Selected quad for the lemma: cause_n
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A62985
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The Tory-poets a satyr.
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Shadwell, Thomas, 1642?-1692.
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1682
(1682)
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Wing T1948; ESTC R7686
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8,838
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19
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THE TORY-POETS A SATYR nunquam ne reponam Vexatus toties rauci Thesiede Codri Juven Sat. 1. LONDON Printed by R. Iohnson MDCLXXXII THE EPISTLE TO THE TORIES I Could find no fitter Persons to Dedicate this Poem to then your selves and that for several reasons First because you account your selves men of Parts and Iudges of Wit and indeed to keep the World in its usual Course we will yeild you to be so for in all ages some Fools have had preferment mad Men have been Iudges and Knaves have been Honourable To talk Bawdy whore Lye c. are your natural accomplishments but those more solid endowments that beautifie a rational Creature viz. Learning and Exercise of right Reason are of little value to you who can speak Nonscence by Patent Slander by Prerogative and Lye by Commission Iudg of Wit then as much as you please since none but Fools and Knaves will be guided by your judgment For it is well enough known that your Wit is as thin as your Skulls and your Skulls as thin as your Estates and that thin enough all know Take a Tory from a Pot of Ale and he 's out of his Element and when his Catalogue of Oaths in his common place-Book are ended he is as indispos'd and unfit for any kind of Company as the Asses Mouth was for Food when it had been eating of Thistles Another reason may be because it treats chiefly of your Champions the Pillars of your faction the supporters of that great Mass of Knavish Politicks that keeps alive the Good Old Tory Cause but I think if you are no better Poets then you are Polititians and no better States-men then Divines the late joynt endeavours of the Stage and Pulpit will prove very ineffectual to the accomplishment of your designs a lack a day what pitty 't is so much Labour and Divine sweat should be spent for just nothing that ever the zealous Preacher should screw up his jaws thump his Pulpit and Divinely rail at Forty one and it have no other effect then to serve instead of a pleasing murmur to loll the drowsie females asleep whilst all his Congregation of half-drunk Bullies are devoutly snoaring in their Pews But what damned incorrigible wretches are these Whiggs they are not moved at the least with the numberless Satyrical Epilogues and Prologues that are roared out on the Stage Notwithstanding we have Plays stuft as full of Burlesques upon the Ignoramus Juries the Salamanca Doctor c. as a Courtier is of Nonsenc and Knavery these head-strong wretches keep on their way though the Whelps bark their guts out if they call them Rogues Rebels and Traytors they turn a deaf ear to all their clamours and answer them as wise men do fools with silence But the final Catastrophe of our divisions will prove who were the Rebells when Plots shall be unravell'd and Court intrigues expos'd to the view of the world when the private Machinations of indigent Clocks-combs shall be made manifest and truth shall once more appear on the Stage then I doubt those persons who now go under the Name of Loyallists will be as obscure as their Knavery is now publick But all are Traytors now that speak against Arbitrary Government if they see their priviledges their rights their liberties going to be taken from them they must hold their peace and sit down like contented asses and bear what burthens the Courtiers and a few small States-men will lay on their Shoulders and this must be born with Patience and let the burthen gall our Shoulders nevâ—r so much we are Rebells if we but so much as winch under it if a man hear bad Counsel given which is the poison of Government he must hold his peace and see those liberties left him free by his Ancestors taken from him and his Posterity he must contentedly see the Throne enslaved the Nobility Vassals and the Commonalty lackey after a company of Arbitrary Debauches and if he shew his dislike of it he is a Rebell But when the fatal Dagger is about to pierce my soveraigns Breast am I Rebel if I stop the blow Am I a Traytor if I discover the Designs and Plots of our Enemies against the Government and my Prince But you shall hear what even Mr. Bays himself speaks of Arbitrary Government and those that are the Supporters of it in his Spanish Fryar pag. 61. Should not a lingring Fevour be remov'd Because it long hath rag'd within my Blood Do I Rebel when I would thrust it out What shall I think the World was made for one And men are born for Kings as Beasts for Men Not for Protection but to be devour'd Mark those who dote on Arbitrary Power And you shall find'm either hot brain'd Youth Or needy Bankrupts servile in their greatness And Slaves to some to Lord it o're the rest O Baseness to support a Tyrant Throne And crush your free-born Brethren of the World Nay to become a part of Usurpation To Espouse the Tyrants person and his crimes And on a Tyrant get a race of Tyrants To be your Countries curse in after Ages Now if Mr. Bays dares go so far I hope I who have always an aversion to wooden Shoos and to be reckoned in the number of French Camels may call them Traytors Rebels Betrayers of their Country egregious Knaves and infamous Scoundrels But suppose which Heaven grant may never come to pass there should be such a thing as Rebellion in England we should then see how those Gouty-Leg'd Divels called Courtiers would tilt at thâ— Râ—bels Then the awful presence of Majesty must dâ—fâ—nd its self while those Ingrates that have been nourished by its favour do leave it succurless for who are cherishers of such a Faction but despicable pusillanimous wretchâ—s Natural Cowards that cannot endure the Fatigues of a long and tedious Campaign whether Honour calls forth the Heroe But as Mr. Bays says they are needy Bankrupts and tempted by preferment what wont such Whores-Birds do How powerful are the Charms of enticing Gold Ah what a Heavenly refreshment are a few Guinies to a decay'd Gentleman even as delicious as the reverend Doctors Comfortable Importance is to a languishing Divine 'T is only want that makes a Loyal Tory and so many Mercinary Scriblers and pray how long doth their Loyalty last e'en just as long as their Coat and their Money when the one is thred bare and the other spent and by their Loyalty they are in no hopes of procuring another then for a little cash they will cut the Throat of the best Lord in the Land Whigg or Tory 't is all one men that are like to be Shipwrackt upon the Rock of Hunger are desperate but now none are His Majesties Loyal Subjects but such who are daily drunk with drinking his Health though they cheat the Vintner for it and that never so well done as when it is set of with the best flowrish in their Rhetorick a fashionable Dam me But now
his fancies be He can speak Treason and fart Loyalty From such fleet wills kind Heaven deliver me Read but his Plays and what else e're he writ You 'l find but little Judgment and less Wit If he dull Ravenscroft by chance excel Thanks to old Nokes that humours it so well Thanks to the Scenes and Musick for his Wit Thanks to the Whores lie squeeking in the Pit That Bullies cannot hear yet praise the Fact And bravely Clap the Actor not the Act. Shadwel and Settle are both Fools to Bays They have no bawdy Prologues to their Plays These silly Villains under a pretence Of wit deceive us and like men write sence Alas says Bays what are your Wies to me Chapman's a sad dul Rogue at Comedy Shirley's an Ass to write at such a rate But I excel the whole Triumverate In all my worthy Plays shew if you can Such a rough Character as Solyman But though I have no Plot and Verse be rough I say 't is Wit and that sure is enough The Lawrel makes a Wit a Brave the Sword And all are wise men at a Councel board S le's a Coward 'cause fool Ut y fought him And Mul ve is a Wit because I taught him So Hectors Bays ' til one would think 't was fit That none but Fools should write or judge of Wit His pigmie wit and little infant sence Rightly defin'd is nought but impudence His lines are weak though of lewd Catches full And naught is strong about him but his Scull The brave defensive head peice of a Fool. Of all mean Hackney Jades I 'de never use This Mercenary party coulor'd Muse Who e're beholds he strait must needs confess She 's clad at once in home and forreign dress Read Dry ns plays and read Cornille's too You 'l swear the Frenchman speaks good English now 'Mongst borrowed Sense some airy flashes drop To please the feeble Females and the Fop So soft and gentle flourishes do move The weak admiring Maid and fire Love Quickens the dizzy Soul with Love beset And tamely draws it to the Golden Net Stupid it lies and senceless of its pain And kindly kisses the bewitching Chain Cupid's the God and Love is all the Song The blest Elysium of the sportful young But eas'd of this so kind so grateful pain And brought unto it's former sense again The glimmering Lamp in lustre once so bright Looks like the Torches of eternal night The amorous paths with sweets inchanted strown Looks like Aâ—cyna when her paint was gone That wit upon the Stage cry'd up to day To morrow in the Closet's thrown away Wit tho with glory it may chance to rise And mounting seem to kiss the very skies Yet if above the bounds of Sense it get It is all wind and is no longer wit But Bays in all his wit is stanch and sound Tho in it all there 's no proportion found But what he speaks or writes or does amiss It is all wit but why because 't is his 'T is wit in him if he all Sense oppose 'T was wit in D'avenant too to lose his Nose If so then Bays is D'avenants wisest Son After so many claps to keep his on But who but Fools would praise dull Ot ys strains Compos'd with little wit and lesser pains Whose fiery face doth dart as hot a ray As the fierce warmer of a Summers day Whose very looks would drive the Fiends away He may so painted with the juice of Vines Turn his Invectives to the praise of Wines Love is a pitteous God and Honour 's grown To such a height it is almost unknown Immortal beauty drown'd in quiet lies And spends all its charms on its owners Eyes But Wine do's now the Poets breast inspire Wine that doth kindle all our youthful fire Wine that makes Oâ— y write and Fools admire His Verse of Wine stinks worse than bawdy Punk For he never writes a Verse but when he is drunk Sure thou wast drunk when in Pindarick strain 'Gainst Libels didst thy dull Muse complain But why didst term it Satyr Satyr tart And piercing Verse that wounds unto the heart But thou got dully drunk ore a Pint Pot Forget's thy Subject like a drunken Sot And ' stead of Satyr didst unto the praise Of those that beat the Dutch a Poem raise The drowzy heavy Hollander as well May chant his Poems and his Fortunes tell Their Fleet as good their men as strong as ours The difference lyes but in the Governors Theirs only win by Guns by Ships by might Ours grew Politicians in the fight And with their tricks at Land did them perplex By building awful Sconces on their decks Environ'd round with sturdy Cable stood Defying bullets still maintain'd the fight Thy brains immur'd with a thick Scull as good As bravely dost this bravest act recite As Castlemain the Victory doth rehearse In falsest Prose thou dost confirm in Verse So when 't was in Dispute in lowest shades where the foyl'd Seaman in new Rivers wades Who justly should the warlike Trophies bear Whether the English or the Hollander Some Ships of ours did meerly out of spight Dive down to prove it was our lawful right Kind hearted Ot y that does Garlands give To beaten Seamen while thy self dost greive Languish and Pine and no man will allow Nought but a wreath of Hemp t' adorn thy brow Ah! but with bawdy Plays and Prologues lewd Thou hast the art to please the multitude The claping rable that on your third days Come to extol and clap your silly Plays Worse then a Sodoms Farce or Smithfield Droll Nothing so Beastly Baudy or so dull If Ignoramus Iuries once be nam'd That thredbare Subject on the Stage so fam'd 'T is tost about with Claps and praiseful knocks ' Til 't bound from Knaves in Pit to Fools in Box. Such stupid humours now the Gallants seize Women and Boys may write and yet may please Poetess Afra thought she 's damn'd to day To morrow will put up another Play And Ot y must be Pimp to set her off Lest the enraged Bully scoul and scoff And hiss and laugh and give not such applause To th' City-heresie as the good Old Cause You 're baulkt worse there then at a City Feast To part with stolen half-Crown for no jest Sham treats you may have paid for o're and o're But who e're paid for a Sham-Play before Tories are just and give the Devil his due Won't damn a Poets Play because 't is new Because it treasts of Whiggs and tells fine stories To please the monkey Courtiers little Tories Tells how the Whiggs with might and force repair To build damn'd stony Castles in the air From whence the Court Hobgoblings they will slay With Guns invented since full many a day How by their necromantick arts they raise Fortyfied Cetadels in all by-ways Millions of Souldiers lodg in hives like Bees And many millions more in hollow trees Where for a fit occasion they do wait