TO THE FIRST SATYR The Design of the Authour was to conceal his Name and Quality. He liv'd in the dangerous Times of the Tyrant Nero; and aims particularly at him, in most of his Satyrs. For which Reason, though he was a Roman Knight, and of a plentiful Fortune, he would appear in this Prologue but a Beggarly Poet, who Writes for Bread. After this, he breaks into the Business of the first Satyr; which is chiefly to decry the Poetry then in Fashion, and the Impudence of those who were endeavouring to pass their Stuff upon the World.

PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST SATYR.

Want taught their Masters, and their Masters these.

Let Gain, that gilded Bait, be hung on high, The hungry Witlings have it in their Eye; Pies, Crows, and Daws, Poetick Presents bring:

You say they squeak; but they will swear they Sing.

ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST SATYR.

I need not repeat, that the chief aim of the Authour is against bad Poets, in this Satyr. But I must add, that he includes also bad Oralors, who began at that Time (as Petronius in the beginning of his Book tells us) to enervate Manly Eloquence, by Tropes and Figures, ill plac'd, and worse apply'd. Amongst the Poets, Persius covertly strikes at Nero; some of whose Verses he recites with Scorn and Indignation. He also takes notice of the Noblemen and their abominable Poetry, who, in the Luxury of their Fortune, set up for Wits, and Judges. The Satyr is in Dialogue, betwist the Authour and his Friend or Monitor; who dissuades him from this dangerous attempt of exposing Great Men. But Persius, who is of a free Spirit, and has not forgotten that Rome was once a Commonwealth, breaks through all those difficulties, and boldly Arraigns the false Judgment of the Age in which he Lives. The Reader may observe that our Poet was a Stoick Philosopher; and that all his Moral Sentences, both here and in all the rest of his Satyrs, are drawn from the Dogma's of that

Sect.

THE

FIRST SATYR,

In Dialogue betwixt the Poet

and his friend or Monitor.

PERSIUS.

FRIEND.

Once more forbear.

PERSIUS.

I cannot rule my Spleen;

30

vain

The bent of our desires!

FRIEND.

Thy Spleen contain: For none will read thy Satyrs.

PERSIUS.

This to me?

FRIEND.

Whether in Prose, or Verse, 'tis all the same: The Prose is Fustian, and the Numbers lame. All Noise, and empty Pomp, a storm of words,

Lab'ring with sound, that little Sence affords. They Comb, and then they order ev'ry

2

Hair:

A Gown, or White, or Scour'd to whiteness,

wear :

A Birth-day Jewel bobbing at their Ear.

The Marrow pierces, and invades the Chine.
At open fulsom Bawdry they rejoice,
And slimy Jests applaud with broken Voice.
Base Prostitute, thus dost thou gain thy
Bread?

Thus dost thou feed their Ears, and thus art fed?

At his own filthy stuff he grins and brays: And gives the sign where he expects their praise.

Why have I Learn'd, say'st thou, if thus confin'd,

I choak the Noble Vigour of my Mind? Know, my wild Fig-Tree, which in Rocks is bred,

Will split the Quarry, and shoot out the Head.

Fine Fruits of Learning! Old Ambitious Fool,

59

Dar'st thou apply that Adage of the School; As if 'tis nothing worth that lies conceal'd, And Science is not Science till Reveal'd?

Oh, but 'tis Brave to be Admir'd, to see The Crowd, with pointing Fingers, cry, That's he:

That's he, whose wondrous Poem is become A Lecture for the Noble Youth of Rome! Who, by their Fathers, is at Feasts Renown'd;

And often quoted, when the Bowls go round. Full gorg'd and flush'd, they wantonly Rehearse;

70

And add to Wine the Luxury of Verse.
One, clad in Purple, not to lose his time,
Eats, and recites some lamentable Rhime:
Some Senceless Phyllis, in a broken Note,
Snuffling at Nose, or croaking in his Throat:
Then Graciously the mellow Audience Nod:
Is not th' Immortal Authour made a God?
Are not his Manes blest, such Praise to have?
Lies not the Turf more lightly on his Grave?
And Roses (while his lowd Applause they Sing)
Stand ready from his Sepulcher to spring?
All these, you cry, but light Objections

are;

81

Meer Malice, and you drive the Jest too far.
For does there Breathe a Man, who can reject
A general Fame, and his own Lines neglect,? |
In Cedar Tablets worthy to appear,
That need not Fish, or Franckincense to
fear?

Thou, whom I make the adverse part to
bear,

Be answer'd thus: If I, by chance, succeed
In what I Write, (and that's a chance indeed;)
Know, I am not so stupid, or so hard, 90
Not to feel Praise, or Fame's deserv'd Reward:
But this I cannot grant, that thy Applause
Is my Works ultimate, or only Cause.
Prudence can ne're propose so mean a prize;
For mark what Vanity within it lies.
Like Labeo's Iliads, in whose Verse is found
Nothing but trifling care, and empty sound :
Such little Elegies as Nobles Write,
Who wou'd be poets, in Apollo's spight.
Them and their woful Works the Muse defies:
Products of Citron Beds and Golden
Canopies.

To give thee all thy due, thou hast they

Heart

To make a Supper, with a fine dessert; And to thy threed-bare Friend, a cast old Sute impart.

74 or] The editors give and

(For I love Truth, nor can plain Speech offend,)

What says the World of me and of my Muse? The Poor dare nothing tell but flatt'ring News:

But shall I speak? thy Verse is wretched Rhyme;

And all thy Labours are but loss of time. 110 Thy strutting Belly swells, thy Paunch is high; Thou Writ'st not, but thou Pissest Poetry.

All Authours to their own defects are blind; Hadst thou but, Janus like, a Face behind, To see the people, what splay-Mouths they make;

To mark their Fingers, pointed at thy back: Their Tongues loll'd out, a foot beyond the pitch,

When most athirst, of an Apulian Bitch: But Noble Scriblers are with Flatt'ry fed; For none dare find their faults, who Eat their Bread.

120

To pass the Poets of Patrician Blood, What is't the common Reader takes for good? The Verse in fashion is, when Numbers flow, Soft without Sence, and without Spirit slow: So smooth and equal, that no sight can find The Rivet, where the polish'd piece was join'd. So even all, with such a steady view, As if he shut one Eye to level true. Whether the Vulgar Vice his Satyr stings, The Peoples Riots, or the Rage of Kings, 130 The gentle Poct is alike in all; Ilis Reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall. FRIEND.

Hourly we see some Raw Pin-feather'd thing

Attempt to mount, and Fights, and Heroes sing;

Who, for false quantities, was whipt at School Butt'other day, and breaking Grammar Rule, Whose trivial Art was never try'd, above The bare description of a Native Grove: Who knows not how to praise the Country store,

The Feasts, the Baskets, nor the fatted Bore; 140

Nor paint the flowry Fields, that paint themselves before.

105 Tell] tell 1693.

Some love to hear the Fustian Poet roar ; And some on Antiquated Authours pore: Rummage for Sense; and think those only good

151

Who labour most, and least are understood. When thou shalt see the Blear-Ey'd Fathers teach

Their Sons, this harsh and mouldy sort of
Speech;

Or others new affected ways to try,
Of wanton smoothness, Female Poetry;
One would enquire, from whence this motley
Stile

Did first our Roman Purity defile :

For our Old Dotards cannot keep their Seat;
But leap and catch at all that's obsolete. 160
Others, by Foolish Ostentation led,
When call'd before the Bar, to save their
Head,

Bring trifling Tropes, instead of solid Sence:
And mind their Figures more than their
Defence,

Are pleas'd to hear their thick-scull'd

Judges cry,

Well mov'd, oh finely said, and decently! Theft (says th' Accuser) to thy Charge I lay, O Pedius! What does gentle Pedius say Studious to please the Genius of the Times, With Periods, Points, and Tropes, he slurs his Crimes: 170 "He Robb'd not, but he Borrow'd from the Poor;

"And took but with intention to restore. He lards with flourishes his long Harangue; 'Tis fine, say'st thou; What, to be Prais'd and Hang?

Effeminate Roman, shall such Stuff prevail To tickle thee, and make thee wag thy Tail? Say, shou'da Shipwrack'd Saylor sing his woe, Wou'dst thou be mov'd to pity, or bestow

A Nobler Verse? Arms and the Man I sing. PERSIUS.

Why name you Virgil with such Fops as these?

He's truly great, and must for ever please. Not fierce, but awful is his Manly Page; Bold is his Strength, but sober is his Rage. FRIEND.

What Poems think you soft? and to be read

With languishing regards, and bending Head? PERSIUS.

"Their crooked Horns " the Mimallonian Crew

"With Blasts inspir'd; and Bassaris who slew

187 cut] Editors give cuts

At least, I'll dig a hole within the Ground;
And to the trusty Earth commit the sound:
The Reeds shall tell you what the poet Fears,
King 15 Midas has a Snout, and Asses Ears.
This mean conceit, this darling Mystery,
Which thou think'st nothing, Friend, thou
shalt not buy,

Nor will I change, for all the flashy Wit,
That flatt'ring Labeo in his Iliads writ.

Thou, if there be a thou, in this base Town,
Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown;
He, who, with bold Cratinus, is inspir'd 251
With Zeal, and equal Indignation fir'd;
Who, at enormous Villany, turns pale,
And steers against it with a full-blown Sail,
Like Aristophanes; let him but smile
On this my honest Work, tho writ in
homely Stile:

And if two Lines or three in all the Vein Appear less drossy, read those Lines again. May they perform their Author's just Intent, Glow in thy Ears, and in thy Breast fer