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JOHN DRYDEN

MAC FLECKNOE

OR, A SATIRE UPON THE TRUE-BLUEPROTESTANT POET

T. S.

BY THE AUTHOR OF ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL

[Publ. 1682.]

[Thomas Shadwell, once Dryden's friend, now his enemy, and an ardent Whig, had published an answer to The Medal, entitled, The Medal of John Bayes, a Satire against Folly and Knavery, in which he assailed Dryden with foul and scurrilous abuse. Dryden's reply was the following poem, published, according to Malone (I, 1, 169), who probably had some authority for his statement, on October 4, 1682.]

ALL human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus,

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With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,

Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;

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And big with hymn, commander of a host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy
nail.

At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore

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Now Empress Fame had publish'd the

renown

Of Sh's coronation thro' the town. Rous'd by report of Fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street.

No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay; From dusty shops neglected authors come, Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum. 101 Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, But loads of Sh- almost chok'd the way. Bilk'd 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 labors rear'd. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the State. His brows thick fogs, instead of glories,

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Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic
mood:

"Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign

To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140 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 cried, "Amen." Then thus continued he: "My son, advance Still in new impudence, new ignorance. Success let others teach, learn thou from me Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,

151

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their folly shew the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defense,
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. 160
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name.
But let no alien S-dl-y interpose,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou
wouldst cull,

Trust nature, do not labor to be dull;
But write thy best, and top; and, in each
line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, tho' unsought, attends thy quill, And does thy northern dedications fill. 170 Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,

By arrogating Jonson's hostile name. Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,

And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

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?

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