human
Can you write me a poem about satire and bard?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about satire and bard:
  and copies are now rare and not easily come by. Both in the
_One Epistle To Mr. A. Pope, Occasion’d By Two Epistles Lately
To guess, ere _One Epistle_ saw the light,
How many brother-dunces club’d their mite.
Flow Welsted, Flow! like thine inspirer, Beer,
Tho’ stale, not ripe; tho’ thin, yet never clear;
So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull;
Heady, not strong, and foaming tho’ not full.
The most curious of the charges is that Pope,
... from the Skies, propitious to the Fair,
Brought down _Caecilia_, and sent _Cloris_ there. (p. 11)
Who will name any young Writer, allow’d to have Merit, that hath
_The Blatant Beast_ is pro-Cibber, of course, but it criticizes
But it is the shrill personal abuse of Pope’s deformity and moral
The Morals blacken’d when the Writings scape;
The libel’d Person, and the pictur’d Shape
Pope had already been pictured as a mad dog (p. 7) in _The
*       *       *       *
Occasion’d By
Two Lately Publish’d.
Occasion’d By
_Spiteful he is not, tho’ he writ a Satire,
For still there goes some Thinking to Ill-Nature._
Printed for J. ROBERTS, in _Warwick-Lane_.
_The indecent Images, and the frequent and bad Imitations of the
above-mentioned Miscellanies._
Occasion’d By
Two Lately Publish’d.
With Strains has grac’d thee, humble as thy own;
Who (b) _G--l--n_’s Dullness did for thine discard,
A better Critick, for as bad a Bard!
Not unregarded let this Tribute be,
Tho’ humble, just; well-bred, tho’ paid to Thee.
_Parnassian_ Groves, and _Twick’nam_ Fountains, say,
What Homage to the Bard shall _Britain_ pay!
The Bard! that first, from _Dryden’s_ thrice-glean’d Page,
Cull’d his low Efforts to Poetic Rage;
Nor pillag’d only that unrival’d Strain,
But rak’d for Couplets * _Chapman_ and _Duck-Lane_,
Has sweat each Cent’ry’s Rubbish to explore,
And plunder’d every Dunce that writ before,
Catching half Lines, till the tun’d Verse went round,
Complete, in smooth dull (c) Unity of Sound;
Who, stealing Human, scorn’d Celestial Fire,
And strung to _Smithfield_ Airs the † _Hebrew_ Lyre;
Who taught declining (d) _Wycherley_ to doze
O’er wire-drawn Sense, that tinkled in the Close,
To lovely _F----r_ impious and obscene,
To mud-born _Naiads_ faithfully unclean;
Whose raptur’d Nonsense, with Prophetick Skill,
First taught that Ombre, which fore-ran Quadrille;
Who from the Skies, propitious to the Fair,
Brought down _Cæcilia_, and sent ** _Cloris_ there,
Prais’d _Sw----t_ in Earnest, and sung Heav’n in Jest,
Here, mov’d by Whim, and there by Envy stung,
By _F----n_ left, by Reverend Linguists hated,
Now learns to read the _Greek_ he once translated.
Oh say, to him what Trophies shall be rais’d,
That unprovok’d will strike, and fawn unprais’d!
Each fav’rite Toast who marks, or rising Wit,
To sketch a Satire, that in Time may fit;
Still hopes your Sun-set, while he views your Noon,
And still broods o’er the closely-kept Lampoon;
The lurking Presents o’er the Tomb he paid,
And thus atton’d our _British Virgil_’s Shade,
A Mushroom * Satire in his Life conceal’d,
Since chang’d to Libel, and in Print reveal’d;
Who lets not † Beauty base Detraction ’scape,
And mocks Deformity with _Æsop_’s Shape;
Who _Cato_’s Muse with faithless Sneers belied,
The Prologue father’d, and the Play decried,
On ‡ _H----y_’s learned Page, dull-sporting trod,
Betray’d his Patrons, and lampoon’d his God;
Translator, Editor, could far out-go
O! how burlesqu’d, great _Dryden_, is thy Strain,
When little _Alexander_ ‖ _slays the Slain_!
------Fought all his Battles o’er again;
On, mighty Rhimer, haste new Palms to seize,
Thy little, envious, angry Genius teize;
Let thy weak wilful Head, unrein’d by Art,
Obey the Dictates of thy flatt’ring Heart;
Divide a busy, fretful Life between
Smut, Libel, Sing-song, Vanity, and Spleen;
With long-brew’d Malice warm thy languid Page,
And urge delirious Nonsense into Rage;
Let bawdy Emblems, now, thy Hours beguile;
Now, Fustian Epic, aping _Virgil_’s Stile;
To _Virgil_ like, to _Indian_ Clay as _Delf_,
Or _Pulteney_, drawn by _Jervase_, to Herself:
Rheams heap’d on Rheams, incessant, mayst thou blot,
A lively, trifling, pert, one knows not what!
Form thy light Measures, nimbler than the Wind,
Whilst heavy lingring Sense is left behind;
With all thy Might pursue, and all thy Will,
That unabating Thirst, to scribble still,
Giv’n at thy Birth! the Poetaster’s Gust,
False and unsated as the Eunuch’s Lust!
Illustrious Fops, mean time, o’er-rate thy Lays,
And blooming Critics, as they spell thee, praise:
Blest Coupleteer! by blooming Critics read,
At Toilets _ogled_, and with Sweetmeats fed:
See, lisping Toilers grace thy _Dunciad_’s Cause,
And scream their witty Scavenger’s Applause,
While powder’d Wits, and lac’d Cabals rehearse
Thy bawdy _Cento_, and thy _Bead-roll_ Verse;
Gay, bugled Statesmen on thy Side debate,
And libel’d Blockheads court thee, tho’ they hate.
Fools of all Kinds their Suffrages impart,
These in thy threadbare Farce shall Beauties show,
Shall praise thy ribald Mirth, and maudlin Woe;
Praise ev’n thy imitating _Chaucer_’s Tales,
And call that merry * Temple, Fame’s _Versailles_:
Thy ‡ Shepherd-Song with Rapture they shall see,
Which rivals _Philips_, as _Banks_ rivals _Lee_;
Thy † _Guernsey_ and _Barbados_ Wreath shall own,
Where _Durfey_ ne’er was read, nor _Settle_ known;
That Wreath, that Name, which thro’ both Worlds is gone,
Which Doctor (e) _Y----_ applauds, and _Prestor John_.
Lo! as _Anchises_, to the Goddess-born,
So I the Worthies, that thy Page adorn,
The Prelate! next, exil’d by cruel Fates,
Who plagues all Churches, and confounds all States;
With Treasons past perplex’d, and present Cares;
And here! a Groupe of Brother Quill-men see,
Co-witlings all, and Demi-bards like Thee;
Such whom the Muse shall pass with just Disdain,
Nor add one Trophy to thy mottly Train:
But Quack _Arb----t_ shall Oblivion blot,
That puzzling, plodding, prating, pedant _Scot_!
The grating Scribler! whose untun’d Essays
Mix the _Scotch_ Thistle with the _English_ Bays,
By either _Phœbus_ pre-ordain’d to Ill,
The Hand prescribing, or the flattering Quill,
Who doubly plagues, and boasts two Arts to kill!
’Midst this vain Tribe, that aid thy setting Ray,
The Muse shall view, but spare ill-faced _G--y_:
Poor (f) _G--y_, who loses most when most he wins.
And gives his Foes his Fame, and bears their Sins;
Who more by Fortune than by Nature curst,
Yields his best Pieces, and must own _Thy_ worst.
Thus prop’d, thy Head with _Grub-street_ Zephyrs tainted,
_J----!_ who so refin’d a Rake is reckon’d,
He breaks all (h) _Sinai_’s Laws, except the Second:
Thus prais’d, thus drawn, t’extend thy Projects try,
Leave the gay Epithets that Beauty crown,
Forget awhile (i) _Belinda_ and the Sun;
No more let _Ombre_’s Play inspire thy Vein,
Nor strow with Captive Kings the † _Velvet Plain_;
Omit awhile the _Silver Peal_ to ring,      }
Nor talk dulcissant, nor mellifluous sing,  }
Nor _hang suspended_, nor _adherent cling_. }
But haste to mount Immortal Envy’s Throne,
To crush all Merit, that disputes thy own;
For thou wert born to damp each rising Name,
And hang, like Mildews, on the Growth of Fame;
Fame’s fairest Blossoms let thy Rancour blast,
Bane of the modern Laurel, like the past;
While stupid Riot stands in Humour’s Place,
And bestial Filth, Humanity’s Disgrace,
Low Lewdness, unexcited by Desire,
And all great †† _Wilmot_’s Vice, without his Fire.
truly quoted from _P----pe_; and the others in Company with them,
At length, when banish’d _Pallas_ shall withdraw,
And Wit’s made Treason by the _Popian_ Law;
When minor Dunces cease, at length, their Strife,
And own thy Patent to be dull for Life;
By Tricks sustain’d, in Poet-craft compleat,
Retire triumphant to thy _Twick’nam_ Seat;
That Seat! the Work of (k) half-paid drudging _Br----me_,
And call’d by joking _Tritons_, _Homer_’s Tomb:
There to stale, stol’n, stum Crambo bid adieu,
And sneer the Fops, that thought thy Crambo new;
There, like the _Grecian_ Chief, on whom thy Song
Has well reveng’d unhappy _Priam_’s Wrong;
Waste, in thy hidden Cave, the Festive Day,
With mock _Machaon_, and _Patroclus G----_
_Sleep_, (l) _Sleep in Peace_ the Works, for _Wapping_ born!
No more thy Cuckoo Note shall wake the Morn;
In Ease, and Avarice, and aukward State,
_The Fool of Fortune_, shalt thou hail thy Fate;
Slumbring in Quiet o’er Lampoons half writ,
Which, ripe in Malice, only wait for Wit.
So when _Vanessa_ yielded up her Charms,
The blest _Cadenus_ languish’d in her Arms;
High, on a Peg, his unbrush’d Beaver hung,
His Vest unbutton’d, and his God unsung;
Raptur’d he lies; Deans, Authors are forgot,
_Wood_’s Copper Pence, and _Atterbury_’s Plot;
For her he quits the Tythes of _Patrick_’s Fields,
And all the Levite to the Lover yields.
Read _Homer_ once, and you need read no more;
For all Things else will be so mean and poor,
Verse will seem Prose: Yet often on him look,
And you will never need another Book.
’Tis great Delight to laugh at some Mens Ways;
But ’tis much greater to give Merit Praise.
_Sheffield_ approves, consenting _Phœbus_ bends,
And I and Malice from this Hour, am Friends.
(c) _Smooth dull Unity of Sound._
I’ll bound, I’ll spring, I’ll strike the weaken’d Pole,
I’ll knock so hard, I’ll knock thro’ it a Hole.
(i) _Forget awhile _Belinda_ and the Sun._
Here, like the Sun, _Belinda_ strikes the Swain,
In the same Page like the same Sun again.
_Et enfin te compare au Solœil._
And in the End he compares your Majesty to the Sun.
No more my early Horn shall wake------
_So when bright _Venus_ yielded up her Charms,
The blest _Adonis_ languish’d in her Arms;
His idle Horn on flagrant Myrtle hung,
His Arrows scatter’d, and his Bow unstrung;
Obscure in Covert lay his dreaming Hounds,
And bay’d the fancy’d Boar with feeble Sounds:
For nobler Sports he quits the savage Fields,
And all the Hero to the Lover yields._
*       *       *       *
What is that Blatant-Beast? Then he reply’d.
It is a Monster bred of hellish Race,
Then answered he, which often hath annoy’d
Good Knights and Ladies true, and many else destroy’d.
SPENCER’s Fairy Queen, Book VI. Canto I.
Can Censure ’scape: Back-wounding Calumny
The whitest Virtue strikes. What King so strong,
Can tye the Gall up in sland’rous Tongue?
Printed for J. ROBINSON, at the _Golden Lyon_
in _Ludgate-street_.
Beauty, the fondling Mother’s earliest Pray’r,
Nature’s kind Gift to sweeten worldly Care.
Beauty the greatest Extasy imparts,
Steals thro’ our Eyes, and revels in our Hearts;
Adds Lustre to a Crown, gives Weight to Sense,
The Orator assists in Truth’s Defence.
The very Fool our Hearts resistless warms,
And while we curse the Tongue, the Figure charms.
A rude, mishapen Lump Contempt must raise.
When _Lucifer_ with Angels held first Place,
Seraphic Beauty sparkled in his Face.
By Pride and Malice tempted to rebel,
Vengeance pursu’d him to the lowest Hell:
Not sulph’rous Lakes suffic’d, nor dreary Plains;
Deformity was join’d t’ improve his Pains.
Paint then the Person, and expose the Mind,
Who rails at others, to his own Faults blind.
Sly _Sancho_’s Paunch, meagre _Don Quixot_’s Love,
The Satyr and the Ridicule improve.
So when fam’d _Butler_ wou’d Rebellion paint,
He lasht the Traitor and the Mimic Saint.
Sir _Hudibras_ he sung; the crumpled Wight,
Contempt and Laughter ever will excite.
The Blatant-Beast once more has broke his Chains,
Disperses Falshoods, and remorseless reigns.
Scornful of all thy Verses dare design,
(Where useless Epithets crowd ev’ry Line,)
The Blatant-Beast shall be afresh pursu’d,
Nor cease my Labours till again subdu’d.
Thy Mind envenom’d pictur’d in thy Face;
Malice with Envy in thy Breast combines,
And in thy Visage grav’d those ghastly Lines.
Like Plagues, like Death thy ranc’rous Arrows fly,
To thy own Breast recoils the erring Dart,
Corrupts thy Blood, and rankles in thy Heart.
There swell the Poisons which thy Breast distend,
And with the Load thy Mountain Shoulders bend.
Horrid to view! retire from human Sight,
Nor with thy Figure pregnant Dames affright.
Crawl thro’ thy childish Grot, growl round thy Grove,
In Curses waste thy Time instead of Pray’r,
(a) And with thy Breath pollute the fragrant Air.
There doze o’er _Shakespear_; then thy Blunders fell
(b) At mighty Price; this Truth let _Tonson_ tell.
Then frontless intimate, (oh perjur’d Bard!)
Thy Labours were bestow’d without Reward.
On that immortal Author wreak thy Spite,
(c) And on his Monument thy Nonsense write.
Should _Theobald_ thy presumptuous Errors shew,
Be thou to _Theobald_ an invet’rate Foe.
_Cibber_ shall foremost in thy Satyrs stand;
His Plays succeed, and thine was justly damn’d.
But _Colley_ call him, when thou would’st declame;
Great is the Jest that lies in _Colley_’s Name.
manner who abuses all others, and to make this just Reflexion,
since in his new _Dunciad_ he not only calls _Mummius_ a Fool,
but uses this filthy Expression--who stinks above the Ground.]
Beware all ye, whom he as Friends carest,
How ye entrust your Secrets to his Breast.
(a) On Backs of Letters was his _Homer_ wrote,
All your Affairs disclos’d to save a Groat.
He valu’d not to whom he gave Offence;
He sav’d his Paper, tho’ at your Expence.
their Emendations, it was written on the Back of the Letters of
his Correspondents, whether of Business, Complement or Secrecy.
A shameful Instance of Avarice and Treachery!]
But shall a low-born Wretch the best traduce,
And call it Poetry, because Abuse?
The Heav’n-born Muse, by Truth and Justice sway’d,
To false Aspersions ne’er vouchsafes her Aid.
When unprovok’d, not vengeful Wasps molest,
Nor dart their Stings, when undisturb’d their Nest.
Thy Muse, by _Virgil_’s Harpies taught to write,
Scatters her Ordure in her screaming Flight;
Sacred Religion and her Priests defames,
And against Monarchs saucily exclames.
(a) The Fathers, of our Church the surest Guides,
As a poor Pack of Punsters she derides.
But chief O _Cam!_ and _Isis!_ dread her Frown,
(b) Chain’d to the Footstool of the Goddess’ Throne.
No Order, no Degree escapes her Rage,
And dull, and dull, and dull swells ev’ry Page.
Thirsty, she Poison draws from ev’ry Flow’r,
Like Satan, seeks whom next she may devour.
So have I seen a Dog distracted roam;
He bites, he snaps at all, disgorging Foam.
The frighten’d Passenger the Danger flies,
And sees the Poison flashing from his Eyes.
Till some stout Dray-man dashes out his Brains,
And his corrupted Blood the Kennel stains.
Thy Notes pedantic shall no more engage;
_Arbuthnot_’s Wit enlivens not the Page.
Thy Muse, that Prostitute abandon’d Jade,
Now flounders in the Mire without _Swift_’s Aid.
Thy base Invectives Men no more regard;
With just Disdain thy Scare-Crow Muse is heard.
So when the latent Seeds their Fruits display,
And gain fresh Vigour from a genial Ray:
The careful Hind a monst’rous Figure frames;
From various Rags unwonted Terror streams.
The feather’d Choristers in Flocks retreat,
And at a Distance view the tempting Bait.
At length grown bold, they perch upon his Head,
And with their Meute bedawb what late they fled.
_B-ns-n_ abuse for raising _Milton_’s Bust,
And impiously molest learn’d _Johnston_’s Dust.
Religious, he the Psalms in _Latin_ sung,
From hence the Malice of the Deist sprung.
While with a just Derision we survey,
Thy wretched Epitaph on poor _John Gay_.
Had _Peter_, _Charters_ thee with Gold supply’d,
_Peter_ and _Charters_ had been deify’d.
But ev’ry Lord, each gen’rous Friend implore,
And by Subscriptions meanly swell thy Store.
When to the Town by sordid Int’rest led,
Mump for a Dinner, flatter for a Bed.
Then to thy Grot retire, indulge thy Spite,
And rail at those who for Subsistence write.
Summon thy Rags, invoke thy scurril Muse,
With keenest Malice _Addison_ abuse.
Sculking, the Scandal privately disperse,
So e’re _Arachne_ to her Cell repairs,
Insidiously she weaves her glewy Snares.
Sullen, she meditates on Deaths to come,
And meliorates the Poison in her Womb.
(b) Should hapless _Clarion_ thither take his Flight,
He falls her Prey, mindful of ancient Spite.
With Malice swoll’n, Pride, Envy, Avarice,
Ingratitude attends this Train to Vice.
Yet one remains untold; with Lust endu’d,
Behold the Fribler lab’ring to be lewd.
Kind _Cibber_ interpos’d, forbad the Banns,
He’d peopled else this Isle with _Calibans_.
(a) The noble _Timon_, in thy waspish Strains,
A Proof of thy Ingratitude remains.
Courteous to all, munificent, humane,
Subject of others Praise, to thee of Pain.
Exalted far above thy groveling State,
He smiles at Scandal so unjustly thrown,
And at thy Malice he disdains to frown.
Thus oft we see a currish, Mungrel Crew,
A stately Mastiff eagerly pursue.
They swarm around, they yelp, they snarl, they grin,
Bold in Appearance, timerous within:
With such mean Foes he deigns not to engage,
But lifts his Leg, and pisses out their Rage.
How dar’st thou, Peasant, give thy Pen this Loose?
Becomes it thee thus madly to traduce?
Alike are grown thy Subject of Disgrace.
Safe in thy Weakness, thou defi’st a Foe;
E’en (b) _Cibber_’s Cudgel scorn’d to stoop so low.
The Mercy of the Law restrains thy Fears;
_Coventry_’s Act secures thy Nose and Ears.
Yet there remains, to fill thy Soul with Care,
A Blanket to curvet thee in the Air.
O wretched Life consum’d in restless Pains,
Where Dread of Punishment incessant reigns!
Poor Self-Tormentor! in whose gloomy Breast
The Vulture dwells, inhospitable Guest.
Be to my Foe no greater Curse assign’d!
Than a malignant Heart and envious Mind.
Thrice happy he! that’s with Good Nature blest,
Love of his Species rules his tender Breast;
Nor there confin’d: The Brute Creation share
His kind Beneficence and gen’rous Care.
No base malicious Thoughts his Peace annoy:
Are others happy? he partakes their Joy.
Chearful and innocent the Day he spends,
And Silver Sleep his quiet Nights attends.
But thou, a Stranger to this Peace of Mind,
Search where thou may’st conspicuous Merit find:
There strive to blacken with thy utmost Art,
And rail the more, the greater the Desert.
Is there a Man, an Honour to the Age,
Unsully’d by the keenest Party-rage;
By Vice untainted; who, from early Youth,
Firmly adher’d to Honour, Justice, Truth;
Whom no unruly Passions e’re cou’d blind,
Nor ruffle his Serenity of Mind;
His Country’s Good, the Patriot’s noblest View,
Unbrib’d, unaw’d, does stedfastly pursue;
Polite in Manners, and rever’d his Sense,
And long in Senates fam’d for Eloquence;
But if to these Endowments of the Mind,
A graceful Figure happily is join’d,
Then flows thy Gall, then raves thy half-form’d Clay,
Then frets thy putrid Carcass to Decay.
So when the croaking Toad the Ox beheld,
His envious Heart with Indignation swell’d.
Vainly the Reptil thought he could extend
His bloated Form, and Nature’s Error mend.
He drew his Breath; he swell’d--he burst; he dy’d
*       *       *       *