink,
"Let him of hellebore deep doſes drink."
This will they ſay, and what do I ſay more?
They ſpeak unhurt; provok'd I quit the ſcore.
[19] Is this the ſign of a malignant ſpirit,
That views with envious eye each author's merit?
By more deliberate means know envy tends;
Saps on unſeen, and with'ring gains its ends,
Hoards her deſigns; ne'er acts the open part;
Smiles in your face, and ſtabs you to the heart.
"Marcus has genius, — but I never can
"But mourn one thing — he's thought a dang'rous man."
Does Alcibiades direct the ſtate,
Enlighten to the ſenate a debate?
Does he fulfil each part in private life,
True to his friends, and tender to his wife?
Envy grants all, — yet ſhould a tale be told!
"I hope it won't, — it makes my blood run cold.
"Should I relate — you'd all in wonder fix
"How with ſuch feelings cruelty can mix."
Thus cautious malice never once ſpeaks out,
But nods, winks, heſitates, and hints a doubt;
Not ſo the honeſt mind — from byaſs free,
It courts no object, ſacred truth! but thee.
For thee it ſearches all with ſtern delight,
Brings a right honourable lie to light;
Thro' each falſe medium darts a look ſevere,
And thro' his dignities can eye a peer;
Gives things their proper name with freedom brave;
A cat's a cat, and LLOYD a play-houſe ſlave.
[20] In works of wit ne'er lets opinion ſway,
Nor joins the current faſhion of the day:
Each piece rejudges by the rules of art,
And plays o'er all an Ariſtarchus part,
Marks the obſcure; t' o'erlook can ne'er incline
The lazy harſhneſs of a rugged line;
Th' ambitious poverty of ſounding phraſe,
The mediocrity of eaſy lays;
The worn-out joke, the raillery unfit,
The mere rough horſe-play of a clumſy wit.
With faults like theſe, if the work venal ſtand,
It marks each fault with a proſcribing hand,
Pronounces ſentence with a critic's fire,
And leaves the author's faction to admire.
Are there, who ſtoop a manager to pleaſe,
Who if he belches, can commend his eaſe,
Around the town who circulate his tales,
And take the freedom of the houſe for vails?
Is there a clerk, who writes for hire the day,
And ſteals at night to ſee a virgin play?
A bard, whoſe tragedy rejected lies,
And each day bathes in tears its parents' eyes;
Or elſe, whoſe Muſe nine nights eſcap'd diſgrace,
And hates with female ſpite a rival face?
E [...]n ſuch, with other fops, the vain, the ſad
[...]f-wits, half-beaux, half-parſons, and half-mad;
[21] Whene'er they pleaſe in dread array can ſit,
The ſelf-impannell'd jury of the pit!
Annoy the play'rs, with ſcorn each ſcene diſmiſs,
Whiſtle and catcall, roar, and chafe, and hiſs.
Riſe from th' unfiniſh'd piece; the bard decry,
The only culprit that unheard muſt die.
A writ of error ſhould he dare to bring,
And fly on Millar's, or on Tonſon's wing,
Of ev'ry reader he becomes the ſlave,
The ſtanding jeſt of each buffooning knave.
In humble preface he implores in vain,
Or lulls with dedication's gentle ſtrain.
The poet's judge no ſoothing arts aſſwage;
As Jeff'ries rigid, and foul-mouth'd as Page.
And muſt I only then ſtill choak with bile?
Shall men be coxcombs, nor I dare to ſmile?
Not dare to ſmile, when all around I ſee,
Each garret emptying its full reams on me?
On me, who heav'n be thank'd! have had the ſkill
To keep at bay the brethren of the quill;
Who ne'er with Shirley have a pipe enjoy'd,
Nor at Bob Derry's have got drunk with Lloyd.
Who ſhun the haunts of each dull ſcribbling fool,
My writings hurt them — what, Sir? — their ſucceſs?
May envy ſtill grow pale, nor know redreſs!
[22] My ſatire hurts them too! — miſguided men!
Who own a wound from ſuch a pow'rleſs pen.
A Muſe like mine may ſerve, but never bites;
Who, without me, had known that Shirley writes?
Yes, yes he writes, nor has my feeble ſtrain
Congeal'd his ſenſe, or petrify'd his vein.
Still Churchill pours the torrent of his wit;
Yet why? — th' advice I gave was ſound and fit:
"No more abroad to mend the manners roam,
"But know that charity begins at home;
"And e'er to plays and play'rs you turn your head,
"Attend your function, and inter the dead."
This was the counſel; this the kind addreſs;
And tell me frankly, ſaid his B—p leſs?
Whom have I wounded? —did I e'er with art
Aim at the innocent a poiſon'd dart?
On any honeſt head did I with ſkill,
A drop of venom from my pen diſtil?
Shew me the man, whom real genius fires,
Who pants for fame, and whom the God inſpires;
Of right and wrong the bounds who ſtill can find,
And boaſts the pure receſſes of the mind;
Who free from envy ſees a riſing youth,
His breaſt impregnated with gen'rous truth;
Fond to oblige, deſirous to commend,
Nor for his talents jealous of a friend:
[23] In his own way a rival who can eye,
Nor to ſubvert him, helps about a lie;
Shew ſuch a man, my idol he ſhall prove,
And ev'n with JOHNSON ſhall divide my love.
But ſhould there iſſue forth a pigmy wight,
Still flagrant from the rod, who needs muſt write;
Whoſe hand, ſtill tingling from the uſher's ſtroke,
Muſt pen an eſſay, and the Muſe provoke;
Prate, like a CONNOISSEUR, of juſt and fit,
Yet want the growth of manhood and of wit;
From a friend's genius who his ſtrength derives,
As the crab grafted on the medlar thrives;
Who thus ſupported can the merit claim
Ev'n from the ſtock, whence his nutrition came;
In ſelf-applauſe who can whole hours employ,
While his fond eye conſents in tears of joy;
By works of darkneſs hopes to riſe to day,
And damns a brief, and petty-fogs a play;
Cabals, and plots, and wriggles for a name,
And ſhrinks and withers at a rival's fame;
Fears leſt your induſtry with him ſhould vie,
And ſeems a friend to be a ſurer ſpy;
Fond to adviſe you, merely to deceive,
And, if your work ſucceeds, the firſt to grieve;
Who, for his ends, mean offices can bear,
And fetch and carry letters for a play'r;
[24] Who deems a MANAGER a ſacred thing,
And ſwears who laughs at him — diſlikes his king;
Far, far from me let ſuch his talents boaſt,
And be the GENIUS of an Evening Poſt.
Farther, ſtill farther let Criſpinus ſtand;
Between us riſe whole continents of land!
Yet e'er we part, his picture I would chuſe;
Come then and ſit, Criſpinus, for the Muſe;
The honeſt muſe, whoſe hand ſeverely kind,
Shall crayon forth each feature of thy mind.
Her work begins;— emerging from the ſtrife
Of mingling colours, lo! he ſtarts to life.
Is that Criſpinus? — what that uncouth form!
Who ſeems a very monſter in a ſtorm!
Can he, or truth, or poeſy, diſpenſe?
That CALIBAN in manners as in ſenſe!
In his fierce look, what paſſions ſcowling lie!
The downward head, and the aſſaſſin's eye.
His very youth 'gainſt decency rebell'd,
From ſchool with early infamy expell'd.
Thence comet-like irregular he flew,
And as he fled, ſtill more eccentric grew.
Still he deſpis'd all order, ſenſe, and rank,
At fairs he cudgell'd, and with porters drank;
In ev'ry low dexterity he dealt,
[25] At wheelbarrows for apples cogg'd the dice,
In ev'ry alehouſe gather'd ev'ry vice;
'Till, wond'rous to relate! his race to crown,
He ſanctify'd his ſcandal with a gown.
Then Tartuff-like a pulpit he attain'd,
With real malice, and devotion feign'd;
There pious leers, a ſatyr in diſguiſe!
And talks of virtue with laſcivious eyes.
For ſcanty hire the morning lecture gives,
And ſtill a needy Bacchanalian lives.
His days of folly one continued round,
Now at the punch-houſe, now the ſkittle-ground;
Now at the billiard-room whole hours he'll ſit,
Now hiſs the foremoſt critic of the pit;
To works obſcene now lend th' obſcener jeſt,
And to a Meretriciad give a zeſt.
To acts of envy all his ſoul inclin'd,
A mere Therſites both in form and mind!
His pleaſure ſtill to join the rabble race,
And with low ribaldry each name deface.
All worth above him eager to annoy;
Miſchief his pride, and malice all his joy.
Ev'n in the church, where he ſhould truths impart,
He proves a vile apoſtate in his heart;
'Midſt the Lord's pray's his ſpleen a lie can frame,
And meditate a murder of your fame;
[26] 'Midſt his devotion againſt heav'n rebel,
And ev'n his very wit can pimp for hell,
Can on detraction at the altar plod,
"Aſſiſt the fiends, and tear him from his God."
If ſuch Criſpinus, may he ſhun my ways,
And be his calumny my higheſt praiſe.
Thee too, Orbilius, thee my juſt diſdain
Rejects; thou meaneſt of th' envenom'd train!
To thy green years if nature e'er was kind,
Grown old in youth, thou'rt now a vaniſh'd mind.
By drams thy faculties diſſolv'd away,
Of rankling envy thou art left the prey.
He knows thy character, who ſees thy face;
Thy look's a libel on the human race!
The envious ſneer is thine, if Genius riſe;
The ghaſtly ſmile, when patient merit ſighs.
Thinking that frets, but never tends to uſe;
The pangs of labour, nothing that produce.
The hypocritic leer, the fawning ſtile,
The timid anger, and the treach'rous ſmile.
Rancour, that luſts each neighbour to abuſe;
An unperforming pigeon-liver'd Muſe!
The narrow ſpirit, that for pelf can pray;
Profuſion, that can muddle it away.
So mean, for favours he can humbly ſue,
So proud, when granted, can abuſe you too:
[27] Thus for a job a GENIUS he addreſt,
An underſtrapper at his own requeſt!
Then at his patron rail'd with ranc'rous heart,
And from accomplice play'd th' informer's part.
A figure, which the loves and joys forſake,
Which would each proſtitute a veſtal make;
But that all virtue ſtill to put to flight,
He panders ſchool-boys to the foul delight.
Deſpis'd by rakes, ſad outcaſt of the ſchools,
Bullied by cowards, a flatt'rer to fools!
A mere — but more the Muſe will not detect;
For who can bear a Maggot to diſſect?
Sworn in a laegue when bards like theſe combine,
And rancour is th' Apollo of each line;
When half wits convenanted ſeize the bays,
And ſing alternate one another's praiſe;
From others brows when ev'ry ſprig they tear,
Vainly they think uſurpers-like to wear;
When their own works for models they diſplay,
And this man's poems ſhew, and t'other's play;
At this I burſt; at this my Muſe proceeds,
Not like the barber whiſp'ring to the reeds,
But tells aloud, and calls the world to hear,
Each jealous ſcribbler wears an aſs's ear.
But ſtill I'm told, why quarrel with theſe fools?
Why indiſcreetly wanton with edge tools?
[28] Satire's a dang'rous weapon, and hath made
Adverſe to Pope himſelf the rhyming trade.
Let your ſatyric Muſe renounce her pen,
Or never dare to tread the ſtage again.
Elſe ſhall the Vandals ſtorm you from the pit,
And with their lungs revenge their want of wit.
Muſt I then ſtand appall'd by party-zeal?
No! — to a people's judgment I appeal.
That people ever generous as brave,
From ruffian hands the virgin Muſe will ſave:
A play of merit their protection draws,
Find but the piece, and they will find applauſe;
Faction with all her catcalls ſhall retire,
And envy, with'ring by degrees, expire:
Ev'n each falſe friend ſhall ſhake his head in vain,
And feel from wit the pleaſure and the pain.
But ſtill, tho' here the diſappointed foe
Sounds a retreat, he aims a ſecond blow?
Angry be foams; he roars with croaking note,
"The ſcenes are patchwork, like a Joſeph's coat.
"The whole, a motley linſey wolſey piece,"
From old and modern Rome, from France and Greece.
Why let 'em ſay it? — But ſhall men expect
To find us ſcholars, then as thieves detect?
Shall I ſee others rifle all the ſpring,
Nor dare a garland for myſelf to bring?
[29] No; let me roam thro' each poetic ſhade,
Taſte ev'ry fount, and viſit ev'ry glade;
Crop from each antient's brow the faireſt flow'rs,
And follow Genius to th' Aonian bow'rs;
Still ſome ſmall ſpark of inſpiration gain,
Or from the Muſe, or Muſe-inſpired train.
Ye ſacred Nine, to whom I lowly bend,
To whom my morning oriſons aſcend;
With whom my earlieſt youth aſpir'd to dwell,
And ſought your viſions in each penſive cell;
Give me, oh! give me purer air to breathe
In haunts where poet never cull'd a wreath;
Bid unſeen images before me roll,
And ſtream the fair ideas on my ſoul:
Or if, like Philip's ſon, I ſight in vain
For ſome new world's yet unexplor'd domain,
Like him, then let me make the old my own,
Its manners view, and leave no tract unknown.
Chief let the band, who warm'd a happier age,
Its manners view, and leave no tract unknown.
Chief let the band, who warm'd a happier age,
Who ſtrung the lyre, or gave th' hiſtoric page;
Let them, Oh! let them teach their ſacred lore,
And of fair wiſdom open all their ſtore;
At morn, at eve the rapture ſtill impart,
And touch with finer ſentiment the heart;
Embelliſh virtue, give the laſh to crimes,
And be the moraliſts of after-times!
[30] Illuſtrious race! if e'er I court the Muſe,
Some heav'nly portion of yourſelves infuſe;
Nor let the flow'rs, which at your ſhrine I gain,
Tranſplanted die, and curſe my barren brain;
But round my brow, ye ſons of laſting praiſe!
With modern ivy twine one ſprig of bays.
Old Homer thus could Maro's breaſt inſpire,
And thus Menander his own Terence fire.
Moliere himſelf, the great Moliere, whoſe view
Unmask'd each object, and look'd nature thro',
In Plautus' colours could his pencil dip,
And like the bee each various fragrance ſip;
Seize the true comic, each diverting whim,
And Spain and Italy both wrote for him.
On antient columns Johnſon rais'd his name;
On borrow'd wings ev'n Shakeſpear ſoar'd to fame.
The manly Wycherley lov'd foreign lays,
And Steel and Vanbrugh travell'd for their bays.
On their example will I reſt my cauſe,
Tho' niggard envy ſtill withold applauſe.
Yes, while I live, it is my ſettled plan,
Whate'er I read to profit all I can,
Tho' dulneſs ſons conjoin'd — friend, learn to fear.
(The voice of prudence whiſpers in my ear)
Why dulneſs ſons for ever? — let the men
Juſt bubble up, and then ſink down again;
[31] Sooth'em with flatt'ry — to oppoſe is vain;
With all my heart — I'll ſing another ſtrain;
Bob Lloyd in fable equals La Fontain.
Colman, the comic Muſe is yours entire,
And Juvenal muſt yield to Churchill's fire;
Flexney, and Thruſh, and Pottinger, and Say,
The weekly lie, the ſcandal of the day,
The lurking foe, — Bravo, my mind! — proceed;
'Tis wond'rous well! — Braviſſimo, indeed!
But can'ſt thou ſooth them with this artful ſtile?
'Tis deep malignity beneath a ſmile.
This praiſe that damns will make'em chafe the more;
Heav'ns! how they now will fret, and rave and roar!
Hard is at beſt the fate of all who chuſe
For idle fame to meditate the Muſe;
Tapers light up to lend mankind a ray,
And unregarded waſte themſelves away.
Round you more various ills in ambuſh wait,
For you muſt add ſeverity to fate.
Lo! from the Printing-Houſe one darts his pen,
And vomits ſmoke, like Cacus, from his den.
St. James's Chronicle alarms the town,
And in four columns ſcandal marches down:
But ſcandal, ſay you, ſoon muſt droop its head,
At morn it flutters, and at eve 'tis dead.
For boys at ſchool it helps to vamp a kite,
Or elſe emblazes ſome rejoicing night.
[32] To the tale whiſper'd, or the printed lie,
A life well acted, is a dread reply.
To all the harm a jealous wit can mean,
A piece well written is the worſt of ſpleen.
It is, my mind; then let it be your rule,
To ſmile contempt on ev'ry ſcribbling fool.
What, ſmile in ſilence, and with patience bear
Fierce ſlander's tongue, and envy's livid glare?
No; from the laſh be ev'ry witling ſore,
As for their malice witches died of yore.
Alas! alas! all Grubſtreet in a rage,
Will lay its harpy claws upon your page;
Your name each angry bard will ſtill purſue;
What can the bravoes of Parnaſſus do?
What ſhould I fear? — an evidence ſuborn'd,
and ev'ry miſchief from a poet ſcorn'd;
Who can — what can he? — huſh! — ſpeak out — again!
Be prudent, friend, or fairly drop your pen.
FINIS.
Notes
*
A line of Mr. LLOYD'S.
*
Printer of the GAZETTEER.
*
A lady celebrated, in a late indecent poem, called The MERETRICIAD.
*
There is a game among the vulgar, called Pricking at the B [...]t.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3948 The examiner A satire By Arthur Murphy Esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5C4C-9