Mac Flecknoe.[1] Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: AABCDDEEFFGGHHIJHHJJ KLAAMHNNHOAAPPBBAAOO QRSSTTKKCCUUVVWWTTT OOXX YYZZJJJJA2A2B2B2TTTT TJJJJC2C2JJJD2D2JJ E2E2F2F2AAG2G2AAH2I2 J2J2FFJJG2K2NNJJXXKS AABBXXTTL2L2M2M2XXXX X NNC2C2N2N2JJHHXXOOXX JJXXC2C2PPJJLLO2O2P2 P2PPJJXXXXNNHJQ2O2D2 D2AAXXP2P2JJXXA2A2XX JJPR2XXJJXX XXXXXXXAll human things are subject to decay | A |
And when fate summons monarchs must obey | A |
This Flecknoe found who like Augustus young | B |
Was call'd to empire and had govern'd long | C |
In prose and verse was own'd without dispute | D |
Through all the realms of Nonsense absolute | D |
This aged prince now flourishing in peace | E |
And blest with issue of a large increase | E |
Worn out with business did at length debate | F |
To settle the succession of the state | F |
And pondering which of all his sons was fit | G |
To reign and wage immortal war with wit | G |
Cried 'Tis resolved for nature pleads that he | H |
Should only rule who most resembles me | H |
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears | I |
Mature in dulness from his tender years | J |
Shadwell alone of all my sons is he | H |
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity | H |
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence | J |
But Shadwell never deviates into sense | J |
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall | K |
Strike through and make a lucid interval | L |
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray | A |
His rising fogs prevail upon the day | A |
Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye | M |
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty | H |
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain | N |
And spread in solemn state supinely reign | N |
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee | H |
Thou last great prophet of tautology | O |
Even I a dunce of more renown than they | A |
Was sent before but to prepare thy way | A |
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came | P |
To teach the nations in thy greater name | P |
My warbling lute the lute I whilom strung | B |
When to king John of Portugal I sung | B |
Was but the prelude to that glorious day | A |
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way | A |
With well timed oars before the royal barge | O |
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge | O |
And big with hymn commander of an host | Q |
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd | R |
Methinks I see the new Arion sail | S |
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail | S |
At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore | T |
The trebles squeak for fear the basses roar | T |
Echoes from Pissing Alley Shadwell call | K |
And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall | K |
About thy boat the little fishes throng | C |
As at the morning toast that floats along | C |
Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band | U |
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand | U |
St Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time | V |
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme | V |
Though they in number as in sense excel | W |
So just so like tautology they fell | W |
That pale with envy Singleton forswore | T |
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore | T |
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more | T |
- | |
Here stopp'd the good old sire and wept for joy | O |
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy | O |
All arguments but most his plays persuade | X |
That for anointed dulness he was made | X |
- | |
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind | Y |
The fair Augusta much to fears inclined | Y |
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight | Z |
There stood of yore and Barbican it hight | Z |
A watch tower once but now so fate ordains | J |
Of all the pile an empty name remains | J |
From its old ruins brothel houses rise | J |
Scenes of lewd loves and of polluted joys | J |
Where their vast courts the mother strumpets keep | A2 |
And undisturb'd by watch in silence sleep | A2 |
Near these a Nursery erects its head | B2 |
Where queens are form'd and future heroes bred | B2 |
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry | T |
Where infant punks their tender voices try | T |
And little Maximins the gods defy | T |
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here | T |
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear | T |
But gentle Simkin just reception finds | J |
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds | J |
Pure clinches the suburban muse affords | J |
And Panton waging harmless war with words | J |
Here Flecknoe as a place to fame well known | C2 |
Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne | C2 |
For ancient Decker prophesied long since | J |
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince | J |
Born for a scourge of wit and flail of sense | J |
To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe | D2 |
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow | D2 |
Humourists and hypocrites it should produce | J |
Whole Raymond families and tribes of Bruce | J |
- | |
Now Empress Fame had publish'd the renown | E2 |
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town | E2 |
Roused by report of fame the nations meet | F2 |
From near Bunhill and distant Watling Street | F2 |
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way | A |
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay | A |
From dusty shops neglected authors come | G2 |
Martyrs of pies and reliques of the bum | G2 |
Much Heywood Shirley Ogleby there lay | A |
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way | A |
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepared | H2 |
And Herringman was captain of the guard | I2 |
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd | J2 |
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd | J2 |
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate | F |
Rome's other hope and pillar of the state | F |
His brows thick fogs instead of glories grace | J |
And lambent dulness play'd around his face | J |
As Hannibal did to the altars come | G2 |
Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome | K2 |
So Shadwell swore nor should his vow be vain | N |
That he till death true dulness would maintain | N |
And in his father's right and realm's defence | J |
Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truce with sense | J |
The king himself the sacred unction made | X |
As king by office and as priest by trade | X |
In his sinister hand instead of ball | K |
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale | S |
Love's Kingdom to his right he did convey | A |
At once his sceptre and his rule of sway | A |
Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young | B |
And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung | B |
His temples last with poppies were o'erspread | X |
That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head | X |
Just at the point of time if fame not lie | T |
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly | T |
So Romulus 'tis sung by Tiber's brook | L2 |
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took | L2 |
The admiring throng loud acclamations make | M2 |
And omens of his future empire take | M2 |
The sire then shook the honours of his head | X |
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed | X |
Full on the filial dulness long he stood | X |
Repelling from his breast the raging god | X |
At length burst out in this prophetic mood | X |
- | |
Heavens bless my son from Ireland let him reign | N |
To far Barbadoes on the western main | N |
Of his dominion may no end be known | C2 |
And greater than his father's be his throne | C2 |
Beyond Love's kingdom let him stretch his pen | N2 |
He paused and all the people cried Amen | N2 |
Then thus continued he My son advance | J |
Still in new impudence new ignorance | J |
Success let others teach learn thou from me | H |
Pangs without birth and fruitless industry | H |
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ | X |
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit | X |
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage | O |
Make Dorimant betray and Loveit rage | O |
Let Cully Cockwood Fopling charm the pit | X |
And in their folly show the writer's wit | X |
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence | J |
And justify their author's want of sense | J |
Let them be all by thy own model made | X |
Of dulness and desire no foreign aid | X |
That they to future ages may be known | C2 |
Not copies drawn but issue of thy own | C2 |
Nay let thy men of wit too be the same | P |
All full of thee and differing but in name | P |
But let no alien Sedley interpose | J |
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose | J |
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull | L |
Trust nature do not labour to be dull | L |
But write thy best and top and in each line | O2 |
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine | O2 |
Sir Formal though unsought attends thy quill | P2 |
And does thy northern dedications fill | P2 |
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame | P |
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name | P |
Let Father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise | J |
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise | J |
Thou art my blood where Jonson has no part | X |
What share have we in nature or in art | X |
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand | X |
And rail at arts he did not understand | X |
Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein | N |
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain | N |
Where sold he bargains whip stitch kiss my a e | H |
Promised a play and dwindled to a farce | J |
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin | Q2 |
As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine | O2 |
But so transfused as oil and waters flow | D2 |
His always floats above thine sinks below | D2 |
This is thy province this thy wondrous way | A |
New humours to invent for each new play | A |
This is that boasted bias of thy mind | X |
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined | X |
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still | P2 |
And in all changes that way bends thy will | P2 |
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence | J |
Of likeness thine's a tympany of sense | J |
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ | X |
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit | X |
Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep | A2 |
Thy tragic muse gives smiles thy comic sleep | A2 |
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write | X |
Thy inoffensive satires never bite | X |
In thy felonious heart though venom lies | J |
It does but touch thy Irish pen and dies | J |
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame | P |
In keen Iambics but mild Anagram | R2 |
Leave writing plays and choose for thy command | X |
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land | X |
There thou mayst wings display and altars raise | J |
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways | J |
Or if thou wouldst thy different talents suit | X |
Set thy own songs and sing them to thy lute | X |
- | |
He said but his last words were scarcely heard | X |
For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared | X |
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard | X |
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind | X |
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind | X |
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part | X |
With double portion of his father's art | X |
John Dryden
(1)
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