No More Learning

_If children are blessings, his comfort's the more,
Whose spouse has been known to be fruitful before;
And the boy that she brings ready made to his hand,
May stand him instead, for an heir to his land,
Should his own prove a sot,
When he's lawfully got,
As whene'er 'tis so, if he don't I'll be hanged. _


SONG

FOR A GIRL.

I.

_Young I am, and yet unskilled
How to make a lover yield:
How to keep, or how to gain,
When to love, and when to feign. _

II.

_Take me, take me, some of you,
While I yet am young and true;
Ere I can my soul disguise,
Heave my breasts, and roll my eyes. _

III.

_Stay not till I learn the way,
How to lie, and to betray:
He that has me first is blest,
For I may deceive the rest. _

IV.

_Could I find a blooming youth,
Full of love, and full of truth,
Brisk, and of a jaunty mien,
I should long to be fifteen. _ [Exeunt.

_A Royal Chamber is discovered by drawing the former Scene_;
VERAMOND, GARCIA, XIMENA, VICTORIA CELIDEA, _with a full Train of
Courtiers and Guards: amongst the Crowd_, RAMIREZ _disguised with
some of his Party_.

_Vera. _ [_To_ VICT. ] No more delays, but go.

_Xim. _ This is inhuman,
To press her to a marriage made by force.
At least allow yourself and her this day,
That each of you may think, and one may change.

_Vera. _ You mean, the times or accidents may change,
And leave her for Alphonso.

_Xim. _ Your enemies are but without your gates,
And soon they may return: Forbear for fear.

_Vera. _ The sooner then
I must prevent the effect of their return.
What now remains, but to complete my vows,
And sacrifice to vengeance!

_Xim. _ Your own daughter!

_Vera. _ Even her, myself, and all the world together.

_Vict. _ Can you refuse me one poor day to live?

_Vera. _ Obey me, and be blest; if not, accurst.
A father's curse has wings, remember that;
Through this world and the next it will pursue thee,
And sink thee down for ever.

_Vict. _ 'Tis enough,
I know how far a daughter owes obedience;
But duty has a bound like other empires:
It reaches but to life, for all beyond it
Is the dominion of another world,
Where you have no command. --
For you, Don Garcia,
You know the power a mistress ought to have;
But, since you will be master, take your hour,
The next is mine.

_Gar. _ I grant the debt of service which I owe you;
But 'tis a sum too vast to pay at sight.
If now you call it in, I must be bankrupt
To all my future bliss.

_Vict. _ I find by you,
The laws of love are like the laws of heaven;
All know, but few will keep them. --To the temple,
Where I myself am victim.

_Enter_ ALPHONSO, _unarmed; all seem amazed_.

_ Alph. _ Stay, Veramond.

_Vera. _ Alphonso here! then all my hopes are blasted;
The town is his, and I once more a slave. [_Aside. _

_Alph. _ Dismiss thy fears, and tremble not, old man;
I neither come with purpose, nor with power,
To avenge my wrongs, but single, and unarmed.
This head is necessary to thy peace,
And to Victoria's violated vows,
Who, while I live, can never be Don Garcia's.
Take then this odious life; securely take it,
And glut thy vengeance with Alphonso's blood.
Behold the man, who forced thee in thy strength,
In thy imperial town made thee a captive.
Now give thy fury scope; revenge the affront,
And show more pity not to spare my life,
Than I, in sparing thine.

_Xim. _ [_To_ CEL. ] Oh boundless courage, or extreme despair!

_Cel. _ [_To her. _] I tremble for the event; see, the king reddens.
The fear which seized him at Alphonso's sight,
And left his face forsaken of his blood,
Is vanished now;
And a new tide returns upon his cheeks,
And rage and vengeance sparkle in his eyes.

_Vera. _ [_Aside. _] All things are hushed; no noise is in the streets,
Nor shouts of soldiers, nor the cries of matrons,
To speak a town in plunder. --Then I take
A traitor's counsel once, and thou shalt die. [_To_ _Alph. _
Condemned by thy own sentence, go to death;
Nor shall thy seeming generosity,
And feigned assurance, save thee: 'tis despair,
To see thy frustrate hopes, that brought thee hither,
To meet my just revenge.

_Alph. _ Yes, I will die, because I chuse to die;
Which had I not desired, I had not come
Unarmed, unguarded, and alone, to tempt
Thy known ingratitude, and barbarous hate.
Boast not the advantage which thou hold'st of me,
But know thyself for what thou art,--no more
Than the mean minister of my despair.

_Vera. _ Whether to heaven's justice, or thy choice,
I owe this happy hour of sweet revenge,
I'll not be wanting to the wished occasion.

_Vict. _ You shall not die alone, my dear Alphonso,
Though much I blame this desperate enterprize.
You should have staid, to see
The event of what I promised to perform;
For, had I been so base to be another's,
That baseness might have cured your ill-placed love.
But this untimely rashness makes you guilty,
Both of your fate, and mine.

_Alph. _ While I believed
My life was precious to my dear Victoria,
I valued and preserved it for her sake:
But when you broke from your deliverer's arms.
To put yourself into a tyrant's power,
I threw a worthless, wretched being from me.
Abandoned first by you.

_Vict. _ Oh cruel man!
Where, at what moment did that change begin,
With which you tax my violated vows?
I left your lawless power, to put myself
Into a father's chains, my lawful tyrant.
If this be my upbraided crime, even this,
On that occasion, would I do once more:
But could I, with my honour, safe have staid
In your dear arms, bear witness, heaven and earth,
Nor threats, nor force, nor promises, nor fears,
Should take me from your love.

_Alph. _ Oh, I believe you. --
Vanish my fears, and causeless jealousies!
Live, my Victoria, for yourself, not me,
But let the unfortunate Alphonso die;
My death will glut your cruel father's rage.
When I am gone, and his revenge complete,
Pity, perhaps, may seize a parent's mind,
To free you from a hated lover's arms.

_Cel. _ [_To_ XIM. ] Speak, mother, speak; my father gives you time;
He stands amazed, irresolute, and dumb,
Like the still face of heaven before a storm;--
Speak and arrest the thunder, ere it rolls.

_Xim. _ I stand suspected; but you, Celidea,
The favourite of his heart, his darling child,
May speak, and ought: your interest is concerned;
For, if Alphonso die, your hopes are lost.
I see your father's soul, like glowing steel,
Is on the anvil; strike, while yet he's hot:
Turn him, and ply him; set him strait betimes,
Lest he for ever warp.

_Cel. _ I fear, and yet would speak; but will he hear me?

_Xim. _ For what is all this silence, but to hear?
Bring him but to calm reasoning, and he's gained.

_Cel. _ Then heaven inspire my tongue! ----
Sir, royal sir! ----
He hears me not; he lifts not up his eyes,
But, fixed upon the pavement, looks the way
That points to death. -- [_She pulls him. _
Oh hear me, hear me, father!
Have you forgot that dear indulgent name,
Never before in vain pronounced by me?

_Vera. _ Ha! who disturbs my thoughts?

_Cel. _ [_Kneeling. _] 'Tis Celidea. --
Alas, I would relieve you, if I durst:
If ever I offended, even in thought,
Or made not your commands
The bounds of all my wishes and desires,
Bid me be dumb, or else permit me speech.

_Vera. _ Oh rise, my only unoffending child,
Who reconciles me to the name of father!
Speak then;--but not for her, and less for him.

_Cel. _ Perhaps I would accuse them, not defend;
For both are guilty, dipt in equal crimes,
And are obnoxious to your justice both.

_Vera. _ True, Celidea; thou confirm'st my sentence.
'Tis just Alphonso die.

_Xim. _ Forgive her, heaven! she aggravates their faults,
And pushes their destruction. [_Aside. _

_Cel. _ Speak, Alphonso:
Can you deny, when royal Veramond,
Then thought your father, and by you so deemed,
When he required your captive, old Ramirez,
And ordered his confinement; did you well
Then to controul the pleasure of that king,
Under whose just commands you fought and conquered?

_Alph. _ I did not well; but heat of boiling youth,
And ill weighed honour, made me disobey.

_Vera. _ That cause is gained; for he confesses guilt. --
Proceed, most equitable judge, proceed.

_Cel. _ [_To_ ALPH. ] Next, I reproach you with a worse rebellion:
The king's first promise, to Don Garcia made,
You dared to oppose; forbade his fair addresses;
Then made a ruffian quarrel with that prince;
And, last, were guilty of incestuous love.
I will not load my sister with consent;
But, in strict virtue, listening to a crime,
And not rejecting, is itself a crime.

_Vict. _ Is this a sister's office? peace, for shame!
We loved without transgressing virtue's bounds;
We fixed the limits of our tenderest thoughts;
Came to the verge of honour, and there stopt:
We warmed us by the fire, but were not scorched.
If this be sin, angels might love with less,
And mingle rays of minds less pure than ours.
Our souls enjoyed; but to their holy feasts,
Bodies, on both sides, were forbidden guests.

_Cel. _ Now help me, father, or our cause is lost;
For much I fear their love was innocent.

_Vera. _ With my own troops Alphonso seized my person,
In my own town, to my perpetual shame.
Pass on to that, and strike the traitor dead.

_Cel. _ Yes, proud Alphonso, you were banish'd hence;
Your father was confined, and doomed to death;
The beauty you adored was made another's.
How durst you, then, attempt to avenge your wrongs,
And force your mistress from your rival's arms,
Rather than die contented, as you ought?

_Alph. _ Even for those very reasons you allege.

_Xim. _ At last I find her drift. [_Aside. _

_Vera. _ Thou justifiest, and not accusest him.

_Cel. _ Patience, good father, and hear out the rest. [_To_ ALPH.
Thought you, because you bravely fought and conquered
For royal Veramond, nay, saved his life,
And set him free when you had conquered him,
Only because he was Victoria's father;
Thought you for such slight services as these,
That he should spare you now? O generous madman,
To give your head to one, who ne'er forgave.

_Vera. _ Oh, she stings me. [_Aside. _

_Cel. _ And you, Don Garcia, witness to this truth:
You were his hated rival, fairly vanquished,
And yet he spared your life.

_Gar. _ At your request:
I owe it to you both.

_Cel. _ That he dismissed my sister, 'twas her fault;
I charge it not on him, but 'twas his folly:
A capital fool he was, in that last error,
For which he justly stands condemned to death.
Your sentence, royal sir?

_Vera. _ That he should live;
Should live triumphant over Veramond,
And should live happy in Victoria's love. --
Oh, I have held as long as nature could;
Convinced in reason, obstinate in will:
I saw the pleader's aim, found her design,
I longed to be o'ercome, and yet resisted. --
What have I done against thee, my Alphonso?
And what hast thou not done for Veramond?

_Xim. _ Oh fortunate event!

_Vict. _ Oh happy day!

_Alph. _ Oh unexpected bliss, and therefore double!

_Vera. _ [_To_ ALPH. ] Can you forgive me? yes, I know Alphonso can
forgive Victoria's father.
But yet, in pity, pardon not too soon;
Punish my pride a while,
And make me linger for so great a good,
Lest ecstasy of joy prevent this blessing,
And you, instead of pardon, give me death.

[_He offers to kneel to_ ALPHONSO: ALPHONSO _takes him up, and
kneels himself_.

_Alph. _ Oh, let me raise my father from the ground!

_Vera. _ [_Rising. _] 'Tis your peculiar virtue, my Alphonso,
Always to raise me up.

_Alph. _ Here let me grow, till I obtain your grace.
My life has been one universal crime;
And you, like heaven, accepting short repentance,
Forgive my length of sins.

_Vera. _ [_Raising him. _] Let us forget from whence offence began.
But since, to save my shame, thou wilt be guilty,
Impute thy hate for me to sure instinct,
That showed thee thy true father in my foe;
Now grafted on my stock, be son to both. --
[_Turning to_ GAR. ] To you, Don Garcia, next----

_Gar. _ Before you speak,
Permit me, sir, to assume some little merit
In this day's happiness; your promise made
Victoria mine----

_Alph. _ What then?

_Gar. _ Nay, hear me out.
He kept his royal word; he gave her me:
I lost her, when I fell beneath your sword;
Or, if I have a title, I resign it,
And make her yours.

_Alph. _ I take her, as your gift.

_Gar. _ [_To_ VER. ] Make me but blest in Celidea's love;
She saved my life, and hers it is for ever.
'Tis pity she, who gained another's cause,
Should lose her own.

_Vera. _ [_Presenting_ CEL. ] She's yours.

_Cel. _ My joys are full.

_Vict. _ And mine o'erflow.

_Alph. _ And mine are all a soul can bear, and live.

_Vera. _ Then seek we out Ramirez,
To make him partner of this happy day,
That gives him back his crown and his Alphonso.

_Ram. _ Behold me here, unsought, with some few friends.
[_Taking off his vizard. _
Resolved to save my son, or perish with him,
Thus far I traced, and followed him unknown;
And here have waited, with a beating heart,
To see this blest event.

_Vera. _ Just like the winding up of some design,
Well-formed, upon the crowded theatre;
Where all concerned surprisingly are pleased,
And what they wish see done. Lead to the temple:
Let thanks be paid; and heaven be praised no less
For private union, than for public peace. [_Exeunt. _




EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY DALINDA.


Now, in good manners, nothing should be said
Against this play, because the poet's dead[61].
The prologue told us of a moral here:
Would I could find it! but the devil knows where.
If in my part it lies, I fear he means
To warn us of the sparks behind our scenes.
For, if you'll take it on Dalinda's word,
'Tis a hard chapter to refuse a lord.
The poet might pretend this moral too,--
That when a wit and fool together woo,
The damsel (not to break an antient rule)
Should leave the wit, and take the wealthy fool.
This he might mean: but there's a truth behind, }
And, since it touches none of all our kind }
But masks and misses, 'faith, I'll speak my mind. }
What if he taught our sex more cautious carriage,
And not to be too coming before marriage;
For fear of my misfortune in the play,
A kid brought home upon the wedding day?
I fear there are few Sancho's in the pit,
So good as to forgive, and to forget;
That will, like him, restore us into favour,
And take us after on our good behaviour.
Few, when they find the money-bag is rent,
Will take it for good payment on content.
But in the telling, there the difference is,
Sometimes they find it more than they could wish.
Therefore be warned, you misses and you masks,
Look to your hits, nor give the first that asks.
Tears, sighs, and oaths, no truth of passion prove;
True settlement, alone, declares true love.
For him that weds a puss, who kept her first,
I say but little, but I doubt the worst.
The wife, that was a cat, may mind her house, }
And prove an honest, and a careful spouse; }
But 'faith I would not trust her with a mouse. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 56: Alluding to the vulgar proverb, "One who is born under a
three-penny planet will never be worth a groat. "]

[Footnote 57: There would probably occur to the audience of the period,
some recollection of the manner in which King James had been treated by
Sunderland. ]

[Footnote 58: Meaning, that the courtiers, although their eyes be
as fatal as those of basilisks, are not subject to the fate of that
fabulous serpent, which died if a man beheld it first. ]

[Footnote 59: Our author uses the same old word, for a scramble, in the
prologue to "The Widow Ranter. "

Bauble and cap no sooner are thrown down,
But there's a _muss_ of more than half the town.

It occurs frequently in old authors, and particularly in the well known
passage in "Anthony and Cleopatra. "

----Of late, when I cried ho!
Like boys unto a _muss_, kings would start forth,
And cry, your will? ]

[Footnote 60: This old English word, for a Christmas masquerading
frolic, is still used in some parts of England. ]

[Footnote 61: See the lines in the prologue,

He dies,--at least to us and to the stage,
And what he has, he leaves this noble age. ]




PROLOGUE, SONG,

SECULAR MASQUE, & EPILOGUE,

WRITTEN FOR

_THE PILGRIM_.

REVIVED FOR DRYDEN'S BENEFIT, IN 1700.


Our Author's connection with the Theatre only ended with his life.
The pieces, which follow, have reference to the performance of "The
Pilgrim," a play of Beaumont and Fletcher, which was revived in 1700.
Vanburgh, a lively comic writer, who seems to have looked up to Dryden
with that veneration which was his due, added some light touches of
humour, to adapt this play to the taste of the age. The aged poet
himself furnished a Prologue and Epilogue, a Song, and Secular Masque;
and, with these additions, the piece was performed for the benefit of
Dryden. It seems dubious, whether the kind intentions of Vanburgh and
the players actually took effect in favour of our author himself, or
in that of his son. It is certain, that, if he did not die before the
representation, he did not survive it many weeks, as the play[62] was
not published till after his death.


But his lamp burned bright to the close. The Prologue and Epilogue,
written within a few weeks of his death, equal any thing of the kind
which he ever produced. He combats his two enemies, Blackmore and
Collier, with his usual spirit; but with manliness concedes, that they
had attacked him in one vulnerable and indefensible particular, where
he lay open, less from any peculiar depravity in his own taste, than
from compliance with the general licence of the age.

Cibber informs us, that Sir John Vanburgh, who cast the parts, being
pleased with the young actor's moderation, in contenting himself with
those of the Stuttering Cook, and Mad Englishman, assigned him also
the creditable task of speaking the Epilogue, which, as it was so much
above the ordinary strain, highly gratified his vanity. Dryden himself,
on hearing Cibber recite it, made him the further compliment of
trusting him with the Prologue also; an honourable distinction, which
drew upon him the jealousy of the other actors, and the indignation
of Wilkes in particular. This revival of "The Pilgrim" was also
remarkable, as affording Mrs Oldfield, who had been about a year or
more a mute on the stage, an opportunity of attracting public attention
in the character of Alinda, which suited the want of confidence natural
to her inexperience, and in which she afforded that promise of future
excellence, which was afterwards so amply fulfilled.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 62: Mr Malone supposes the play to have been acted on the
25th March, 1700; Dryden died on the 1st of May following. The play was
advertised for publication in the London Gazette of 17th June, 1700.
The following is the full title:--

"The Pilgrim, a Comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre-royal in
Drury-lane, written originally by Mr Fletcher, and now very much
altered, with several additions; likewise, a Prologue, Epilogue,
Dialogue, and Masque, written by the late great poet, Mr Dryden, just
before his death, being the last of his works. Printed for Benjamin
Tooke, near the Middle Temple Gate, in Fleet-street. 1700. "

In the published copy our author is mentioned as dead:--"_Governor_.
I hope before you go, sir, you'll share with us an entertainment, the
late great poet of our age prepared to celebrate this day. " But this,
as Mr Malone observes, was probably an addition, after Dryden's death
had taken place. Gildon, in his "Comparison between the Stages," seems
to say that the play was performed for the benefit of Dryden's _son_;
probably, because in his father's extreme illness, or upon his death,
his son would naturally draw the profits. On the whole, it seems
probable, that Dryden survived the performance of the play; as it is
presumable that "The Secular Masque," being intended to solemnise
the supposed termination of the century, was brought out as soon as
possible in the new year. ]




PROLOGUE

TO

THE PILGRIM.

REVIVED FOR OUR AUTHOR'S BENEFIT, ANNO 1700.


How wretched is the fate of those who write!
Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite;
Where, like Tom Dove[63], they stand the common foe,
Lugged by the critic, baited by the beau.
Yet, worse, their brother poets damn the play,
And roar the loudest, though they never pay.
The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
At every lewd, low character,--That's I.
He, who writes letters to himself, would swear,
The world forgot him, if he was not there.
What should a poet do? 'Tis hard for one }
To pleasure all the fools that would be shown; }
And yet not two in ten will pass the town. }
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.
Quack Maurus[64], though he never took degrees
In either of our universities[65],
Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,
Because he played the fool, and writ three books.
But if he would be worth a poet's pen,
He must be more a fool, and write again:
For all the former fustian stuff he wrote
Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot;
His man of Uz, stript of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and "As poor as Job. "
One would have thought he could no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.
There though he crept, yet still he kept in sight;
But here he founders in, and sinks downright.
Had he prepared us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turned to ridicule;
But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'erleaps at once the whole Apocrypha;
Invades the Psalms with rhymes, and leaves no room
For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.
But when, if, after all, this godly gear
Is not so senseless as it would appear,
Our mountebank has laid a deeper train; }
His cant, like Merry Andrew's noble vein, }
Cat-calls the sects to draw them in again. }
At leisure hours in Epic Song he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels[66];
Prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go,--'tis yet too early day
To get himself a place in farce or play;
We know not by what name we should arraign him,
For no one category can contain him.
A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break an ass's back.
At last, grown wanton, he presumed to write, }
Traduced two kings, their kindness to requite; }
One made the Doctor, and one dubbed the Knight. [67] }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 63: The savage amusement of bear-baiting was much in fashion
in England during the seventeenth century. Tom Dove, although equipped
with a name not very expressive of his properties, seems to have been
a bear of great celebrity. Dryden honours him by another notice in the
second Prologue on the Union of the Companies:

They roar so loud, you'd think, behind the stairs,
Tom Dove, and all the brotherhood of bears. ]

[Footnote 64: Quack Maurus is the noted Sir Richard Blackmore, who, if
he was not witty himself, was the cause of more wit in others than most
who have favoured the world with their writings. In his Satire against
Wit, he had proposed a sort of mint, in which the works of the witty
should be purified and re-coined:

'Tis true, that, when the coarse and worthless dross
Is purged away, there will be mighty loss:
Even Congreve, Southerne, Manly, Wycherly,
When thus refined, will grievous sufferers be:
Into the melting-pot when Dryden comes,
What horrid stench will rise, what noisome!
How will he shrink when all his lewd allay
And wicked mixture shall be purged away?

In the first edition of the Poem, this lumbering attack upon Dryden
concluded with a compliment:

But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear
The examination of the most severe.

But Blackmore, when our author had retaliated upon him in the Preface
to the Fables, "finding," says Dr Johnson, "the censure resented,
and the civility disregarded, ungenerously omitted the softer part.
Such variations discover a writer who consults his passions more than
his virtue, and it may be reasonably supposed that Dryden attributes
his enmity to its true cause,"--his attack upon Blackmore's fanatic
patrons in the city. He had also assailed our author in the Preface to
his "Prince Arthur;" which, after a general and bitter complaint of
the profligacy of the stage, contains these personal remarks levelled
against Dryden. "And there are, among these writers, some who think
they might have arisen to the highest dignities in other professions,
had they employed their wit in those ways. 'Tis a mighty dishonour
and reproach to any man, that is capable of being useful to the world
in any liberal or virtuous profession, to lavish out his life and
wit in propagating vice and corruption of manners, and in battering
from the stage the strongest entrenchments and best works of religion
and virtue. Whoever makes this his choice, when the other was in his
power, may he go off the stage unpitied, complaining of _neglect_
and _poverty_, the just punishment of his irreligion and folly. "
This reproach, which touched some very tender points, was not to be
tolerated or forgot by Dryden. ]

[Footnote 65: Blackmore was a commoner of Edmund Hall, Oxford, where
he remained thirteen years, and took the degree of Master of Arts on
3d June, 1676; but he did not take his medical degrees there, and
appears not to have studied physic regularly, as he was for some time a
school-master; when, according to Col. Coddrington,

By nature formed, by want a pedant made,
Blackmore at first set up the whipping trade;
Next quack commenced, when fierce with pride he swore,
That toothache, gout, and corns, should be no more:
In vain his drugs, as well as birch he plied,
His boys grow blockheads, and his patients died.

Sir Richard Blackmore had his medical diploma from Padua, in Italy; a
learned and eminent University, which, like some in my own country,
is supposed not to be over scrupulous in conferring honours of this
nature. ]

[Footnote 66: "Prince Arthur," a heroic poem, in ten books, published
in 1695, was written, the author assures us in his Preface, "by such
catches and starts, and in such occasional uncertain hours, as his
profession afforded, and for the greatest part in coffee-houses, or in
passing up and down the streets. "]

[Footnote 67: Who was the first of these well-judging monarchs, is
hard to say. Blackmore may have had some sort of royal licence for the
practice of physic during the reign of Charles or James; but he was not
made physician to the Household till the reign of King William, who
conferred on him, at the same time, the honour of knighthood; for which
that monarch's taste is thus commemorated by Pope:

The hero William, and the martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one pensioned Quarles.

Blackmore's dulness, or solidity of temper, rendered him absolutely
impenetrable to the shafts of ridicule, which were aimed at him from
all quarters; and, consoling himself with the excellence of his
intentions, he wrote on till the catalogue of his works gave room for
Swift's burlesque inscription, to be placed under his picture:

See, who ne'er was, or will be half read,
Who first sung Arthur, then sung Alfred(_a_).
Praised great Eliza(_b_) in God's anger,
Till all true Englishmen cried, hang her:
Made William's virtues wipe the bare a--,
And hanged up Marlborough in arras;(_c_)
Then hissed from earth, grown heavenly quite,
Made every reader curse the light(_d_).
Mauled human wit in one thick satire(_e_);
Next, in three books, spoiled human nature(_f_);
Ended Creation(_g_) at a jerk,
And of Redemption(_h_) made damned work:
Then took his muse at once, and dipped her
Full in the middle of the scripture.
What wonders there the man grown old did!
Sternhold himself he out-sternholded;
Made David(_i_) seem so mad and freakish,
All thought him just what thought king Achish.
No mortal read his Solomon(_k_),
But judged R'oboam his own son.
Moses(_l_) he served, as Moses Pharoah,
And Deborah as she Sisera;
Made Jeremy(_m_) full sore to cry,
And Job(_n_) himself curse God and die.
What punishment shall all this follow?
Shall Arthur use him like king Tollo?
Shall David as Uriah slay him?
Or dexterous Deborah Siserhah him?
Or shall Eliza lay a plot,
To treat him like her sister Scot?
Shall William dubb his better end(_o_)?
Of Marlborough serve him like a friend?
No, none of these--heaven spare his life,
But send him, honest Job--thy wife.

(_a_) _Two Heroic Poems, in folio; twenty books. _
(_b_) _A Heroic Poem, in twelve books. _
(_c_) _Instructions to a Tapestry Weaver. _
(_d_) _Hymn to the Light. _
(_e_) _Satire against Wit. _
(_f_) _Of the Mature of Man. _
(_g_) _Creation, in seven books. _
(_h_) _Redemption, in six books. _
(_i_) _Translation of all the Psalms. _
(_k_) _Canticles and Ecclesiastes. _
(_l_) _Canticles, of Moses, Deborah, &c. _
(_m_) _The Lamentations. _
(_n_) _The whole Book of Job, a Poem, in folio. _
(_o_) _Kick him on the breech, not knight him on the shoulder. _]




SONG

OF A SCHOLAR AND HIS MISTRESS, WHO, BEING CROSSED BY THEIR
FRIENDS, FELL MAD FOR ONE ANOTHER, AND NOW FIRST MEET IN BEDLAM.


In "The Pilgrim," as originally written by Beaumont and Fletcher,
one scene is laid in a mad-house, where the humours of the different
persons confined are described with some pleasantry. Amongst others
is introduced a Scholar, who has solicited dismission from his
confinement, and who, after having been carefully examined by two
gentlemen, whom his patron had appointed to visit him, is on the
point of being discharged as possessed of his perfect understanding.
The Dialogue, which follows, probably formed the introduction to our
Author's Song.

_1st Gent. _ What flaws and whils of weather,
Or rather storms, have been aloft these three days!
How dark and hot, and full of mutiny,
And still grows louder. --

_Mas. _ It has been stubborn weather.

_2d Gent. _ Strange work at sea: I fear me there's old tumbling.

_1st Gent. _ Bless my old uncle's bark! I have a venture.

_2d Gent. _ And I more than I'd wish to lose.

_Schol. _ Do you fear?

_2nd Gent. _ Ha! how he looks!

_Mas. _ Nay, mark him better, gentlemen.

_2d Gent. _ Mercy upon me! how his eyes are altered!

_Mas. _ Now, tell me how you like him; whether now
He be that perfect man you credited?

_Schol. _ Does the sea stagger ye?

_Mas. _ Now ye have hit the nick.

_Schol. _ Do ye fear the billows?

_1st Gent. _ What ails him? who has stirred him?

_Schol. _ Be not shaken,
Nor let the singing of the storm shoot through you:
Let it blow on, blow on! Let the clouds wrestle,
And let the vapours of the earth turn mutinous;
The sea in hideous mountains rise, and tumble
Upon a dolphin's back! I'll make all tremble,
For I am Neptune!

_Mas. _ Now, what think ye of him?

_2d Gent.