Mac Flecknoe: a poem; with Spencer's Ghost/Spencer's Ghost
A
SATYR.
One Night, as I was pondering of late
On all the Mis'ries of my hapless Fate,
Cursing my rhiming Stars, raving in Vain
At all the Pow'rs, which over Poets reign:
In came a ghastly Shape, all pale and thin,
As some poor Sinner, who by Priest had been
Under a long Lent's Penance, starv'd and whip'd,
Or parboil'd Lecher, late from Hot-house crept;
Famish'd his Looks appeared, his Eyes sunk in,
Like Morning-Gown about him hung his Skin;
A Wreath of Lawrel on his Head he wore,
A Book, inscrib'd the Fairy Queen, he bore.
By this I knew him, rose, and bow'd, and said,
' Hail reverend Ghost! all hail most sacred Shade
' Why this great Visit? why vouchsaf'd to me,
' The meanest of thy British Progeny?
' Com'st thou in my uncall'd, unhallow'd Muse,
' Some of thy mighty Spirit to infuse:
' If so; lay on thy Hands, ordain me fit
' For the high Cure, and Ministry of Wit:
' Let me (I beg) thy great Instructions claim,
' Teach me to tread the glorious Paths of Fame.
' Teach me (for none does better know than thou)
' How, like thy self, I may immortal grow.
Thus did I speak, and spoke it in a strain,
Above my common-rate, and usual vein;
As if inspir'd by presence of the Bard,
Who with a Frown thus to reply was heard;
In style of Satyr, such wherein of old
He the fam'd Tale of Mother Hubberd told.
I come, fond Ideot, ere it be too late,
Kindly to warn thee of thy wretched Fate:
Take heed betimes; repent, and learn of me
To shun the dang'rous Rocks of Poetry:
Had I the choice of Flesh and Blood again,
To act once more in Life's tumultuous Scene;
I'd be a Porter, or a Scavenger,
A Groom, or any thing, but Poet here:
Hast thou observ'd some Hawker of the Town,
Who thro' the Streets with dismal Scream and Tone,
Cries Matches, Small-coal, Brooms, Old Shoes and Boots,
Socks, Sermons, Ballads, Lies, Gazetts, and Votes?
So unrecorded to the Grave I'd go,
And nothing but the Register tell, who:
Rather that poor unheard-of Wretch I'd be,
Than the most glorious Name in Poetry,
With all its boasted Immortality:
Rather than He, who sings on Phrygia's Shore,
The Grecian Bullies fighting, for a Whore:
Or he of Thebes, whome Fame so much extols
For praising Jockies, and New-Market Fools.
So many now, and bad the Scriblers be,
'Tis scandal to be of the Company:
The foul Disease is so prevailing grown.
So much the Fashion of the Court and Town,
That scarce a Man well-bred in either's deem'd:
But who has kill'd, been often clapt, and oft has rhim'd:
The Fools are troubled with a Flux of Brains,
And on each Paper squirt their filthy sense:
A leash of Sonnets, and a dull Lampoon,
Set up an Author, who forthwith is grown
A Man of Parts, of Rhiming, and Renown:
Ev'n that vile Wretch, who in lewd Verse each year
Describes the Pageants, and my good Lord May'r;
Whose Works must serve the next Election-day
For making Squibs, and under Pies to lay;
Yet counts himself of the inspired Train,
And dares in Thought the sacred Name profane.
' But is it nought (thou'lt say) in Front to stand,
' With Lawrel crown'd by White, or Loggan's hand?
' Is it not great and glorious to be known,
' Mark'd out, and gaz'd at thro the wondering Town,
' By all the Rabble passing up and down?
So Oats and Bodloe have been pointed at,
And every busie Coxcomb of the State:
The meanest Felons who thro' Holborn go,
More Eyes and Looks than twenty Poets draw:
If this be all, go have thy posted Name
Fix'd up With Bills of Quack and publick Shame;
To be the stop of gaping Prentices,
And read by reeling Drunkards when they piss;
Or else to be expos'd on trading Stall,
While the bilk'd Owner hires Gazetts to tell,
'Mongst Spaniels lost, that Author does not sell.
Perhaps, fond Fool, thou sooth'st thy self in dream,
With hopes of purchasing a lasting Name:
Thou think'st perhaps thy Trifles shall remain.
Like sacred Cowley, and immortal Ben.
But who of all the bold Adventurers,
Who now drive on the trade of Fame in Verse
Can be ensur'd in this unfaithful Sea,
Where there so many lost and shipwrack'd be?
How many Poems writ in ancient time,
Which thy Fore-fathers had in great esteem;
Which in the crowded Shops bore any rate,
And sold like News-Books, and Affairs of State
Have grown contemptible, and slighted since,
As Pordage, Fleckno, or the British Prince?
Quarles, Chapman, Haywood, Withers had Applause,
And Wild and Ogilby in former days;
But now are damn'd to wrapping Drugs and Wares,
And curs'd by all their broken Stationers:
And so may'st thou perchance pass up and down,
And please a while th'admiring Court and Town,
Who after shalt in Duck-lane Shops be thrown,
To mould with Silvester and Shirley there,
And truck for Pots of Ale next Stourbridge-Fair.
Then who'll not laugh to see th'immortal Name
To vile Mundungus made a Martyr flame?
And all thy deathless Monuments of Wit,
Wipe Porters Tails, or mount in Paper-Kite?
But, grant, thy Poetry should find success,
And (which is rare) the squeamish Criticks please;
Admit, it read, and prais'd, and courted be
By this nice Age, and all Posterity;
If thou expectest ought but empty Fame;
Condemn thy Hopes, and Labours to the flame:
The Rich have now learn'd only to admire,
He, who to greater Favours does aspire,
Is mercenary thought, and writes to hire:
Would'st thou to raise thine, and thy Countries Fame,
Chuse some old English Hero for thy Theme,
Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater Son,
Or our fifth Harry, matchless in Renown;
Make Agincourt, and Cressy Fields outvie
The fam'd Lavinian Shores, and Walls of Troy;
What Scipio, what Mæcenas would'st thou find,
What Sidney now to thy great Project kind?
' Bless me! how great his Genius! how each Line
' Is big with Sense! how glorious a Design
' Does thro' the whole and each proportion shine!
' How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd!
' Pity, such wond'rous Thoughts are not preferred:
Cries a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail
For bare five Pounds the Author out of Jail,
Should he starve there, and rot; who if a Brief
Came out the needy Poets to relieve,
To the whole Tribe would scarce a Tester give.
But fifty Guineas for a Whore and Clap!
The Peer's well us'd, and comes off wond'rous cheap:
A Poet wou'd be dear, and out o' th' way,
Should he expect above a Coachman's pay:
For this will any dedicate and lye,
And dawb the gawdy Ass with Flattery?
For this will any prostitute his Sence
To Coxcombs void of Bounty, as of Brains?
Yet such is the hard Fate of Writers now,
They're forced for Alms to each great Name to bow:
Fawn like her Lap-dog, on her tawdry Grace,
Commend her Beauty, and bely her Glass,
By which she every morning primes her Face:
Sneak to his honor, call him Witty, Brave,
And Just, tho' a known Coward, Fool, or Knave,
And praise his Lineage, and Nobility,
Whose Arms at first came from the Company.
'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore
The blind old Bard, with Dog and Bell before,
Was fain to sing for Bread from door to door.
The needy Muses all turn'd Gipsies then,
And of the begging Trade e'er since have been:
Should mighty Sappho in these days revive,
And hope upon her stock of Wit to live;
She must to Creswel's trudg to mend her Gains,
And let her Tail to hire, as well as Brains.
What Poet ever Fin'd for Sheriff? or who
By Wit and Sense did ever Lord Mayors grow?
My own hard Usage here I need not press,
Where you have every day before your face
Plenty of fresh resembling Instances:
Great Cowley's Muse the same ill Treatment had,
Whose Verse shall live for ever to upbraid
Th' ungrateful World that left such Worth unpaid.
Waller himself may thank Inheritance
For what he else had never got by Sense.
On Butler who can think without just Rage,
The Glory and the Scandal of the Age?
Fair stood his hopes when first he came to Town,
Met every-where with welcome of Renown,
Courted, and lov'd by all, with wonder read,
And promises of Princely Favour fed:
But what Reward for all had he at last,
After a Life in dull expectance pass'd?
The Wretch at summing up his mis-spent days
Found nothing left, but Poverty and Praise:
Of all his Gains by Verse he could not save
Enough to purchase Flannel, and a Grave:
Reduc'd to want, he in due time fell sick,
Was fain to die, and be interred on tick:
And well might bless the Fever that was sent,
To rid him hence, and his worse Fate prevent.
You've seen what Fortune other Poets, share;
View next the Factors of the Theatre:
That constant Mart, which all the year does hold,
Where Staple Wit is barter'd, bought, and sold;
Here trading Scriblers for their Maintenance,
And Livelihood trust to a Lott'ry chance:
But who his Parts would in the Service spend,
Where all his hopes on vulgar Breath depend?
Where every Sot, for paying half a Crown,
Has the Prerogative to cry him down?
Sidley indeed may be content with Fame,
Nor care should an ill judging Audience damn:
But Settle, and the reft, that write for Pence,
Whose whole Estate's an ounce, or two of Brains,
Should a thin House on the third day appear,
Must starve, or live in Tatters all the year.
And what can we expect that's brave and great,
From a poor needy Wretch, that writes to eat?
Who the success of the next Play must wait
For Lodging, Food, and Cloaths: and whose chief care
Is how to spunge for the next Meal, and where?
Hadst thou of old in flourishing Athens liv'd,
When all the learned Arts in Glory thriv'd;
When mighty Sophocles the Stage did sway,
And Poets by the State were held in pay;
Twere worth thy pains to cultivate thy Muse,
And daily wonders then it might produce:
But who would now write Hackney to a Stage
That's only thought the Nuisance of the Age?
Go after this, and beat thy wretched Brains,
And toil to bring in thankless Ideots means:
Turn o'er dull Horace, and the Classck Fools,
To poach for Sense, and hunt for idle Rules:
Be free of Tickets, and the Play-Houses,
To make some tawdry Actress there thy Prize,
And spend thy third Days gains 'twixt her clap'd Thighs.
All Trades, and all Professions here abound,
And yet Encouragement for all is found:
Here a vile Emp'rick, who by Licence kills,
Who every-where helps to increase the Bills,
Wears Velvet, keeps his Coach, and Whore beside,
For what less Villains must to Tyburn ride.
There a dull trading Sot, in Wealth o'ergrown
By thriving Knavery, can call his own
A dozen Mannors; and if Fate still bless,
Expects as many Counties to possess.
Punks, Panders, Bawds, all their due Pensions gain,
And every day the Great Mens Bounty drain:
Lavish expence on Wit, has never yet
Been tax'd amongst the Grievances of State.
The Turky, Guinny, Indian Gainers be,
And all but the Poetick Company:
Each place of Traffick, Bantam, Smyrna, Zant,
Greenland, Virginia, Sevil, Alicant,
And France, that sends us Dildoes, Lace, and Wine,
Vast profit all, and large Returns bring in:
Parnassus only is that barren Coast,
Where the whole Voyage and Adventure's lost.
Then be advis'd, the slighted Muse forsake,
And Cook and Dalton for thy study take:
For Fees each Term sweat in the crowded Hall,
And there for Charters, and crak'd Titles bawl;
Where Md thrives, and pockets more each year
Than forty Laureats at the Theater.
Or else to Orders, and the Church betake
Thy self, and that thy future Refuge make:
There fawn on some Patron to engage
Th' Advowson of each Punk, and Parsonage:
Or sooth the Court, and Preach up Kingly Right,
To gain a Prebend or Miter by't.
In fine, turn Pettifogger, Canonist,
Civilian, Pedant, Mountebank, or Priest,
Soldier, or Merchant, Fidler, Painter, Fencer,
Jack-pudding, Juggler, Player, or Rope-dancer:
Preach, Plead, Cure, Fight, Game, Pimp, Beg, Cheat, or Thieve;
Be all but Poet, and there's way to live.
But why do I in vain my counsel spend
On one whom there's so little hope to mend?
Where I perhaps as fruitlesly exhort,
As Lenten Doctors, when they Preach at Court;
Not enter'd Punks from Lust they once have try'd,
Not Fops, and Women from Conceit, and Pride,
Not Bawds from Impudence, Cowards from Fear,
Not seer'd unfeeling Sinners past Despair,
Are half so hard, and stubborn to reduce,
As a poor Wretch, when once possess'd with Muse.
If therefore, what I've said, cannot avail,
Nor from the Rhiming Folly thee recal,
But spight of all thou wilt be obstinate,
And run thy self upon avoidless Fate;
May'st thou go on unpitied, till thou be
Brought to the Parish-Badg, and Beggary:
Till urg'd by Want, like broken Scriblers, thou
Turn Poet to a Booth, a Smithfield Show,
And write Heroick verse for Barthol'mew.
Then slighted by the very Nursery,
May'st thou at last be forc'd to starve, like me.
FINIS.