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Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanisht minds;
Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker prophesi'd long since
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit and flayle of sense,
To whom true dulness 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.

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Now empress Fame had publisht the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rows'd by report of fame, the nations meet
From near Bunhill and distant Watling-street.
No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay;
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost choakt the way.
Bilkt stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd
And Herringman was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sat,
Rome's other hope and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs instead of glories grace,
And lambent dulness plaied around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his syre a mortal foe to Rome:

So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he till death true dulness would maintain,
And, in his father's right and realms defence,

Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truce 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 plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
"Love's Kingdom" to his right he did convey,
At once his sceptre and his rule of sway;

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Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd young
And from whose loyns 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 lye,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
The admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.

The syre then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness; long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging God;

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At length burst out in this prophetick mood:

"Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign

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"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 stretch his pen!" He paus'd, and all the people cry'd

"Amen."

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Then thus continu'd he: "My son, advance
"Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
"Success let others teach, learn thou from me

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"Yet not one thought accuse 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 show the writers wit.

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"Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence
"And justify their author's want of sense.
"Let 'em be all by thy own model made
"Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid,
"That they to future ages may be known,
"Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.

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"All full of thee and differing but in name.

"But let no alien Sedley interpose

"To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.

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"And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull, "Trust nature, do not labour 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 dedication; fill.

"Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame

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"Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise "And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

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"Thou art my blood, where Jonson 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 Nicander's vein
"Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
"When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
"As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
"But so transfused as oil on waters 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 byas of thy mind,

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"By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined,

"Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,

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"And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

"Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence
"Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
"A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
"But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
"Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;

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"Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
"With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write,
"Thy inoffensive satyrs never bite;

"In thy fellonious heart though venom lies,

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"It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dyes.

"Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
"In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram.
"Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command
"Some peacefull province in Acrostick land.
"There thou may'st wings display and altars raise,
"And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;
"Or, if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit,
"Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute."
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard,

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What passion cannot Musick raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the corded shell,

His list'ning brethren stood around,

And, wond'ring, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound;

Less than a god they thought there cou'd not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

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3.

The trumpets loud clangor
Excites us to arms

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum
Cries, heark: the foes come!
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

4.

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

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