Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN ALLUSION TO HORACE, THE TENTH SATYR OF THE FIRST BOOK, by JOHN WILMOT Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Well, sir, 'tis granted I said dryden's rhymes Last Line: Approve my sense: I count their censure fame. Alternate Author Name(s): Rochester, 2d Earl Of Subject(s): Busby, Richard (1606-1695); Dryden, John (1631-1700); Etherege, Sir George (1635-1692); Godolphin, Sidney (1610-1643); Horace (65-8 B.c.); Otway, Thomas (1652-1685); Scroope, Sir Carr (d. 1680); Sedley, Sir Charles (1639-1701); Settle, Elkanah (1648-1724 | ||||||||
Well, sir, 'tis granted I said Dryden's rhymes Were stol'n, unequal, nay dull many times. What foolish patron is there found of his So blindly partial to deny me this? But that his plays, embroidered up and down With wit and learning, justly pleased the town In the same paper I as freely own. Yet having this allowed, the heavy mass That stuffs up his loose volumes must not pass; For by that rule I might as well admit Crowne's tedious scenes for poetry and wit. 'Tis therefore not enough when your false sense Hits the false judgment of an audience Of clapping fools, assembling a vast crowd Till the thronged playhouse crack with the dull load; Though ev'n that talent merits in some sort That can divert the rabble and the Court, Which blundering Settle never could attain, And puzzling Otway labors at in vain. But within due proportions circumscribe Whate'er you write, that with a flowing tide The style may rise, yet in its rise forbear With useless words t' oppress the wearied ear. Here be your language lofty, there more light: Your rhetoric with your poetry unite. For elegance' sake, sometimes allay the force Of epithets: 'twill soften the discourse. A jest in scorn points out and hits the thing More home than the morosest satyr's sting. Shakespeare and Jonson did herein excel, And might in this be imitated well; Whom refined Etherege copies not at all, But is himself a sheer original; Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains, Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains, And rides a jaded muse, whipped with loose reins. When Lee makes temperate Scipio fret and rave, And Hannibal a whining amorous slave, I laugh, and wish the hot-brained fustian fool In Busby's hands, to be well lashed at school. Of all our modern wits, none seems to me Once to have touched upon true comedy But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley. Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart Great proofs of force of nature, none of art: With just, bold strokes he dashes here and there, Showing great mastery, with little care, And scorns to varnish his good touches o'er To make the fools and women praise 'em more. But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains: He wants no judgment, nor he spares no pains. He frequently excels, and at the least Makes fewer faults than any of the best. Waller, by nature for the bays designed, With force and fire and fancy unconfined, In panegyrics does excel mankind. He best can turn, enforce, and soften things To praise great conqu'rors, or to flatter Kings. For pointed satyrs, I would Buckhurst choose: The best good man with the worst-natured muse. For songs and verses mannerly obscene, That can stir nature up by springs unseen, And without forcing blushes, warm the Queen -- Sedley has that prevailing gentle art, That can with a resistless charm impart The loosest wishes to the chastest heart; Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire, Betwixt declining virtue and desire, Till the poor vanquished maid dissolves away In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day. Dryden in vain tried this nice way of wit, For he to be a tearing blade thought fit. But when he would be sharp, he still was blunt: To frisk his frolic fancy, he'd cry, "Cunt!" Would give the ladies a dry bawdy bob, And thus he got the name of Poet Squab. But, to be just, 'twill to his praise be found His excellencies more than faults abound; Nor dare I from his sacred temples tear That laurel which he best deserves to wear. But does not Dryden find ev'n Jonson dull; Fletcher and Beaumont uncorrect, and full Of lewd lines, as he calls 'em; Shakespeare's style Stiff and affected; to his own the while Allowing all the justness that his pride So arrogantly had to these denied? And may not I have leave impartially To search and censure Dryden's works, and try If those gross faults his choice pen does commit Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit; Or if his lumpish fancy does refuse Spirit and grace to his loose, slattern muse? Five hundred verses every morning writ Proves you no more a poet than a wit. Such scribbling authors have been seen before; Mustapha, The English Princess, forty more Were things perhaps composed in half an hour. To write what may securely stand the test Of being well read over, thrice at least Compare each phrase, examine every line, Weigh every word, and every thought refine. Scorn all applause the vile rout can bestow, And be content to please those few who know. Canst thou be such a vain, mistaken thing To wish thy works might make a playhouse ring With the unthinking laughter and poor praise Of fops and ladies, factious for thy plays? Then send a cunning friend to learn thy doom From the shrewd judges in the drawing room. I've no ambition on that idle score, But say with Betty Morris heretofore, When a Court lady called her Buckley's whore, "I please one man of wit, am proud on 't too: Let all the coxcombs dance to bed to you!" Should I be troubled when the purblind knight, Who squints more in his judgment than his sight, Picks silly faults, and censures what I write; Or when the poor-fed poets of the town, For scraps and coach room, cry my verses down? I loathe the rabble; 'tis enough for me If Sedley, Shadwell, Shepherd, Wycherley, Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham, And some few more, whom I omit to name, Approve my sense: I count their censure fame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SONG OF A YOUNG LADY TO HER ANCIENT LOVER by JOHN WILMOT EPITAPH ON CHARLES II by JOHN WILMOT GRECIAN KINDNESS: A SONG by JOHN WILMOT IMPROMPTU ON CHARLES II (2) by JOHN WILMOT INSULTING BEAUTY by JOHN WILMOT LOVE AND LIFE. A SONG by JOHN WILMOT |
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