MacFlecknoe by John Dryden

MacFlecknoe by John Dryden All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found who, like Augustus, Young was called to empire and had governed long, In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, Through all the realms of nonsense, absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blessed with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state. And pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign and wage immortal war with wit, cried, "'Tis resolved, for nature pleads that he Should only rule who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dullness from his tender years. Shadwell alone of all my sons is he Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, But Shadwell never deviates into sense, Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval, But Shadwell's genuine knight admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems designed for thoughtless majesty, Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain And spread in solemn state supinely reign. Heywood and Shirley were but types of these, Thou lost great prophet of tautology. Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, Was sent before but to prepare thy way, And the coarsely clad and night-struggat Came to teach the nations in thy greater name. My warbling lute, the lute I will umstrung When to King John of Portugal I sung, Was but the prelude to that glorious day When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way With well-timed oars before the royal barge. Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge, And, big with hymn, commander of an host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tossed. Methinks I see the new Orion sail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore, The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar, Echoes from Pissing Alley, Shadwell call, And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall. About thy boat the little fishes throng As at the morning toast that floats along. Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band Thou wilt'st thy papers in thy threshing hand. St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme, Though they in number, as in sense, excel. So just, so like tautology they fell, That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore The lute and sword which he in triumph bore, And vowed he ne'er would act valerious more. Here stopped the good old sire, and wept for joy In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. All arguments, but most his plays, persuade That for anointed dullness he was made. Close to the walls, which fair Augusta bind, The fair Augusta, much to fears inclined, An ancient fabric, raised to inform the sight, There stood of yore, and Barbican it height. A watchtower once, but now, so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains. From its old ruins brothel houses rise, Scenes of lewd loves and of polluted joys. Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, And undisturbed by watch in silence sleep. Near these a nursery erects its head, Where queens are formed and future heroes bred, Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry, Where infant punks their tender voices try, And little Maximines the gods defy. Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Johnson dares in socks appear, But gentle Simkin just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanished minds. Pure Clintius, the suburbian muse affords, And Panton waging harmless war with words, Here Flecknow, as a place to fame well known, Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne. For ancient Decker prophesied long since That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit and flail of sense, To whom true dullness should some psyches owe, But worlds of misers from his pen should flow. Humorists and hypocrites it should produce, Whole Raymond families and tribes of Bruce. Now Empress Fame had published the renown Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. Roused by report of fame the nations meet From near Bunhill and distant Watling Street. No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay, From dusty shops neglected authors come, Martyrs of pies and relics of the bum. Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogilby there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way. Built stationers for yeoman stood prepared, And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majesty appeared High on a throne of his own labors reared. At his right hand our young Ascanius sat, Rome's other hope and pillar of the state. His brows thick fogs instead of glory's grace, And lambent dullness played around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome, So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dullness would maintain, And, in his father's right and realm's defense, Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truth with sense. The king himself the sacred unction made, As king by office and as priest by trade. In his sinister hand instead of ball He placed a mighty mug of potent ale. Love's kingdom to his right he did convey, At once his scepter and his rule of sway, Whose righteous lore the prince had practiced young, And from whose loins recorded psyche sprung. His temples last with poppies were o'erspread, That nodding seemed to consecrate his head. Just at that point of time, if fame not lie, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. So Romulus, tis sung by Tiber's brook, Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. The admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take. The sire then shook the honors of his head, And from his brows damps of oblivion shed, Full on the filial dullness. Long he stood repelling from his breast, The raging god at length burst out in this prophetic mood. Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign, To far Barbados on the western main. Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne. Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen. He paused, and all the people cried, Amen. Then thus continued he, My son, advance, still in new impudence, New ignorance, success let other teach, Learn thou from me, pangs without birth, And fruitless industry. Let virtuosos in five years be writ, Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage, Make dormant betray, and love it rage. Let cully, cockwood, fopling charm the pit, And in their folly show the writer's wit. Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defense, And justify their author's want of sense. Let them be all by thy own moral maid of dullness, And desire no foreign aid, That they to future ages may be known, Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, All full of thee, and differing but in name. But let no alien sedly interpose To lard with wit thy hungry epsom prose. And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull, Trust nature, do not labor to be dull, But write thy best, and top, and in each line Sir Formal's oratory will be thine. Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, And does thy northern dedications fill. Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame By arrogating Johnson's hostile name. Let Father Flecknow fire thy mind with praise, And Uncle Ogilby thy envy raise. Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part, What share have we in nature or in art? Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, And rail at arts he did not understand? Where made he love in Prince Nacanda's vein, Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain? Wheresold he bargains, whipstitch, kiss my arse, Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce? When did his muse from Fletcher's scenes balloyn As thou whole ethridge dust transfused to thine, But so transfused as oil on water's flow? His always floats above, thine sinks below. This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, New humours to invent for each new play. This is that boasted bias of thy mind, By which one way to dullness tis inclined, Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, And in all changes that way bends thy will. Nor let thy mountain belly make pretense of likeness, Thine's a tympany of sense. A tonne of man in thy large bulk is writ, But sure thou'rt but a kildakin of wit, Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep, Thy tragic muse give smiles, thy comic sleep. With whate'er gall thou set'st thyself to write, Thy inoffensive satires never bite. In thy felonious heart, though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land. There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. If thou would'st thy different talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared, And down they sent the yet-declaiming bard, Sinking he left his drugged robe behind. Born upwards by a subterranean wind, The mantle fell to the young prophet's part With double portion of his father's art.