JOHN DRYDEN MAC-FLECKNOE OR, A SATIRE ON THE TRUE BLUE PROTESTANT POET T. S. ALL human things are subject to decay, Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 But Shadwell never deviates into sense; And seems designed for thoughtless majesty; 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 a prelude to that glorious day, When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way, With well-timed oars, before the royal barge, 40 Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge; And big with hymn, commander of a host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. Methinks I see the new Arion sail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 45 At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore, The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar; About thy boat the little fishes throng, Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy, Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind, * * * Near these a Nursery erects its head, * Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred; 50 55 60 65 69 75 80 Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; But gentle Simkin just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanished minds; Pure clinches the suburban muse affords, And Panton waging harmless war with words. 85 Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne. For ancient Decker 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 Misers from his pen should flow; Humourists, and Hypocrites, it should produce, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. Now empress Fame had published 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, 99 But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay; Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way; Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared, 105 And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majesty appeared, High on a throne of his own labours reared. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state; As king by office, and as priest by trade. He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young, His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, 110 115 120 125 That nodding seemed 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, The sire then shook the honours of his head, 135 |