John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 16
Persu’d b’ a meagre Troop of Bankrupt Heirs.
Blest times when Ishban, He whose Occupation
So long has been to Cheat, Reformes the Nation!
Ishban of Conscience suited to his Trade,
As good a Saint as Usurer e’er made. 285
Yet Mammon has not so engrost him quite
But Belial lays as large a Claim of Spight;
Who, for those Pardons from his Prince he draws
Returns Reproaches, and cries up the Cause.
That Year in which the City he did sway, 290
He left Rebellion in a hopefull way;
Yet his Ambition once was found so bold
To offer Talents of Extorted Gold;
Could David’s Wants have So been brib’d to shame
And scandalize our Peerage with his Name; 295
For which, his dear Sedition he’d forswear,
And e’en turn Loyal, to be made a Peer.
Next him, let Railing Rabsheka have place,
So full of Zeal He has no need of grace;
A Saint that can both Flesh and Spirit use, 300
Alike haunt Conventicles and the Stews:
Of whom the Question difficult appears,
If most i’ th’ Preachers or the Bawds arrears.
What Caution cou’d appear too much in Him
That keeps the Treasure of Jerusalem! 305
Let David’s Brother but approach the Town,
Double our guards, He cries, We are undone.
Protesting that He dares not Sleep in ‘s Bed,
Lest he shou’d rise next Morn without his Head.
Next these, a Troop of buisy Spirits press, 310
Of little Fortunes and of Conscience Less;
With them the Tribe, whose Luxury had drain’d
Their Banks, informer Sequestrations gain’d:
Who Rich and Great by past Rebellions grew,
And long to fish the troubled Waves anew. 315
Some future Hopes, some present Payment draws,
To Sell their Conscience and espouse the Cause,
Such Stipends those vile Hirelings best befit,
Priests without Grace, and Poets without wit,
Shall that false Hebronite escape our Curse, 320
Judas that keeps the Rebells Pension-Purse;
Judas that pays the Treason-writers Fee,
Judas that well deserves his Namesake’s Tree;
Who at Jerusalem’s own Gates Erects
His College for a Nursery of Sects. 325
Young Prophets with an early Care secures,
And with the Dung of his own Arts manures.
What have the Men of Hebron here to doe?
What part in Israels promis’d Land have you?
Here Phaleg the Lay Hebronite is come, 330
Cause like the rest he could not live at Home;
Who from his own Possessions cou’d not drain
An Omer even of Hebronitish Grain,
Here Struts it like a Patriot, and talks high
Of Injur’d Subjects, alter’d Property: 335
An Emblem of that buzzing Insect Just,
That mounts the Wheell, and thinks she raises Dust.
Can dry Bones Live? or Skeletons produce
The Vital Warmth of Cuckoldizing Juice?
Slim Phaleg cou’d, and at the Table fed, 340
Return’d the gratefull product to the Bed.
A Waiting-man to Trav’ling Nobles chose,
He, his own Laws wou’d Sawcily impose;
Till Bastinado’d back again he went,
To Learn those Manners he to Teach was sent. 345
Chastiz’d, he ought to have retreated Home,
But He reads politicks to Absalom.
For never Hebronite, though Kickt and Scorn’d,
To his own Country willingly return’d.
— But leaving famish’d Phaleg to be fed 350
And to talk Treason for his daily Bread,
Let Hebron, nay let Hell produce a Man
So made for Mischief as Ben Jochanan,
A Jew of humble Parentage was He,
By Trade a Levite, though of low Degree: 355
His Pride no higher than the Desk aspir’d,
But for the Drudgery of Priests was hir’d
To Reade and Pray in Linen Ephod brave,
And pick up single Sheckles from the Grave.
Married at last, and finding Charge come faster, 360
He cou’d not live by God, but chang’d his Master:
Inspir’d by Want, was made a Factious Tool,
They Got a Villain, and we lost a Fool.
Still Violent, whatever Cause he took,
But most against the Party he forsook, 365
For Renegadoes, who ne’er turn by halves,
Are bound in Conscience to be double Knaves.
So this Prose-Prophet took most monstrous Pains,
To let his Masters see he earn’d his Gains.
But as the Dev’l ows all his Imps a Shame, 370
He chose th’ Apostate for his proper Theme;
With little Pains he made the Picture true,
And from Reflexion took the Rogue he drew.
A wondrous Work, to prove the Jewish nation
In every Age a Murmuring Generation; 375
To trace ‘em from their Infancy of Sinning,
And shew ‘em Factious from their First Beginning;
To prove they cou’d Rebell, and Rail, and Mock,
Much to the Credit of the Chosen Flock;
A strong Authority which must Convince, 380
That Saints own no Allegiance to their Prince.
As ’tis a Leading-Card to make a Whore,
To prove her Mother had turn’d up before.
But tell me, did the Drunken Patriarch Bless
The Son that shew’d his Father’s Nakedness? 385
Such Thanks the present Church thy Pen will give,
Which proves Rebellion was so Primitive.
Must Ancient Failings be Examples made,
Then Murtherers from Cain may learn their Trade.
As thou the Heathen and the Saint hast drawn, 390
Methinks th’ Apostate was the better man:
And thy hot Father (waving my respect)
Not of a mother church but of a Sect.
And Such he needs must be of thy Inditing,
This Comes of drinking Asses milk and writing. 395
If Balack should be cal’d to leave his place,
(As Profit is the loudest call of Grace,)
His Temple, dispossessed of one, would be
Replenish’d with seven Devils more by thee.
Levi, thou art a load, I’ll lay thee down, 400
And shew Rebellion bare, without a Gown;
Poor Slaves in metre, dull and adle-pated,
Who Rhime below ev’n David’s Psalms translated.
Some in my Speedy pace I must outrun,
As lame Mephibosheth the Wisard’s Son; 405
To make quick way I’ll Leap o’er heavy blocks,
Shun rotten Uzza as I woud the Pox;
And hasten Og and Doeg to rehearse,
Two Fools that Crutch their Feeble sense on Verse,
Who by my Muse, to all succeeding times 410
Shall live in spight of their own Dogrell Rhimes.
Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made still a blund’ring kind of Melody;
Spurd boldly on, and Dash’d through Thick and Thin,
Through Sense and Non-sense, never out nor in; 415
Free from all meaning, whether good or bad,
And in one word, Heroically mad,
He was too warm on Picking-work to dwell,
But Faggotted his Notions as they fell,
And, if they Rhim’d and Rattl’d, all was well. 420
Spightfull he is not, though he wrote a Satyr,
For still there goes some thinking
to ill-Nature:
He needs no more than Birds and Beasts to think,
All his occasions are to eat and drink.
If he call Rogue and Rascal from a Garrat, 425
He means you no more Mischief than a Parat:
The words for Friend and Foe alike were made,
To Fetter ‘em in Verse is all his Trade.
For Almonds he’ll cry Whore to his own Mother:
And call young Absalom King David’s Brother. 430
Let him be Gallows-Free by my consent,
And nothing suffer, since he nothing meant:
Hanging Supposes humane Soul and reason,
This Animal’s below committing Treason
Shall he be hang’d who never cou’d Rebell? 435
That’s a preferment for Achitophel.
The Woman that Committed Buggary,
Was rightly Sentenc’d by the Law to die;
But ’twas hard Fate that to the Gallows led
The Dog that never heard the Statute read. 440
Railing in other Men may be a crime,
But ought to pass for mere instinct in him;
Instinct he follows and no farther knows,
For to write Verse with him is to Transprose.
‘Twere pity treason at his Door to lay 445
Who makes Heaven’s gate a Lock to its own Key:
Let him rayl on, let his invective muse
Have four and Twenty letters to abuse,
Which if he Jumbles to one line of Sense,
Indict him of a Capital Offence. 450
In Fire-works give him leave to vent his spight,
Those are the only Serpents he can write;
The height of his ambition is we know
But to be Master of a Puppet-show;
On that one Stage his works may yet appear, 455
And a months Harvest keeps him all the Year.
Now stop your noses, Readers, all and some,
For here’s a tun of Midnight work to come,
Og from a Treason Tavern rowling home.
Round as a Globe, and Liquored ev’ry chink, 460
Goodly and Great he Sayls behind his Link;
With all this Bulk there’s nothing lost in Og,
For ev’ry inch that is not Fool is Rogue:
A Monstrous mass of foul corrupted matter,
As all the Devils had spew’d to make the batter. 465
When wine has given him courage to Blaspheme,
He curses God, but God before Curst him;
And if man cou’d have reason, none has more,
That made his Paunch so rich and him so poor.
With wealth he was not trusted, for Heav’n knew 470
What ’twas of Old to pamper up a Jew;
To what would he on Quail and Pheasant swell,
That ev’n on Tripe and Carrion cou’d rebell?
But though Heaven made him poor, (with rev’rence speaking,)
He never was a Poet of God’s making; 475
The Midwife laid her hand on his Thick Skull,
With this Prophetick blessing — Be thou Dull;
Drink, Swear, and Roar, forbear no lew’d delight
Fit for thy Bulk, doe anything but write.
Thou art of lasting Make, like thoughtless men, 480
A strong Nativity — but for the Pen;
Eat Opium, mingle Arsenick in thy Drink,
Still thou mayst live, avoiding Pen and Ink.
I see, I see, ’tis Counsell given in vain,
For Treason botcht in Rhime will be thy bane; 485
Rhime is the Rock on which thou art to wreck,
’Tis fatal to thy Fame and to thy Neck.
Why should thy Metre good King David blast?
A Psalm of his will Surely be thy last.
Dar’st thou presume in verse to meet thy foes, 490
Thou whom the Penny Pamphlet foil’d in prose?
Doeg, whom God for Mankinds mirth has made,
O’er-tops thy tallent in thy very Trade;
Doeg to thee, thy paintings are so Course,
A Poet is, though he’s the Poets Horse. 495
A Double Noose thou on thy Neck dost pull
For Writing Treason and for Writing dull;
To die for Faction is a common Evil,
But to be hang’d for Non-sense is the Devil.
Hadst thou the Glories of thy King exprest, 500
Thy praises had been Satyr at the best;
But thou in Clumsy verse, unlickt, unpointed,
Hast Shamefully defi’d the Lord’s Anointed:
I will not rake the Dunghill of thy Crimes,
For who would reade thy Life that reads thy rhimes? 505
But of King David’s Foes be this the Doom,
May all be like the Young-man Absalom;
And for my Foes may this their Blessing be,
To talk like Doeg and to Write like Thee.
Achitophel each Rank, Degree, and Age 510
For various Ends neglects not to Engage,
The Wise and Rich for Purse and Counsell brought,
The Fools and Beggars for their Number sought:
Who yet not onely on the Town depends,
For Ev’n in Court the Faction had its Friends. 515
These thought the Places they possest too small,
And in their Hearts wisht Court and King to fall:
Whose Names the Muse, disdaining, holds i’ th’ dark,
Thrust in the Villain Herd without a Mark;
With Parasites and Libell-spawning Imps, 520
Intriguing Fopps, dull Jesters, and worse Pimps.
Disdain the Rascal Rabble to persue,
Their Sett Caballs are yet a viler Crew;
See where involv’d in Common Smoak they sit;
Some for our Mirth, some for our Satyr fit; 525
These Gloomy, Thoughtfull and on Mischief bent,
While those for mere good Fellowship frequent
Th’ appointed Clubb can let Sedition pass,
Sense, Non-sence, anything t’ employ the Glass;
And who believe in their dull honest Hearts, 530
The Rest talk Treason but to show their Parts;
Who ne’er had Wit or Will for Mischief yet,
But pleased to be reputed of a Set.
But in the Sacred Annals of our Plot,
Industrious AROD never be forgot: 535
The Labours of this Midnight-Magistrate,
May vie with Corah’s to preserve the State;
In search of Arms, He failed not to lay hold
On War’s most powerfull dang’rous Weapon, GOLD.
And last, to take from Jebusites, all odds, 540
Their Altars pillaged, stole their very Gods.
Oft wou’d he Cry, when Treasure he surpriz’d,
’Tis Baalish Gold in David’s Coyn Disguiz’d.
Which to his House with richer Relicts came
While Lumber Idols onely fed the Flame: 545
For our wise Rabble ne’er took pains t’ inquire,
What ’twas he burnt, so ‘t made a rousing Fire.
With which our Elder was enricht no more
Than False Gehazi with the Syrian’s Store;
So Poor, that when our Choosing-Tribes were met, 550
Even for his Stinking Votes He ran in Debt;
For Meat the Wicked, and, as Authours think,
The Saints He Choused for His Electing Drink;
Thus, ev’ry Shift and subtle Method past,
And All to be no Zaken at the Last. 555
Now, rais’d on Tyre’s sad Ruines, Pharaoh’s Pride
Soar’d high, his Legions threatning far and wide;
As when a battring Storm ingendred high,
By Winds upheld, hangs hov’ring in the Skye,
Is gaz’d upon by ev’ry trembling Swain, 560
This for his Vineyard fears, and that his Grain,
For blooming Plants and Flow’rs n
ew Opening, These
For Lambs ean’d lately, and far-lab’ring Bees;
To Guard his Stock each to the Gods does call,
Uncertain where the Fire-charg’d Clouds will Fall: 565
Even so the doubtfull Nations watch his Arms,
With Terrour each expecting his Alarms.
Where, Judah, where was now thy Lyons Roar?
Thou onely cou’dst the Captive Lands restore;
But Thou, with inbred Broils and Faction prest, 570
From Egypt needst a Guardian with the Rest.
Thy Prince from Sanhedrims no Trust allow’d,
Too much the Representers of the Crow’d,
Who for their own Defence give no Supply
But what the Crowns Prerogatives must buy: 575
As if their Monarch’s Rights to violate,
More needfull were than to preserve the State!
From present Dangers they divert their Care,
And all their Fears are of the Royal Heir;
Whom now the reigning Malice of his Foes 580
Unjudged wou’d Sentence and e’er Crown’d, Depose:
Religion the Pretence, but their Decree
To barr his Reign, whate’er his Faith shall be!
By Sanhedrims, and clam’rous Crowds, thus prest
What passions rent the Righteous David’s Breast? 585
Who knows not how t’ oppose or to comply,
Unjust to Grant and dangerous to Deny!
How near in this dark Juncture Israel’s Fate,
Whose Peace one sole Expedient could create,
Which yet th’ extremest Virtue did require, 590
Ev’n of that Prince whose Downfall they conspire!
His Absence David does with Tears advise,
T’ appease their Rage, Undaunted He Complies;
Thus he who, prodigal of Bloud, and Ease,
A Royal Life expos’d to Winds and Seas, 595
At once contending with the Waves and Fire,
And heading Danger in the Wars of Tyre,
Inglorious now forsakes his Native Sand
And, like an Exile, quits the promis’d Land!
Our Monarch scarce from pressing Tears refrains, 600
And painfully his Royal State maintains.
Who, now embracing on th’ extremest Shore.
Almost Revokes what he Injoyn’d before:
Concludes at last more Trust to be allow’d
To Storms and Seas than to the raging Crow’d! 605
Forbear, rash Muse, the parting Scene to draw,
With Silence charm’d as deep as theirs that saw!
Not onely our attending Nobles weep,
But hardy Saylers swell with Tears the Deep!
The Tyde restrained her Course, and more amaz’d, 610
The Twyn Stars on the Royal Brothers gaz’d;
While this sole Fear ——
Does Trouble to our suff’ring Heroe bring,