To Mr. Edward Howard, On His Incomparable, Incomprehensible Poem Called The British Princes
Come on, ye critics! Find one fault who dare,
For, read it backward like a witch's prayer,
'Twill do as well; throw not away your jests
On solid nonsense that abides all tests.
Wit, like tierce claret, when 't begins to pall,
Neglected lies and's of no use at all;
But in its full perfection of decay,
Turns vinegar and comes again in play.
This simile shall stand in thy defence
'Gainst such dull rogues as now and then write sense.
He lies, dear Ned, who says thy brain is barren,
Where deep conceits, like vermin, breed in carrion;
Thou hast a brain, such as thou hast, indeed --
On what else should thy worm of fancy feed?
Yet in a filbert I have often known
Maggots survive when all the kernel's gone.
Thy style's the same whatever be the theme,
As some digestions turn all meat to phlegm:
Thy stumbling, founder'd jade can trot as high
As any other Pegasus can fly.
As skillful divers to the bottom fall
Sooner than those that cannot swim at all,
So in this way of writing without thinking
Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking:
Thou writest below e'en thy own natural parts
And with acquired dullness and new arts
Of studied nonsense tak'st kind readers' heart.
So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud
Than all the swift-finn'd racers of the flood.
Therefore, dear Ned, at my advice forbear
Such loud complaints 'gainst critics to prefer,
Since thou art turn'd an arrant libeller:
Thou sett'st thy name to what thyself dost write;
Did ever libel yet so sharply bite?
A True Account Of The Birth And Conception Of A Late Famous Poem Call'D The Female Nine
When Monmouth the chaste read those impudent lines
Which ty'd her dear monkey so fast by the loins,
Show'd his jackanapes tricks and his apish false smiles,
And set him a chattering aloft on the tiles,
She saw with a fright,
Howe'er they came by't,
The rogues had describ'd pretty whirligig right.
And none can be certain, when scandals begin
To draw so near home, but that they shall come in.
She heard that the nine ladies' turn would be next,
And fearing some bungler should mangle the text
And paint her sweet person like some hagged elf,
She wisely contriv'd how to draw it herself;
And luckily hit
On a method most fit
At once to display both her virtue and wit,
Not doubting to have from herself a good word,
And thus she bespoke the kind help of her lord:
``Methinks the same nine which they count so well writ
Has nothing of air, bon sens, or l'esprit.
The numbers so rough and so harsh the cadence,
As would blister a mouth embellished in France.
Come pour amusement
Let us make a song
And so do ourselves right, whome'er we do wrong.
We'll give a beau tour to the feminine nine,
Among whom my prudence and virtue shall shine.
You yourself shall appear the great Turk of the scene
And I'll recommend you so far to the Queen,
And soothe the vain humor to which you incline,
As to make you belov'd by two of the nine.
And that's very fair
For a poor, sickly peer,
Who to my certain knowledge has nothing to spare;
And since these lampoons are the wit of the times,
I'll furnish the sense if you'll tag it with rhymes.''
Her spouse, fir'd at this, scream'd aloud and leapt forth,
And fetching his dead-doing pen in his wrath,
He workt off his piece with such art of the pen
That he aim'd at the ladies but wounded the men;
And labour'd so hard
The doors were all barr'd,
And none was admitted but trusty Blanchard.
'Twas writ in such haste, you're desir'd to dispense
With the want of true grammar, good English and sense.
