AN ALLUSION

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Tenth Satire of the Firft Book of HORA CE.

WE

ELL, Sir, 't is granted; I faid Dryden's rhymes Were ftolen, unequal, nay dull many times: What foolish patron is there found of his,

So blindly partial to deny me this?

But that his plays, embroider'd up and down
With wit and learning, juftly pleas'd the town,
In the fame paper I as freely own.

Yet, having this allow'd, the heavy mafs

That stuffs up his loose volumes, must not pass;
For by that rule I might as well admit
Crown's tedious scenes for poetry and wit.
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false sense,
Hits the falfe judgment of an audience

Of clapping fools affembling, a vast crowd,

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Till the throng'd playhouse crack'd with the dull load;
Though ev❜n that talent merits, in some sort,
That can divert the rabble and the court,
Which blundering Settle never could obtain,
And puzzling Otway labours at in vain :
But within due proportion circumfcribe
Whate'er you write, that with a flowing tide
The style may rife, yet in its rise forbear
With useless words t' opprefs the weary'd ear.

Here

Here be your language lofty, there more light,
Your rhetoric with your poetry unite.
For elegance fake, fometimes allay the force
Of epithets, 'twill foften the difcourfe:
A jeft in fcorn points out and hits the thing
More home, than the remoteft fatire's sting.
Shakespeare and Jonfon did in this excel,
And might herein be imitated well,
Whom refin'd Etherege copies not at all,
But is himself a sheer original.

Nor that flow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Mufe, whipt, with loose reins.
When Lee makes temperate Scipio fret and rave,
And Hannibal a whining amorous flave,
I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd fuftian fool
In Bufby's hands, to be well lafh'd at school.
Of all our modern wits, none seem to me
Once to have touch'd upon true comedy,
But hafty Shadwell, and flow Wycherley.
Shadwell's unfinish'd works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of nature, none of art;
With just bold ftrokes he dashes here and there,
Showing great maftery with little care,
Scorning to varnish his good touches o'er,

To make the fools and women praise them more.
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains,
He wants no judgment, and he fpares no pains:
He frequently excels, and, at the least,
Makes fewer faults than any of the rest.

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Waller,

Waller, by Nature for the Bays defign'd,
With force and fire, and fancy unconfin'd,
In panegyric does excel mankind.

He best can turn, enforce, and foften things,
To praise great conquerors, and flatter kings.

For pointed fatire I would Buckhurst choose,

The best good man, with the worst-natur'd Mufe.
For fongs and verfes mannerly obfcene,

That can ftir Nature up by fprings unfeen,
And, without forcing blushes, warm the queen;
Sedley has that prevailing gentle art,
That can with a refiftless power impart
The looseft wishes to the chastest heart,
Raife fuch a conflict, kindle fuch a fire,
Betwixt declining virtue and defire,

Till the poor vanquifh'd maid diffolves away,
In dreams all night, in fighs and tears all day.
Dryden in vain try'd this nice way of wit;
For he, to be a tearing blade, thought fit
To give the ladies a dry bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab.
But, to be juft, 't will to his praise be found,
His excellencies more than faults abound:
Nor dare I from his facred temples tear
The laurel, which he beft deferves to wear.
But does not Dryden find even Jonfon dull ?
Beaumont and Fletcher uncorrect, and full
Of lewd lines, as he calls them? Shakespeare's ftyle
Stiff and affected? To his own the while

VOL. XV.

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Allowing

Allowing all the justice that his pride
So arrogantly had to thefe deny'd?
And may not I have leave impartially

To fearch and cenfure Dryden's works, and try
If those grofs faults his choice pen doth commit
Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit?
Or if his lumpifh fancy does refufe
Spirit and grace to his loofe flattern Muse?
Five hundred verfes every morning writ,
Prove him no more a poet than a wit:
Such fcribbling authors have been seen before;
Mustapha, the Ifland Princefs, forty more,
Were things perhaps compos'd in half an hour..
To write what may fecurely ftand the test
Of being well read over thrice at least ;
Compare each phrase, examine every line,
Weigh every word, and every thought refine;
Scorn all applause the vile rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canft thou be fuch a vain mistaken thing,
To with thy works might make a play-house ring
With the unthinking laughter and poor praise
Of fops and ladies, factious for thy plays?
Then send a cunning friend to learn thy doom
From the fhrewd judges in the drawing-room."
I've no ambition on that idle fcore,
But fay with Betty Morice heretofore,
When a court lady call'd her Buckhurít's * whore;

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The fame probably who is celebrated by Lord Buckhurft (or Dorfet) in his Poems. See Gent, Mag. 1780, p. 218. I pleafe

I please one man of wit, am proud on 't too,
Let all the coxcombs dance to bed to you.
Should I be troubled when the Purblind Knight,
Who fquints more in his judgment than his fight,
Picks filly faults, and cenfures what I write?
Or when the poor-fed poets of the town
For fcabs and coach-room cry my verfes down?
I loat.. the rabble; 't is enough for me
If Sedley, Shadwell, Shephard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And fome few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my fense: I count their cenfure fame..

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Sir CAR SCROPE, who thought himself reflected on at the latter end of the preceding Poem, published a Poem " In Defence of Satire," which occafioned. the following Reply..

To Sir CAR SCROPE.

O rack and torture thy unmeaning brain,
In Satire's praife, to a low untun'd ftrain,

In thee was most impertinent and vain.
When in thy person we more clearly see
That fatire's of divine authority,

For God made one on man when he made thee;
To fhew there were fome men, as there are apes,
Fram'd for meer fport, who differ but in shapes :

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