Cry'd, "Tis refolv'd; for Nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Sh, alone, my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulnefs from his tender years:
Sh, alone, of all my fons, was he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The reft, to fome faint meaning make pretence;
But Sh- never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Sh's genuine night admits no ray;
His rifing fogs prevail upon the day.
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtless majesty :
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, fpread in folemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of Tautology.
Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarfely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom ftrung,
When to king John of Portugal I fung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celeftial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an hoft,
The like was ne'er in Epfom blankets tøft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-fharpen'd thumb, from fhore to fhore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh call,
And Sh- they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev❜n the feet of thy own Pfyche's rhime:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er wou'd act Villerius more.
Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd)
An antient fabric, rais'd t' inform the fight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tow'r once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains :
From its old ruins brothel-houses rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vaft courts the mother-ftrumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.
Near thefe a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the Gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Johnfon dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin juft reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches the fuburbian muse affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously defign'd his Sh's throne:
For ancient Decker prophefy'd, long fince,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a fcourge of Wit, and flail of sense:
To whom true dulnefs fhould fome Pfyche's owe,
But worlds of Mifers from his pen fhould flow;
Humourists and Hypocrites it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now emprefs Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation through the town.
Rouz'd by report of Fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill, and diftant Watling-ftreet.
No Perfian carpets fpread th' imperial way,
But fcatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From duty fhops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Sh- almost choak'd the way,
Bilk'd Stationers for yeomen ftood prepar'd,
And H- ―n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Afcanius fate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Swore by his fire a mortal foe to Rome;
fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain, That he, till death, true dulnefs would maintain; And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. The king himself the facred unction made, As king by office, and as prieft by trade. In his finifter hand, instead of ball, He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale; Love's kingdom to his right he did convey, At once his fceptre, and his rule of sway; Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd young, And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche fprung. His temples, laft, with poppies were o'erfpread, That, nodding, feem'd to confecrate his head. Juft at the point of time, if fame not lye, On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly. So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tyber's brook, Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.. Th' admiring
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then fhook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dullness: long he flood,
Repelling from his breaft the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:
"Heav'ns bless my fon, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes 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 ftretch his pen!"-
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen.
Then thus continu'd he: " My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach, learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuofo's in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, fhew the writer's wit.
Yet ftill thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of fenfe.,
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.
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