John Dryden
Mac Flecknoe
All human things are subject to decay, | ||
And when fate summons, monarchs must obey. | ||
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young | ||
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long; | ||
5 | In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute, | |
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. | ||
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, | ||
And blest with issue of a large increase; | ||
Worn out with business, did at length debate | ||
10 | To settle the succession of the state: | |
And, pondering which of all his sons was fit | ||
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, | ||
Cried, 'Tis resolved; for nature pleads, that he | ||
Should only rule, who most resembles me. | ||
15 | Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, | |
Mature in dulness from his tender years: | ||
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he | ||
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. | ||
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, | ||
20 | But Shadwell never deviates into sense. | |
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, | ||
Strike through, and make a lucid interval; | ||
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, | ||
His rising fogs prevail upon the day. | ||
25 | Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, | |
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: | ||
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, | ||
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. | ||
Heywood and Shirley2 were but types of thee, | ||
30 | Thou last great prophet of tautology. | |
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, | ||
Was sent before but to prepare thy way; | ||
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came | ||
To teach the nations in thy greater name. | ||
35 | My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung, | |
When to king John of Portugal I sung, | ||
Was but the prelude to that glorious day, | ||
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way, | ||
With well-timed oars before the royal barge, | ||
40 | Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; | |
And big with hymn, commander of an 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. | ||
45 | At thy well-sharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore | |
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar: | ||
Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call, | ||
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall. | ||
About thy boat the little fishes throng, | ||
50 | 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's3 feet ne'er kept more equal time, | ||
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's4 rhyme: | ||
55 | Though they in number as in sense excel; | |
So just, so like tautology, they fell, | ||
That, pale with envy, Singleton5 forswore | ||
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, | ||
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more. | ||
60 | Here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept for joy, | |
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. | ||
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, | ||
That for anointed dulness he was made. | ||
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind | ||
65 | (The fair Augusta much to fears inclined), | |
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight, | ||
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: | ||
A watch-tower once; but now, so fate ordains, | ||
Of all the pile an empty name remains: | ||
70 | From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, | |
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, | ||
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, | ||
And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep. | ||
Near these a Nursery6 erects its head, | ||
75 | Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred; | |
Where unfledged 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, | ||
80 | Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; | |
But gentle Simkin7 just reception finds | ||
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: | ||
Pure clinches the suburban muse affords, | ||
And Panton8 waging harmless war with words. | ||
85 | Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, | |
Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne. | ||
For ancient Decker9 prophesied long since, | ||
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, | ||
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense: | ||
90 | To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe, | |
But worlds of Misers10 from his pen should flow; | ||
Humourists and hypocrites it should produce, | ||
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.11 | ||
Now Empress Fame had publish'd the renown | ||
95 | Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. | |
Roused by report of fame, the nations meet, | ||
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street. | ||
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, | ||
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: | ||
100 | From dusty shops neglected authors come, | |
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum. | ||
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby12 there lay, | ||
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way. | ||
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepared, | ||
105 | And Herringman13 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 sate, | ||
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. | ||
110 | His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, | |
And lambent dulness play'd around his face. | ||
As Hannibal did to the altars come, | ||
Sworn by his fire, a mortal foe to Rome; | ||
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, | ||
115 | That he till death true dulness 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 sacred unction made, | ||
As king by office, and as priest by trade. | ||
120 | In his sinister hand, instead of ball, | |
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; | ||
Love's Kingdom14 to his right he did convey, | ||
At once his sceptre and his rule of sway; | ||
Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young, | ||
125 | And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung. | |
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, | ||
That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head. | ||
Just at the point of time, if fame not lie, | ||
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. | ||
130 | So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, | |
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. | ||
The admiring throng loud acclamations make, | ||
And omens of his future empire take. | ||
The sire then shook the honours of his head, | ||
135 | And from his brows damps of oblivion shed, | |
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 | ||
140 | 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 paused, and all the people cried, Amen. | ||
145 | 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 Virtuosos15 in five years be writ; | ||
150 | Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. | |
Let gentle George16 in triumph tread the stage, | ||
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; | ||
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, | ||
And in their folly show the writer's wit. | ||
155 | Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, | |
And justify their author's want of sense. | ||
Let them be all by thy own model made | ||
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid; | ||
That they to future ages may be known, | ||
160 | Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. | |
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, | ||
All full of thee, and differing but in name. | ||
But let no alien Sedley17 interpose, | ||
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.[156] | ||
165 | And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull, | |
Trust nature, do not labour to be dull; | ||
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line, | ||
Sir Formal's18 oratory will be thine: | ||
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, | ||
170 | And does thy northern dedications fill. | |
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. | ||
175 | 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's20 vein, | ||
180 | Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain? | |
Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my a—e, | ||
Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce? | ||
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, | ||
As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine? | ||
185 | But so transfused, as oil and 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 bias of thy mind, | ||
190 | By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined: | |
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, | ||
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. | ||
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence | ||
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. | ||
195 | 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; | ||
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. | ||
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write, | ||
200 | Thy inoffensive satires never bite. | |
In thy felonious heart though venom lies, | ||
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. | ||
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame | ||
In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram. | ||
205 | Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command, | |
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. | ||
There thou mayst wings display and altars21 raise, | ||
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. | ||
Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, | ||
210 | Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. | |
He said; but his last words were scarcely heard: | ||
For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared, | ||
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. | ||
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, | ||
215 | Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. | |
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, | ||
With double portion of his father's art. | ||
FOOTNOTES: | ||
1'Mac Flecknoe:' Richard Flecknoe, from whom this poem derives its name, was an Irish priest, and author of plays. | ||
2 'Heywood and Shirley:' play writers in Queen Elizabeth's time. | ||
3 'St Andre:' a famous French dancing-master. | ||
4 'Psyche:' an opera of Shadwell's. | ||
5 'Singleton:' a musician of the time. | ||
6 'Nursery:' a theatre for training actors. | ||
7 'Simkin:' a character of a cobbler, in an interlude. | ||
8 'Panton:' a famous punster. | ||
9 'Decker:' Thomas Decker, a dramatic poet of James I.'s reign. | ||
10 'Worlds of Misers:' 'The Miser' and 'The Humourists' were two of Shadwell's comedies. | ||
11 'Raymond' and 'Bruce:' the first of these is an insipid character in 'The Humourists'; the second, in 'The Virtuoso.' | ||
12 'Ogleby:' translator of Virgil. | ||
13 'Herringman:' Henry Herringman, a bookseller; see 'Life.' | ||
14 'Love's Kingdom:' this is the name of the only play of Flecknoe's, which was acted, but miscarried in the representation. | ||
15'Virtuoso:' a play of Shadwell's. | ||
16 'Gentle George:' Sir George Etheredge. | ||
17 'Alien Sedley:' Sir Charles Sedley was supposed to assist Shadwell in writing his plays. | ||
18 'Epsom prose:' alluding to Shadwell's play of 'Epsom Wells.' | ||
19 'Formal:' a character in 'The Virtuoso.' | ||
20 'Nicander:' a character of a lover in Shadwell's opera of 'Psyche.' | ||
21 'Wings and altars:' forms in which old acrostics were cast. See Herbert's 'Temple.' | ||
First published 1676
Robert Clark