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THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY




POETA DE TRISTIBUS:
OR, THE
Poet's Complaint


(1682)

_Introduction and Notes by_

HAROLD LOVE

PUBLICATION NUMBER 149

WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

1971


GENERAL EDITORS

  William E. Conway, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  George Robert Guffey, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Maximillian E. Novak, _University of California, Los Angeles_

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

  David S. Rodes, _University of California, Los Angeles_

ADVISORY EDITORS

  Richard C. Boys, _University of Michigan_
  James L. Clifford, _Columbia University_
  Ralph Cohen, _University of Virginia_
  Vinton A. Dearing, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Arthur Friedman, _University of Chicago_
  Louis A. Landa, _Princeton University_
  Earl Miner, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Samuel H. Monk, _University of Minnesota_
  Everett T. Moore, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Lawrence Clark Powell, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  James Sutherland, _University College, London_
  H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Robert Vosper, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  Curt A. Zimansky, _State University of Iowa_

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

  Edna C. Davis, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

  Lilly Kurahashi, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_




INTRODUCTION


_Poeta de Tristibus: or, the Poet's Complaint (PdT)_ was published by
two newly established booksellers, Henry Faithorne and John Kersey,
early in November 1681 (title-page dated 1682). The poem is only one of
a large number of Restoration satires on writers as a group, its nearest
neighbors in time being the pseudo-Rochester "A Session of the Poets,"
the anonymous "Advice to Apollo," Mulgrave's "An Essay upon Satyr,"
Otway's _The Poet's Complaint_, Robert Gould's "To Julian, Secretary to
the Muses," the anonymous "Satire on the Poets," Shadwell's _The Tory
Poets_, and Thomas Wood's _Juvenalis Redivivus_. It differs from these
in its Hudibrastic meter, the richness of its biographical detail, and a
relatively mild degree of animus against its victims, though there is
quite a deal against poetry as art and trade.

In the two introductory epistles, we are asked to believe first that the
poem is the work of a young writer driven into exile by his poverty and
secondly that the manuscript was sent from Dover to a relative on 10
January 1681 in acknowledgment of a piece of gold. It is possible, as
will be seen, that this reflects an actual history; however, the matter
is complicated by the existence of a second text, published by 12
November 1681 (Luttrell's date on his copy, now at Harvard, and
apparently the only one still extant) as _The Poet's Complaint (PC)_ in
which the story is presented in a slightly different form and the text
of the poem is little more than a third the length of _PdT_. An
advertisement placed in Nathaniel Thompson's _Loyal Protestant and True
Domestick Intelligence_ on 19 November 1681 claims that the rival
version, published by Dan Brown, was printed from a "spurious and very
imperfect Copy which contains only the first Part of the said Poem, the
three last Parts (which are the most considerable) being wholly left
out, excepting some few lines of them foisted in here and there without
any Sense or Coherence" and describes the Faithorne and Kersey
manuscript as "from the Authors Original Copy in four parts (together
with several Additions and Corrections by an Ingenious Person)." In a
recent article (_PQ_, XLVII [1968], 547-562) the present editor has
argued against this account of the poem's genesis, and has proposed the
following hypothetical order of versions. (For the details of the
argument the reader is referred to the article.)

     (1) An impromptu written as _The Poet's Complaint_ on or about 30
     December 1680, for despatch to "a Person of Quality," using
     materials from a commonplace book dating from circa 1677. This
     assumption is based on the terminal dates of its collection of
     quotations from other writers which differs from that of _PdT_, and
     a disparity between the times of composition alleged in the
     epistles to the two poems--_PdT_ claiming "less than a fortnight's
     space" and _PC_ "less than three days space."

     (2) An enlarged version of #1 in four cantos completed by 10
     January 1681. (The "Authors Original Copy.")

     (3) The version of #2 revised and augmented by "The Ingenious
     Person," who may or may not have been identical with the
     "Publisher," and printed as _Poeta de Tristibus_.

It would follow that the near-simultaneous publication of versions #1
and #3 in November 1681 was wholly coincidental. My initial assumption
that _PC_ represents an early draft rather than a truncated copy of
_PdT_ has been reviewed with approval by my colleague David Bradley,
using criteria developed during a study of analogous situations among
Elizabethan dramatic texts. One of his most valuable observations is
that the two versions are thematically distinct, _PC_ being a satire on
backbiting, attacking those who abuse poets and poetry, and _PdT_ a more
general study of the notion "Wit versus Wealth." It is unfortunately
impossible to reproduce his more detailed comments since this would also
involve reproducing sizeable sections of _PC_; however, the basic point
concerning the direction of copying can be made in another way through
the pattern of variants revealed in extracts from the epilogue to Lacy's
_The Old Troop_ and Dryden's prologue to _Aureng-Zebe_ which are quoted
in both _PC_ and _PdT_. Collation shows that both texts are derived
from a lost intermediary which was in close though not complete
agreement with _PC_ against _PdT_. This rules out any chance that this
section of _PC_ could be derived from the printer's copy of _PdT_, and
suggests that the intermediary is more likely to have been the
hypothetical commonplace book or the MS of _PC_ than any four-canto
text, though the second possibility cannot be dismissed on textual
grounds alone.

The only real clues to the authorship of the poem are the biographical
details of the preface and the signature initials "T.W." following the
author's epistle of _PC_--either or both of which may of course result
from a conscious intention to deceive. Surprisingly, both seem to be
relevant to the history of Thomas Ward, the author of the hudibrastic
anti-protestant satire, _England's Reformation_ (1719), who is known to
have left England at roughly the time suggested as that of the poem's
composition. In the life of Ward prefixed to _An Interesting Controversy
with Mr. Ritschel, Vicar of Hexham_ (1819), which appears to be based at
an unknown degree of removal on a personal memoir, he is said to have
been born on 13 April 1652, and to have returned to England in the
thirty-fourth year of his age after at least "five or six years" abroad,
a figure which may just be reconciled with a departure date in January
1680/1. However, other details of the case do not fit so well. To start
with, it is hard to see how a man of twenty-eight could refer, as the
author does in both epistles, to his "want of years, and a necessary
Experience in the Ages humour." Nor is it easy to reconcile Ward's
fervent Catholicism with a satiric allusion in _PC_ to non-preaching
bishops--a favorite topic of Puritan polemic--or with a reference to the
Pope as "Rome's great Idol." Ward is said in the _Life_ to have been a
Catholic before his departure, and writes movingly in _England's
Reformation_ of his friendship with the Yorkshire anchorite Father
Posket, executed in March 1679. The matter is further complicated by the
appearance of the initials "T.W." together with the dateline "Rome, June
10. 79. Stilo Novo." on a broadsheet of 1679, _A letter from Rome to a
Friend in London in Relation to the Jesuits Executed, and those that are
to be Executed in the Countryes_, which is in fact an anti-Catholic
tract vigorously supporting the executions. For this to have been the
work of Ward we would have to assume that he had set out for Rome at
least two years before the departure of the Poeta and then suffered a
violent relapse into Puritanism. On the other hand, if the pamphlet, as
is quite probable, was really the work of one of Shaftesbury's
propagandists in London, there would have been excellent reasons for
attaching the initials of a known Catholic exile. As the year 1679 is
also within the stated date-range of Ward's departure, the existence of
the broadsheet must count marginally against his being the author of
_PdT_.

I can cast no further light on this mystery beyond proposing that if the
story of the exiled poet is in fact a fabrication, the poem may have
been the work of a younger (b. 1661) and Protestant "T.W." in the person
of Thomas Wood, Anthony a Wood's nephew, later celebrated as a legal
writer, poet, and controversialist and for his fondness for anonymous
and pseudonymous publication. Two of Wood's poems, _Juvenalis Redivivus_
(published anonymously in 1683) and an elegy on the death of Oldham
(included with Dryden's lines in the _Remains_ of 1684), are satires on
the poets of a similar kind to _PdT_, while the second has a striking
structural similarity to its opening canto. Neither _PdT_ nor _PC_ is
included in Wood's list of his writings sent to his uncle in 1692 for
inclusion in _Athenae Oxonienses_ (Bodl. MS. Wood F.45, f.#229), nor do
they appear in _A Catalogue of Part of the Library of the Reverend Dr.
Wood_ (London, 1723); however, neither omission need be significant. A
third possibility is Thomas Walters, claimed by Anthony a Wood as the
true author of William Bedloe's tragedy, _The Excommunicated Prince_
(1679); but I have found nothing beyond the fact he was an author to
connect him with _PdT_, nor any evidence that either he or Thomas Wood
spent the years 1681-1682 otherwise than accumulating time for their
degrees at Oxford.

Monash University


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

This facsimile of _Poeta de Tristibus_ (1682) is reproduced from a copy
(*PR3291/P795) in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library.




POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

OR, THE

Poet's Complaint.

A

POEM


_In Four_ CANTO'S.

_Ovid de Trist._

_Parve, nec invideo, sine me Liber ibis in Urbem:
    Hei mihi! quo_----

_LONDON_,

Printed for _Henry Faitborne_ and _John Kersey_, at the
_Rose_ in St. _Paul_'s Church-Yard. 1682.




_The Publisher's Epistle to the_

READER.


_Courteous Reader_,

The following Poem was presented me about a year ago; and (as it appears
by the Author's Epistle to me) was designed only for my Private
Divertisement: But numerous Draughts being dispers'd abroad, by the
Unworthiness of a Gentleman I Trusted it withal, I was more easily
perswaded to Publish the Original, to prevent the Inconveniencies of a
Surreptitious Copy, which, without my Allowance, was designed for the
Press.

The Author being out of _England_, I would not venture to set his Name
to it; nor have I presumed thus far, without extraordinary regret; not
that I know any other Reason that enforces a concealment, besides that
it was sent to me with such a Bond. I am sure no particular Person can
pretend to any distaste; and _Satyr_ on general Subjects was ever
Allowable, _Religion_ and _Government_ only excepted.

But I must Confess, that in the Third Part of this Poem, there were some
Capital Letters which began the Names of certain Poets of this Age, but
them I have so altered, lest any Offence should be given, that by them I
am sure no Discovery can be made. I will no longer detain you from your
better Divertisement in the following Poem; which, if you have any good
Nature, you cannot chuse but favour, especially if you carry along with
you those several Circumstances which in the way will offer themselves
to you in the Author's behalf.

_Farewel._




The Author's Epistle.


SIR,

_My Obedience to your desire so happily concentring with my Inclination
to this Subject, has in less than a fortnight's space produc'd what here
you see. To you I need not make any Apology for its Artless Habit, who
very well know my want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages
humour; nor can you reasonably expect any extraordinary strokes from one
whose thoughts are divided between so many various Afflictions; since_
Ovid _himself, when Condemn'd to Banishment, was forc'd to resign that
Spirit of Poetry, which animated all his Works, besides that of his_ De
Tristibus. _Besides, I must desire your Patience to observe, that (the
Verse I use being a kind of Doggrel) it is but Natural that now and then
it should run harsh and rugged; nor do I believe I have done amiss by
forcing my self sometimes to be so very plain and familiar. As for the
Rhyme and Measure, though perhaps they may not always answer the
strictest Law, yet I do not think it worth the while to make any excuse
for that, being faults so inconsiderable, that they are seldom reflected
on, but by the meanest sort of Criticks, who want judgment to discern
the Intrigues of Humour and Invention, which are the Principal
Ingredients of a Poem, and which I must needs confess are here extreamly
deficient: For as this little Poem was written_ extempore, _so it
presumes to kiss your hand in its Native unpolish'd shape, not having
the least thought or word of it Corrected; for to Morrow being the time
we design to take Shipping, I had not so much leisure as to Transcribe
it._

_I must Confess, it seems unnatural, that one who pretends to the Title
of a Poet, should endeavour, as I have done, to disparage his own
Profession. However, the Poets of this Age, whom it most concerns, I
hope will not take it unkindly of me, since doing thus, I only follow
the Example they have given me; for in that short time of my Residence
in_ London, _among all the Poets I was in Company with, I heard little
else besides their Complaints, and unmerciful damnings both of the Times
and one another. Neither have I seen a Modern Play but either began or
ended in the same Tune. Some few of which I have, for Example-sake, here
presumed to quote._


In the Prologue to _Aurenzebe_.

    _The Clergy thrives, and the Litigious Bar,_
    _Dull Heroes fatten by the Spoils of War._
    _All Southern Vices (Heav'n be prais'd) are here,_
    _But Wit's a Luxury you count too dear._

In the Epilogue to the _Libertine_.

    _S Death! What a Devil would you have us do?_}
    _Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue,_  }
    _Angling for single Money in a Shoe?_        }

In the Epilogue to _Monsieur Rogooe_.

    _I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,_
    _Both by my empty Purse, and empty Brain._
    _I've other Reasons to confirm it too;_
    _I've great, and self-conceits of all I do._
    _As for my Play, I Pawn'd it to some Cit,_
    _At least six Months before my Play was writ._
    _But when the third day comes, away I run,_
    _Knowing that then in sholes come all my Duns._
    _If these things make me not a proper Poet,_
    _He that has better Title, let him shew it._

In the Prologue to _Theodosius_; Or the Force of Love.

    _On Poets only no kind Star e're smil'd,_
    _Curst Fate has damn'd 'em every Mothers Child._
    _Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage_
    _To write no more to an ingrateful Age._
    _Think what penurious Masters you have serv'd;_
    Tasso _ran mad, and Noble_ Spencer _starv'd_.
    _Turn then, who e're thou art, that canst Write well,_
    _Thy ink to Gall, and in Lampoons excell._
    _Forswear all Honesty, traduce the Great,_
    _Grow Impudent, and rail against the State;_
    _Bursting with Spleen, abroad thy Pasquils send,_
    _And choose some Libel-spreader for thy Friend._
    _The Wit and Want of_ Timon _point thy Mind,_
    _And for thy Satyr-subject chuse Mankind._

In the Prologue to the Unhappy Favourite; or the Earl of _Essex_.

    _The Merchant, joyful with th' hopes of Gain,_
    _Ventures his Life and Fortunes on the Main;_
    _But the poor Poet oft'ner does expose_
    _More than his Life, his Credit, for Applause._

In the Epilogue to the same Play.

    _Let those who call us Wicked, change their Sence,_
    _For never Men liv'd more on Providence:_
    _Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half so poor,_
    _Nor broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore;_
    _Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents_
    _Of the three last ungiving Parliaments._
    _So Wretched, that if_ Pharaoh _could Divine,_      }
    _He might have spar'd his Dream of seven lean Kine,_}
    _And chang'd the Vision for the Muses Nine._        }

And a little after.

    _'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,_
    _For then the Printer's Press would suffer more:_
    _Their Pamphleteers their Venom daily spit,_
    _They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit._

_Now I do not blame these Ingenuous Gentlemen for inveighing against the
thing to which they owe their Ruin; nor were it to any purpose to
endeavour to conceal a Truth so generally taken notice of: For who is
Ignorant of this, that a Man, in all Professions, except that of Poetry,
may with Honour advance a Livelihood? But that (though it may be
sometimes found proper for the Divertisement of those few who have
leisure to read it) was ever known to be most unprofitable to the
Authors; for few or none have been Advanced by it, though many have been
hindred by this Art of Versifying, from making their Fortune otherwise
in the World. Yea, this Profession is grown so Vile and abject, that
whereas others count it an Honour to be stiled Physicians, Barristers,
or the like; these are offended with the very Name of Poet: And that
with good Reason too, since Poetry only glories in Disguising the Truth;
for which cause it begins to be Banished even from Theatres, to which
alone it was Destinated; and Prose is now come in request, being
prefer'd for its Gracefulness and Naturalness above it: By which means
this Art is in danger to be confin'd to the Corners of Streets; to serve
only for Songs and Ballads. Hence it was that_ Ovid _was so severely
Punished by his Father, to make him leave off this Art, which proved so
unlucky to him, that he became of a Rich_ Roman _Knight, a Miserable
Exile among_ Barbarians. _Hence_ Plato _was pleased to Banish it out of
his imaginary Common-Wealth. And_ Philip, _the first Christian Emperour,
denied them those Immunities which he granted to all others. Numerous
Instances of this Nature offer themselves to my Pen, but I must take
care not to stretch my Epistle too far, for fear you should Reflect on
it, what was formerly said on Sir_ William D'avenant's _Preface before
his_ Gondibert,

    A Preface to no Book, a Porch to no House,
    Here is the Mountain, but where is the Mouse?

_However, I must not neglect to desire this one Favour of you, that
after you have taken the pains to peruse these undigested Lines, you
would be pleased to bestow on them a Funeral Fire; or if you apprehend
that Sentence to be too severe, I do most earnestly beg of you to keep
them Secret to your self, without shewing them to your trustiest Friend,
at least, with my Name_ _to them. It were superfluous now to engage you
not to convey them to the Censorious World through the Press, since
that, and more was already by the precedent Caution imply'd; besides,
the Opinion I have of your Candour, is better grounded, than to admit of
any such Jealousie._

_I will now only add my most hearty Thanks for all your Favours,
particularly for the Piece of Gold I Received inclosed in your last
Letter; and had some others of my Relations proved as kind to me as your
self, or had I in my own Countrey met with encouragement any way sutable
to my Endeavours, I had not in this Passion shaken hands with it. But
now I am in hast to be gone, yet will for ever remain,_

_Dearest Cousin!_

Your assured, Faithful Friend,
and most Humble Servant.

Dated at _Dover_ the Tenth
day of _January, 1680/1_.

    POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

    OR, THE

    Poet's Complaint.

    A

    POEM.




_The First CANTO._


    Since here I'm bandy'd up and down
    By the keen blows of Fortunes frown,
    Whil'st Art and Nature vainly strive
    To make th' unhappy Poet live;
    I'le fly such Native Plagues as these
    For Refuge, to the calmer Seas:
    And try if boading Stars dispence
    Ev'ry where the same influence.
    Climes vary Constitutions, so
    Why may not they change Fortunes too?
    Through th' habitable World I'le go,
    And if that fails, I'le search for new.
    Wit somewhere has a happy Reign,
    Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain.
    Tho' here her bounty she provides
    For ev'ry thing which breaths besides.

      The Dunce made Batchelor of Art,
    Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart,
    Then Preaches 'fore a Country Squire,}
    Who his deep Learning does admire,   }
    And gives him sixscore pounds a year.}
    But he must Marry th' Chamber-Maid,
    Who is, forsooth, a Mistress made:
    So he goes on with a fair hope,
    And of his Pulpit makes a Shop.

      So Quacks as eas'ly as they will,
    Can get Licenses to kill,
    Whil'st the hungry Poet may  }
    For an _Imprimatur_ stay,    }
    Till h'has eaten up his Play.}

    Yet since the Press has lately had
    Its Liberty, 'tis near as bad.
    For scarce a broken Shop-keeper,
    Or a cast Serving man grown bare,
    But herds among our starved Crew,
    And falls a Writing Poems too.
    The Plot, the Jesuit, and the Pope
    Are now grown Theams for ev'ry <DW2>.
    Who by such wretched, Ballad-ware,
    Makes Writing cheap, and Paper dear.

      See how the gaping Merchants range,
    Hunting their Chapmen on the Change,
    Whose Various Voices frame a sound,
    Like Billows when their Ships are drown'd,
    And in one hour more fat do sweat
    Than th' Poet in a year can get.
    Those worst of Atheists! who do hold
    There is no Deity but Gold!
    They hate the Poet 'cause he's poor,
    And only th' Golden Calf adore.
    Our Plays, they say, are wicked dear,
    Th' expence in Ballads will go far.
    Nay, I protest I've heard some say
    Plays are a kind of Popery.
    I'th' City-shops they're thought Profane,
    As were Minc'd-pies in _Cromwel_'s Reign.
    Where, when for _Dryden_'s Works I came,
    They vow'd they never heard his Name.
    But they had _Baxter_'s, if you please,
    And such-like precious things as these.
    Bless 'em from Plays; they'd rather go
    Unto a Conventicle, or so.

      The Stationer grows fat on th' gain,
    He sucks from the poor Poet's brain.
    He, and the Printer, who does know
    Nothing beyond the Cris-cros-row,
    Do still their Heads together joyn
    To cheat the Poet of his Coyn.
    Whil'st he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat
    Honourable stabs to get;
    And is forc'd to sigh, and stay
    For the Lawrel 'till he's gray:
    And at last together come
    To his Honour, and his Tomb.
    Tho' when dead, his Friends may'nt raise
    Enough to gild his Fun'ral Bays.

      The Players, who scarce know to write
    Their Names, or spell one word aright,
    Or read their Parts, unless writ fair
    In a large _Roman_ Character,
    Call us their Slaves, who for their gain
    Must toil, and all their faults sustain.
    In gay Attire each day they shine;
    Eat well, and drink the Richest Wine,
    All fat and plump, except some few
    The _French-man_ prov'd invet'rate to.
    Look how they strut it as they go!  }
    And in the streets make such a show,}
    As if they'ld there Act Princes too!}
    While th' Poet sneaking all alone
    In some by-lane where he's unknown;
    No farther than his Pot can go,
    And has a Pipe to th' bargain too.

      I hardly a poor Lawyer know,
    Unless some who are Poets too.
    They thrive by Rapine and Revenge,
    And making Enemies of Friends:
    Feeding on others hopes and fears,
    On Orphants groans, and Widows tears.
    In short, the World it self; and all
    We Trade, and Art, and Science call,
    Are grand Impostures; false and vain,
    Invented but to bring in gain.

      Astronomy does our Faith engage,
    And with dark Notions cheats the Age:
    But take off its Disguise, you'll see
    It is as feign'd as Poetry.
    Else let it for a certain show
    Whether this Globe has Wings or no,
    Or _Ovid_ blame, who said, the Sun
    Did run away with _Phaeton_.
    I cannot chuse but laugh to think
    If these poor Moon-calves had no Drink
    But that same thinnish, blewish Whey
    Press'd from green Cheese i'th' Milky-way;
    When Goddesses make the New Moon,
    How soon they'd throw their Cross-staves down!

      What is Geometry, I'ld know,
    But a false Brat of Fancy too?
    If 'tis a Science, let it tell
    How far from hence the Stars do dwell;
    And due proportion give between
    A _direct_ and a _crooked Line_.
    Yet while the Dotards sit at home,
    Each _Line_ is tip't with Golden _Plumme_;
    And still we find that each _Right-Angle_
    Some Gain or other does entangle;
    As Tonnellers catch Partridge; so
    Geometricians, you must know,
    Although in other things but Asses,       }
    They eat, and drink, and sleep with Lasses}
    Between the Legs of their _Compasses_.    }

      So th' Natural Philosopher
    'S perpetual Motion keeps a stir,
    But straight his Engines rest obtain,
    And all the Motion's in his brain;
    Except some easie hand, forsooth,
    That opens but to fill his mouth.

      Rhet'rick, which we so much adore,
    Ne'r had a perfect Orator.
    And yet their mouths provide; I trow,}
    As lame and cripled people's do,     }
    Who lie, because they cannot go.     }

    And what is Logick, but a cheat?
    Nothing, or something worse than it.
    A _Delphick_ Sword, bends any way  }
    To make Truth yield to Sophistry,  }
    And bring home Gold from _BARBARA_.}

      The lingring Chymsts blow their fire,
    Till their own Lamps of Life expire;
    And searcheth for th' Inchanted stone,
    Till they themselves grow cold as one;
    Which they would quickly do, but that
    'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
    The great work (much too great for one)
    Cannot be carried on alone,
    But asks more hands; and so another,
    That's Rich, helps his poor Chymick Brother.

      Speak, dull Philosopher; what's all
    You, in mistake, do Science call?
    Since _Socrates_ with much ado,
    Learn'd only that he nothing knew.
    There's nothing unconfin'd and free,
    Except the Soul of Poetry,
    When it does on our Organs play.
    Throw all your Mystick Books away,
    And study Natures Library:
    Mount up to Heaven's refulgent Throne,
    There by the Lab'ring Muses drawn.
    First, pause a while, then Write, and all
    The Gods to Convocation call;
    Then with Imperious frowns survey
    Poor Mortals damn'd to treading clay;
    And raising Piles, till pitying Fate
    Pulls the brick ruins on their pate.
    There laugh at Princes, who do groan
    Under the burden of a Crown:
    And condemn Riches, which we see}
    Is but a Golden Slavery;        }
    We're Richer far in Poetry.     }
    But hold!----
    I'm almost starv'd, as I'm a Sinner,
    Prethee, _Jack_, Trust me for a Dinner.

      Poor Poet! what a wretch th'art grown?
    Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne!
    Thou who but now did'st reach the Sky,
    Low as Despair art forc'd to lie:
    Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire,
    With thy Poetick rage expire.
    'Twas but a Dream, and now I see
    Riddles unty'd to Fetter me.
    The Angels height procur'd their Thrall,
    But 'tis my lowness makes me Fall.
    Had Nature giv'n me a Rich Mine,
    As other <DW2>s I'd happy been;
    Nor had I been exposed thus,
    To make my plaints ridiculous.

      For Wit and Wealth such Rivals are,
    That they can't Reign in the same Sphere,
    But as when Kings each other thwart,
    Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart:
    So those t' whom Nature has been kind,
    Must Fortunes Rage and Malice find.
    And 'till these Friends and Partners grow,
    Who can have Wit and Money too?
    But if the World hath such a Creature,
    He's Monstrous, and not made by Nature.
    Poets are Chymists, who want skill
    To perfect Metals as they will;
    Yet Clothes, or Money, what you please,
    Be sure they'l turn to _Sack_ with ease;
    Then with that _Sack_ they can prepare     }
    Castles, nay, Kingdoms in the Air,         }
    And carve themselves whole Lordships there.}
    But since they here so disagree
    About a paltry Lawrel Tree,
    I wonder what a Dev'l they do,
    When to these fancy'd Lands they go:
    But hold! they'l all be De'ties there,
    And every one will have his Sphere.
    For all the Gods of which we read,
    Were by th' Almighty Poets made:
    And they who did their God-heads make,
    May at their pleasures take 'em back.




_The Second CANTO._


    How often have I seen the Taylor,
    The Shoe-maker, and Milliner,
    And ev'ry <DW2> that sells his Ware,
    O're this poor Creature domineer?
    And I can't choose but let you know it,
    How a curst _Broker_ met a _Poet_,
    Walking through _Smithfield_ on a time,
    O're whom he swagger'd thus in Rhime.

      Is this your Wit! the Devil take it!
    For without question he did make it.
    The truest Wit is Honesty,
    And to get Coyn your Debts to pay.
    Wit is an Ass, when Money's slow;
    Nay, 'tis that makes the Ass to go.
    Why? I am but a mean Trades-man,
    And yet do more than any Poet can.
    I walk the Streets, yet fear no Dun,
    Nor in their Debts, nor from 'em run.
    Nor yet for fear of being found out,
    Do walk half a mile about.
    Altho' you're in _White-Fryers_ lurking,
    I've certain Ingeneers a working:
    And, Sir, unless you quickly pay me,
    Expect a Visit from a _Baylie_.

      This Language less dismaid the Poet,
    Having been long accustom'd to it:
    Howe're, he thought it not amiss
    To give him these fair promises.

      Sweet Sir! I vow I'm mighty sorry
    You've so long tarry'd for your Mony:
    But should you my late Suff'rings hear,
    Pity would force you to forbear.
    Howe're, as soon as th' Term begin}
    I shall recruit my self agen;     }
    For my _Play_ will be ready then. }
    Last Night the _Lord_--read what I'd made on't;
    And should I tell you what he said on't,
    'Twould be immodest in the Author;
    But you'll hear more of it hereafter.
    How'ere, to tell you as a Friend,
    He did it mightily commend.
    And 'twixt me and you, he said,           }
    He did not question to perswade           }
    The _King_, and _Court_, to see it Play'd.}
    And if it takes, (which I don't fear)
    'Tmay bring an hundred pounds, or near.
    And for your great Civility,
    Sir, you're the first I intend to pay.

      When this Doggrel Speech was ended,}
    The Poet, having lowly bended,       }
    Took his leave, by me attended.      }
    We had not walk'd past half so far
    As 'twixt _Fleet-Bridge_ and _Temple-Bar_,
    Ere my sad Brother was so kind,
    As thus to let me know his mind.

      Oh, wretched Man! what shall I do!
    Or whither had I best to go!
    _Job_ happy was, compar'd to me,
    A Prince in th' midst of's misery.
    Oh Heavens! since all his Griefs I know,
    Why have I not his Patience too?
    Hells self less Torment does contain
    Than is lodg'd in a Poet's brain;
    Howe're we may hereafter fare,
    I'm sure we meet Damnation here.
    I'd rather be a Dog; or Cat,
    The thing which next my self I hate.
    A Snake, an Adder, or a Toad:
    To these once _Egypt_'s Dotage bow'd.
    But me, the wretched'st thing e'r Born,
    Ev'n these by instinct loath and scorn.
    Then sighing, _Oh, my Play_! he cry'd;
    My _Play_ both _Houses_ have deny'd.
    They tell me, that their Summer-store
    Will all this Winter last, or more:
    Besides, that mine won't please the Times,
    Being Tragedy, and writ in Rhimes.
    Oh, I am ruin'd utterly!
    What shall I do! _My Play_! _My Play_!
    There's no one knows what pains I took,
    Ere I stretch'd it, to a Book.
    Nine Months my _Muse_ labour'd to bring
    Forth this Abortive, hapless thing:
    And suffer'd more than can be told
    Of Summers heat, and Winters cold.
    I've walk'd from Morning until Noon,
    'Twixt _Lyon-Fields_ and _Kentish-Town_;
    Study'ng my self hungry and dry,
    I envy'd th' Beggers on the way.
    Then being forc'd to jogg it home
    Empty as a _vacuum_:
    I'd no way to appease my _Hostess_,
    But vow my _Play_ finish'd almost is;
    Then reading what I'd made of't o're,
    She'ld trust me for one shilling more.
    But since she heard it was refus'd,
    None can guess how I've been us'd.
    'Bout Eight o'th'Clock on Thursday Morning,
    (My Angel then giving me warning)
    I had scarce lock'd my Door, but th' Baily
    Knock'd, saying, he'd a Letter for me:
    From first to last, he knock'd an hour,
    Ere I could get him to give o're;
    But when he saw it was in vain,
    The Rogue went swearing back again.
    But from that time to Sunday Morning,
    I kept the Fort, for all their Storming.
    Then without fear away I went;
    Thanks to the _King_ and _Parlement_.
    And now it is five days compleat,
    Since I had any thing to eat:
    Nor know I where to get Relief,
    No, not one Meal to save my Life.
    I've not a Neighbour, or Relation,
    But when they see me, quit their Station,
    And from me, as a Plague, they go,
    I wish my Creditors would do so!
    The Dev'l a rag of Clothes has _Jack_
    'Sides these you see upon my back;
    And they're so torn, I'm taken still
    For a walking Paper-Mill.

      My _Hat_ is like a Funnel grown,
    To vent the Vapours of my Crown.

      M' Eternal _Peruque_ does appear
    Golden, as _Apollo_'s Hair.
    And the Moss which hides my Face
    Is thicker, and as long as his.

      My _Breeches_ like th' Ship _Argo_ seem,
    Which is, and yet is not the same;
    For 'tis so patch'd, you cannot call
    One shred of 't the Original.

      As for my _Cloak_, 'tis well enough.
    Only 'tis out of Fashion now.
    But I'm content my Rags 't does hide,
    For this is an ill time for Pride.

      My _Stockings_ are worse rent and torn,
    Than ever _Poverty_ was drawn:
    And round about more _Stars_ appear }
    Than _Ursa major_ has in th' Sphere,}
    Or any _Constellation_ there.       }

      My _Shoes_ made of thin _Spanish_ Leather,
    Do sigh, and sob this Rainy Weather:
    And in dumb Language of their own,
    Pity mine, 'cause their _Souls_ are gone.

      As for my _Linnen_, let 't alone,}
    It needs not a Description;        }
    As I'm a Poet, I have none.        }

      My lac'd _Crevat_ lies in _Shoe-Lane_,
    Pawn'd for Tripe, and Chitterlin,
    With an honest Mother there,
    One Mistress _Smith_, a Victualler.

      My _Shirt_ lies Morgag'd in a Celler,
    About the middle of _Long-Acre_,
    With a Shee-Cook, call'd _Goody Dutton_,
    For Porrage, Beans, and Chops of Mutton.

      Oh that I had a wooden Leg!
    Or but one Arm, then might I beg!
    I'd Steal or Cheat, did I know how,
    'Tis better hang than perish so.

      I could not hear this piteous moan
    Unmov'd, nor let him sigh alone.
    But when I'd all the Comfort gave,
    He could from Friendly Advice receive;
    I lent him six-pence, which was half
    Of the small Stock I had my self.
    Then after many thanks, and vows,
    Unto _White-Fryers_ straight he goes:
    Where Bread and Cheese he said he'ld buy;
    Or fill himself with Curds and Whey.

      You see what Malice Fate has shown   }
    To this poor Wretch, who once was known}
    To be the gayest Spark in Town.        }
    One who would play at six-pence gleek,
    And go to _Creswel_'s once a week:
    Who Din'd at _Locket_'s ev'ry day,
    And sate in th' Boxes at a Play.
    Envy it self cannot dispraise
    His Poems, nor some of his Plays.
    Three of which just Applause did bear
    In the _Royal Theatre_.
    Lords and Knights desired to be
    Made happy in his Company;
    And did with a due Rev'rence mark
    Him, as he walk'd the Streets or _Park_.
    But this did in a moment cease,
    'Twas but a sudden, short-liv'd blaze,
    Like that which is from Meteors sent,
    Which end their Shine when th' Fuel's spent.
    Running in Debt, and living High,}
    And the hissing of his last Play,}
    Did bring him to this Misery.    }

      May all the Sons of _Helicon_          }
    Take heed, this Fate prove not their own!}
    For I've a shrewd suspicion!             }
    I've seen the briskest of our Crew
    Walk peny-less, and hungry too,
    In _Temple-walks_, 'bout Dinner-time,
    Digesting his crude thoughts int' Rhime;
    Where, if he meets with a Sir-fool,
    With empty Head, and Pockets full,
    Up to him straight he'll make, and cry,
    Where does your Worship Dine to day?
    I was this Morning bid by two;    }
    But Faith I don't much care to go,}
    I'd rather take a bit with you.   }
    Then, stretching, swears he is not right,
    Since being plaguy drunk last Night.
    And's Company, you needs must know,
    _My Lord_--_Sir John_--and God knows who.
    But tho' the Gallant he attacks,
    Not the least Invitation makes:
    He must, he says, out of esteem,
    Not that he's Hungry, wait on him.
    Then as soon as Dinner's ended,
    And his last Work read and commended,
    (Which without Vanity, he says,
    Is th' best he writ, his Master-piece.)
    He whisp ring in his Cully's ear,
    Makes his Necessity appear:
    Tells him of his last-nights expence,
    And how he's not recruited since.
    Then begs his Pard'n, he must away,}
    To get a Ticket for th' new Play,  }
    Acted at the _Duke's House_ to day.}

      I've sev'ral _Coffee-Houses_ known}
    By these unhappy Guests undone,     }
    For People, now adays, are grown    }
    So wise, they first of all peep in,}
    And if a Poet there is seen,       }
    They presently down stairs agen.   }
    For who a Devil cares to sit
    To be drawn by a Poet's wit?
    Sir _Am'rous_ can't make a Relation
    Of his last-nights Assignation.
    The _Sycophant_ can't exercise
    His Art, for these quick-sighted Spies:
    Nor _Fopling_ comb his Wigg, but they
    Make it a Humour for a Play.
    The Cheat, the Pick-pocket, and Bully,
    (Who're the best Guests, and spend most Money)
    Flie the loath'd House where these appear,
    As if the Constable were there.

      But there are some of Honour yet,  }
    Who're great pretenders unto Wit,    }
    And that they m'seem t' encourage it,}
    Will have a Poet at their tail;
    And whom to know that you mayn't fail,
    Has an old-fashion thread-bare Coat,
    Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a groat.
    If it be Summer, Freeze he'l wear;     }
    In th' Winter Stuff, and that so bare, }
    His Lice can scarce find Harbour there.}
    Perhaps, he wears a Sword by's side,
    To 'ts Hilt one yard of Ribband ty'd.
    In fine, by all he meets, he's t'ane
    To be th' _Epitome_ of _Long-Lane_.
    And when their Lordships walk before
    To th' Tavern, or to see a Whore,
    He's caution'd not to come too nigh,
    Lest he disgrace the Company:
    But b'hind like one new fluxt does crawl,
    And lets each Foot-boy take the Wall.
    But when he comes to th' place design'd,
    Their Lordships use to seem more kind.
    There he may swagger, swear, and lie,
    And do any thing--but pay.
    Then after a sufficient stay,
    Borrows a Crown, and so good-by'e.




_The Third CANTO._


    I'd e'en forgot to let you know
    The Club w' once kept in _Channel-row_;
    Where _A_. & _B. C. D._ & _I_,
    Were th' elements o' th' Company:
    But all which past there was so common,
    'Tis scarce worth th' pains of a Relation,
    How they kept a hideous pother,
    Damning the Times, and one another.
    Who most Glasses did destroy,
    Or with most Courage beat the Boy.
    How such-a-one commends a Whore,
    Which t'other prizes Sack before.
    Or who so neatly <DW37>'d away,
    Ere he his Reckoning did pay.
    Humours so trite as these, are known
    To ev'ry Tapster in the Town.
    But e're they so unruly grew,
    Thus each ones Character I drew.

      _A._ as 'tis first in th' Alphabet,
    So here he took the highest seat.
    As one whose Fortune, Birth, and Wit,
    Indeed did truly merit it.
    And here he neither struts nor swaggers,
    As I have known some Kings o' th' Beggers.
    But that convenient distance gave,
    Which else they'ld take without his leave.
    But him let all with Rev'rence name
    The Darling, and the Pride of Fame:
    Who's so all over wrapt in Bays,
    There's nothing to be seen but's Praise.
    He's one t' whom each Officious Muse
    Were of their Favours so profuse,
    That they have brought themselves to be
    Fed by his Mercy now; and we,
    The little Infants of the Art,  }
    Do as severely feel the smart,  }
    Deny'd a Younger Brothers part. }
    Nay, all our stocks won't mount t' a sum
    To pay him an _Encomium_.
    He's one whose Works, in times to come,
    Will be as Honour'd, and become
    Deathless as _Ben's_ or _Cowley's_ are,    }
    As _Beaumont_, _Fletcher_, or _Shakespear_,}
    One he himself is pleas'd t' admire.       }
    Nor could these Laureats living, be
    Better prefer'd, or lov'd than he.
    What could the _Muses_ more have done,
    Or _Apollo_ for a Son?
    Yet still he discontented is,
    And snarles at all the happiness
    The Richest Poetry can bring,
    And wounds it too with its own Sting.
    But who can blame that Active Soul,
    Which in a larger Sphere would roul?
    Whose Wit and Learning does deserve
    More than that narrow Art can give.

      Next unto _A. B._ took his place,
    Or Sir _Fopling_, if you please.
    I mean that Famous Limner, who
    So exactly his own Picture drew.
    Bless me! how neat a Wigg he has!
    What a rich Watch and Pocket-Glass!
    What a gay Suit trim'd all about!
    Made by a _French-man_ without doubt.
    His Ruffles and Cravat's all Lace,
    _Poynt a Venice_ he says it is.
    To what advantage does he wear
    His Rings? How stuft with Stones they are?
    One having this Inscription,
    _My Plow is all my Portion_.
    For you must know he's kept by a Miss,
    A _French_ one too, I've heard she is;
    Whose Favours tho' he strives to shew,
    Her scars he has, I assure you too.
    Here I must his Description end,
    For fear he should a Challenge send.
    Tho' he had better stay at home,
    To Hector Foot-boy, or a Groom.

      On th' other side Heroick _C._
    Did seat himself most formally.
    Whose Clothes now did not seem so bad,
    Because he lately vampt 'em had.
    His Hat new dress'd, darn'd were his Hose,
    And neatly underlay'd his Shoes.
    His Lac'd Cravats again appear,     }
    And his kind Laundress lets him wear}
    His Ruffles, and an Hankercher.     }
    And now he seems to be a made Man,
    Since he an Int'rest got in _Cadem_--
    Who now-and-then does not refuse
    A Crown, t' encourage a slow Muse,
    A Dish of Coffee, or Bochet,
    Or on a Sunday a Meals-meat.
    And 'tis most Charitably done,
    T' encourage such a wretched one,
    Without hopes of a Recompence,
    At least 'till two or three years hence,
    About which time his Play, we guess,
    Will be ready for the Press.
    He's one who much of _Oxford_ talks,
    Its stately Structures, Air, and Walks:
    Who, in his time, were Proctors there;  }
    How often he was caught, and where,     }
    Or with what craft he 'scap'd the snare.}
    But if you speak one word of's Chumb,
    The man immediately grows dumb.

      Then who sat next, if you would know it,
    'Twas _D._ the brisk lack-latine Poet;
    Who'll talk of _Virgil_ and _Horatius_,
    _Homer_, _Ovid_, and _Lucretius_.
    And by the help of I know who,
    Sometimes presumes to quote 'em too.
    He's the fam'd Comedian of the Town,}
    Who near a dozen Plays does own,    }
    Tho' I dare swear he ne'r writ one: }
    But he has good Acquaintance, tho,
    I am inform'd, a Lord or two,
    To whom he brings the lump; and they
    Club to mould it to a Play.
    And if my Author tells me right,
    Epistles too themselves they write.
    May they continue to do so,           }
    Or else poor _D._ to th' Goal must go,}
    _Angling for single Money in a Shoe_. }

      Lastly, I must my self explain,
    One of the same unhappy Train:
    Who neither Wit or Learning boast,
    For both are in a Poet lost.
    Scatter'd to nought in his Carreer,
    Through Airy Roads, he knows not where.
    Neither do I hope to find
    One grain of Fortune left behind.
    For all I grasp'd which pleas'd me here,
    Whether they Wealth, or Honours were,
    As soon they were snatch'd back again,
    And swallow'd in this Hurricane.
    But, Sir, I need not op'e to you    }
    These Ulcers of my Fate anew,       }
    You've seen so oft, and pitty'd too.}
    I'll therefore only blame the Cause
    Which did such Miseries produce:
    And then for ever bid good-by'e
    To that starv'd Hag of Poetry.




_The Fourth CANTO._


    _Phoebus!_ art thou the God of Wit,
    Yet takest no more care of it?
    Because thou art invok'd by us,
    Must we be damn'd and tortur'd thus?
    And art resolv'd, lean Poverty
    Shall still thy Badge and Liv'ry be?
    As well, let Paper-Mills, and all
    The lousie Tribe of Begger's Hall,
    With the ragged Gipsie-Crue,
    Be Dedicated to thee too!
    All the _Muses_ ask thee why
    Thou 'dopt'st 'em to such Slavery!
    And suffer'st ev'ry <DW2> in Town,   }
    For to insult and trample on       }
    These rad'ent Di'dems of thy Crown!}
    Sure thou want'st _Pow'r_ to Rule below;
    For 'tis not _Policy_ to do so.
    No! _Kings_ their Greatness do secure
    By their _Subjects_ Wealth and Pow'r.
    Nay, th' _Gods_ may lose their Deities,
    If their Religious _Votaries_
    Do so Poor and Needy grow,
    That they want _Victims_ to bestow.
    But Wit will above all things cease,
    Deny'd the helps of Wealth and Ease.
    It must be cherish'd and kept warm;
    Which, like the _Halcyon_, hates a Storm.
    But since I find I am us'd so,
    And treated worse than _Turk_ or _Jew_:
    Since the Tinker and his Trull
    Strut it with their Bellies full:
    Since the Cobler and the Sweep-Chimney
    Live happier and more safe than me,
    I'll quit thy Service, great _Apollo_,
    And some new Vocation follow:
    And tear thy _Idea's_ from my Brain,
    With thy starv'd, wretched Female Train.

      But must I from thy Service go
    Naked, in mid'st of Winter too?
    Did I for this a year, or more,
    Thy Airy, empty Shrine adore?
    Are thus my Cares and Watchings pay'd?
    The thousand Vows and Pray'rs I made?
    The Lights which on thy Altar shone,
    When thou wert forc'd to hide thy own?
    Think how ost thou hast me espy'd
    Walking by such a Rivers side!
    When I saw thy shining Beam
    Gild the smooth Surface of the Stream,
    Thou know'st I did thy Image greet,
    And sang a thousand Hymns to it.
    But since I find I am thus serv'd,
    Rent and torn, and almost starv'd,
    Yet would'st thou have me longer stay
    To expect a fairer Day?
    Should I be couzen'd to do so,
    And again my Vows renew,
    My Case would never better'd be }
    Under thy Conduct, no, tho' I   }
    Should share in th' Immortality.}

      Loath'd Muse! Hag of my rest, be gone!
    Who'rt Scandalous as Av'rice grown:
    Common as any _Whetstone_-Whore,
    Where Poets learn their Stage-Amour.
    Go jilt among thy Vot'ries there,
    And clap 'em with Poetick fire!
    Flie to some Rhymer of the Town,
    By his lean, hungry Visage known!
    That Renegado, whifling Blade,
    Who's not himself but when he's Mad!
    But 'tis not all thy _Syren_-charms
    Can again tempt me to thy Arms:
    For I too well thy Couz'nage know,
    Thy hollow Heart, and painted Brow.
    How first thou to my Brain did'st creep,
    And whil'st my Sense was lock'd in sleep,
    Thou did'st before my Fancy's Eye
    A thousand gaudy Fantasms lay.
    Then thorow false Perspectives show
    Groves, where gilded Lawrels grow.
    And ev'ry Tree's Ambrosiack Root
    With Arms of Nectar clasp'd about,
    In whose bright Streams I did espie
    Nine Naked Airy Ladies play:
    Some swimming on their Backs were seen,
    Who rise aloft, then dive agen;
    Whilst others yet more Am'rous grew,}
    And seem'd not only to bestow       }
    Brimmers, but gave Embraces too.    }
    And th' little Mansions where they dwell,}
    Were some of Gold, and some of Pearl,    }
    Tyl'd and Pav'd with Tortoise-shell.     }

      A hundred things as vain as these,
    Did once my partial Fancy please:
    But when I look'd about to know
    Whether they real were, or no;
    I apprehended the mistake,
    As Dreams of Pleasures when we 'wake.
    For when the crafty _Muses_ thought
    They'd me for a Disciple got;
    They took the painted Scene away;
    Lay'd down their Smiles and Flattery,
    And now in their own Shapes appear
    Rough, and Ghastly, as they are.

      Wherefore once more, Ladies adieu!
    Farewel to _England_, and to you.
    For I'm resolv'd; and now ev'n Gain
    Shan't draw me to yee back again.
    Tho' _Juno_ should assure me more,
    Than she did _Paris_ heretofore:
    Or _Venus_ too at the same time;
    I would not give 'em thanks in Rhyme.
    No, tho' should all of you agree
    To give your _Helicon_ to me.
    Tho' those dear Bays I once did woo, }
    Should strive to cling about my Brow;}
    Nay, tho they were gilded too.       }
    I'ld thence those fruitless Branches tear,
    And throw 'em with my Muse in th' fire.
    So what she so long courted, shall
    At last adorn her Funeral.

      Here I would end, be'ng much in hast,
    And tyr'd with scribbling so fast:
    Howe're a word or two I'll add,
    Lest you infer from what I've said,
    That Poverty's the only cause
    Which makes me thus desert my Muse.
    Thus far, indeed, the cause 't'as bin,
    As 'tis th' effect of such a sin.
    For who 'n that Art can hope to thrive,
    Which does such wicked Licence give?
    Whose first Founders _Pagans_ were,
    Groping for Truth they knew not where?
    And shall we _Christians_ Sacrifice
    To their Fantastick _Deities_?
    No, were I Rich 'nough to set up,
    I would not keep a Poet's Shop;
    Nor Traffick in such dang'rous Ware,
    They sell so cheap, and buy so dear.
    I'ld not pick up each Whore I meet,  }
    Give her a _Guynie_ and a Treat;     }
    Nor maintain Pimps nor Bawds for wit.}
    No, I'ld not give one brass Half-crown
    For all the Bawdry in the Town:
    For all th' Intrigues your _Whetstone_-Bawd,
    _More-Fields_, or _Tower-Hill_ afford.
    To see _Miss Betty_ ev'ry day,
    Dance Naked, or the Tumbler play.
    How well upon her Head she stood,
    Or with what Art she us'd the Rod.
    Or how she was unrig'd and kick'd,
    When _Sir John_ found his Pockets pick'd.

      I have not been at _Newgate_ yet,
    To learn the Lifter, or the Cheat.
    But such lewd Learning let alone
    To the brisk _Poets_ of the _Town_.

_FINIS._

PRESS VARIANTS

AND

NOTES




PRESS VARIANTS


Copies collated: Clark (CLC); Trinity College, Cambridge, H. 6. 93^9
(CT1) and H. 10. 28^6 (CT2); British Museum (L); Folger (WF1);
Folger/Luttrell (WF2).


Sheet B--Outer Forme.

_Uncorrected_: CT1, CT2, L, WF1.

_Corrected_: CLC, WF2.

B4^v, _l._ 7. Paragraph indentation supplied.


Sheet B--Inner Forme.

_Uncorrected_: CLC, CT1, WF1.

_Corrected_: CT2, L, WF2.

B4^r, _l._ 1. Chymsts] Chymists


Sheet C--Inner Forme.

_Uncorrected_: CT1, CT2, CLC

_Corrected_: L, WF1, WF2.

C3^v, _l._ 15. _Peruque_] _Perruque_

C4^r, _l._ 13. _Crevat_] _Cravat_




NOTES


These notes are of necessity selective and are chiefly concerned with
the identification of persons. No attempt has been made to indicate the
complex textual relationships of the two versions. Where detailed
evidence for identifications is not given, the reader is referred to the
article mentioned above.

Title-page. _Parve_ ... _quo_-. Ovid, _Tristia_, I, i, 1-2.

A2^v-A3^v. The authors of the extracts are Dryden, Shadwell, Lacy, Lee,
and Banks. The Banks extract is unlikely to have been in print for more
than a few weeks at the time _PdT_ was published. The corresponding list
in _PC_ is called "Quotations" and contains twenty-three passages of
which only two reappear in _PdT_.

A4^r: 15-16. _Philip, the first Christian Emperour._ Marcus Julius
Philipus, c. 204-249.

P. 2: 21-22. _Yet ... Liberty._ The press regained its liberty through
the expiry of the Licensing Act in 1679. This passage does not occur in
_PC_ and may be one of the "Ingenious Person's" additions to _PdT_.

P. 3: 28. _Cris-cros-row._ I.e., Christ-cross-row. The alphabet with a
cross before it as represented in horn books.

P. 4: 4. _Honourable stabs._ Perhaps a reference to the attack on Dryden
in Rose Alley on 16 December 1679, which was popularly attributed to
various honorable persons satirized in Mulgrave's _An Essay upon Satyr_.

P. 4: 9-10. _Tho' ... Bays._ Cf. John Aubrey on the funeral of Samuel
Butler on 27 September 1680:

     About 25 of his old acquaintance at his Funerall. I myself being
     one of the eldest, helped to carry the Pall. His coffin covered
     with black Bayes. (_Brief Lives_, ed. O. L. Dick [London, 1958], p.
     47.)

P. 6: 7. _As Tonnellers catch Partridge._ A tunnel was a kind of net
used by bird-catchers.

P. 6: 21-22. _As ... go._ Cf. Donne's "A Lame Begger," _The Satires,
Epigrams and Verse Letters_, ed. W. Milgate (Oxford, 1969), p. 51.

P. 6: 27. _BARBARA._ The opening word of a mnemonic used in expressing
the moods of the syllogism.

P. 7: 21. _Lab'ring Muses._ _PC_ has "tab'ring" (i.e., playing on
tabors), a fairly clear case of _lectio difficilior_.

P. 10: 6. _How a curst Broker met a Poet._ The earlier part of the
description seems to be hinting at the distresses of John Banks, who was
reduced to poverty after two of his plays met censorship trouble;
however, the closing section on pp. 16-17 is clearly meant to refer to
Wycherley. It is possible that this is another of the "Ingenious
Person's" additions. Indeed it would have to be as Wycherley's troubles
did not begin until after the date given for the departure of the Poeta.

P. 10: 21. _White-Fryers._ The sanctuary area on the city side of the
Temple: Shadwell's Alsatia.

P. 12: 1-2. _half ... Temple-Bar._ I.e., Whitefriars.

P. 12: 26. _Being Tragedy, and writ in Rhimes._ Dryden abandoned rhyme
with _All for Love_ (1677). Cf. Elkanah Settle's complaint in the
preface to _Ibrahim_ (licensed 4 May 1676): "Another misfortune the Play
had, that it was written in Rhime, a way of writing very much out of
Fashion...."

P. 16: 9. _Where Bread and Cheese he said he'ld buy._ This detail has
some resemblance to a circumstance in Shiels and Cibber's account of
the death of Otway, which may derive from a mistaken belief that he was
the subject of the passage. See R. G. Ham, _Otway and Lee_ (New Haven,
1931), p. 214.

P. 16: 14. _One who would play at six-pence gleek._ The index of
extravagance at gleek seems to have advanced alarmingly in the course of
the seventeenth century. Jonson in _The Devil is an Ass_ (V, ii, 31)
specifies three-pence; however, Shadwell in 1680 was already foreseeing
a shilling (_Works_, ed. M. Summers, IV, 60).

P. 16: 15. _Creswel's._ The famous bawdy house, finally closed down in
1681.

P. 16: 16. _Locket's._ An ordinary at Charing-Cross mentioned in many
Restoration comedies.

P. 16: 21. _the Royal Theatre._ Presumably the Theatre Royal, Drury
Lane, although the term could equally well be meant for the theatre at
Whitehall.

P. 17: 7. _the briskest of our Crew._ Probably Dryden, although the
description has some problematical features. The fact that the poet is a
rhymer and connected with the Duke's house rules out most other
possibilities.

P. 19: 1. _Will have a Poet at their tail._ Possibly Otway. In _PC_ (pp.
2-3), a shorter version of the description is combined with lines from
the "Dryden" portrait--the one piece of evidence for the truncation
theory:

    Then there are mighty Peers o' th' Realm,
    Whose conduct helps to steer the Helm:
    They're great pretenders unto Wit.
    And that they may seem to incourage it
    They'll have a Poet at their Tail:
    And that to know him they mayn't fail,
    He has an old fashion thread-bare Coat,
    Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a Groat;
    One points and cries, there goes _Long-lane_,
    Another cries, he's Long-and-Lean.
    For like one newly fluxt he'l crawl,
    And lets the Foot-Boys take the Wall.
    But when to th' Tavern they do go,
    Their Honours will more freedom show;
    There they may Swagger Swear and Lye,
    And doe any thing, but Pay:
    Damn ye, I din'd with such a Lord to Day,
    And such a Lord did like my Play:
    And without Vanity it is
    The best I writ, my Master-piece.

P. 20: 2. _Channel-row._ The scene of this canto is Arthur Prior's
Rhenish house in Channel-row near Whitehall.

P. 20: 19. _A. as 'tis first in th' Alphabet._ In view of his exalted
station, wealth, and Whiggish company, it is probably safe to identify
"A" with Charles Sackville, Sixth Earl of Dorset, who is known as a
habitue of Prior's wineshop through the stories of his encouragement of
the owner's nephew Matthew. However, most details would apply equally
well--in his own mind at least--to another prominent patron of the day,
John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave. In this connection, it is interesting
to note that Mulgrave's account at Child's bank records a payment of
L20/--/--made on 14 May 1683 to a Thomas Wood. The name was, naturally,
a common one.

P. 21: 28. _And wounds it too with its own Sting._ Presumably a
reference to Dorset's "On Mr. Edward Howard upon his British Princes" or
Mulgrave's "An Essay upon Satyr." Both poems may be found in the first
volume of the Yale _Poems on Affairs of State_ series (ed. George
deForrest Lord [New Haven, 1963]).

P. 22: 3. _Next unto A. B. took his place._ Sir George Etherege. The
opening lines anticipate Dean Lockier's comment recorded by Spence that
"he was exactly his own Sir Fopling Flutter" which may on the other hand
be derived from it. See Joseph Spence, _Observations, Anecdotes, and
Characters of Books and Men_, ed. James M. Osborn (Oxford, 1966), p.
281.

P. 22: 17. _For you must know he's kept by a Miss._ Frederick Bracher
has pointed out in a letter that Etherege was closely connected at this
time with the circle of the Duchesse de Mazarin. See James Thorpe's note
on "A Song on Basset," _The Poems of Sir George Etherege_ (Princeton,
1963), pp. 85-87.

P. 22: 25. _Heroick C._ Elkanah Settle.

P. 23: 7. _Cadem_----. William Cademan, Settle's principal publisher.

P. 23: 23. _But if you speak one word of's Chumb._ Probably William
Buller Fyfe, an Oxford friend who had assisted Settle with his first
play, _Cambyses_. Fyfe was dead by the time the play reached the stage
and Settle was criticized for bringing it out under his own name only.

P. 23: 26. _D. the brisk lack-latine Poet._ Thomas Shadwell. The
accusation that he knew no Latin was repeated by Dryden in _The
Vindication of the Duke of Guise_ (1683) and is denied with
characteristic stridency by Shadwell in _The Tenth Satyr of Juvenal_
(1687). The accusation that his plays were partly written by others is
made by Dryden in _Mac Flecknoe_ ("But let no alien Sedley interpose")
and is present by implication in Rochester's reference in "Timon" to
"Shadwell's unassisted former Scenes...." Shadwell began his career as
the collaborator of the aged Duke of Newcastle and acknowledges Sedley's
help in his best comedy, _A True Widow_ (1678). He was on good terms
with Rochester, Dorset, and Buckingham and addressed dedications to the
two last. The references to Horace and Lucretius allude to the preface
to _The Humorists_ and the opening scene of _The Virtuoso_,
respectively.

P. 24: 14. _Angling for single Money in a Shoe._ This line from the
Epilogue to _The Libertine_ (1676) is quoted in context in the Author's
Epistle. It also appears on the title-page of _PC_.

P. 27: 14. _Whetstone-Whore_. A reference to Whetstone Park, a street at
the North end of Lincoln's Inn Fields. The name was subsequently changed
to Whetstone St., but has since reverted, perhaps under the
liberalizing influences of its principal present-day occupants, _The New
Statesman_ and the Olivetti typewriter company.

P. 30: 12-17. _To ... pick'd._ The reference is apparently to one of the
"posture artists" of Moorfields, another brothel district; however,
there may also be an allusion intended to an incident in the Duke's
playhouse on 23 June 1679, when John Churchill, the future Duke of
Marlborough, attempted to cane Betty Mackerell, an orange girl, and was
thrashed in his turn by Thomas Otway. See Ham, _Otway and Lee_, pp.
112-115.


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16. Henry Nevil Payne, _The Fatal Jealousie_ (1673).

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1949-1950

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138. [Catherine Trotter], _Olinda's Adventures_ (1718).


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     Transcriber's Notes:

     Obvious spelling and typos corrected in the prose. Poetry lines
     corrected to image.

     In this version superscripts are introduced by the caret character,
     e.g. 28^6





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poeta de Tristibus: Or, the Poet's
Complaint, by Anonymous

*** 