An Allusion To Horace Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: AAAABBBAACCAADEFFBBG FHHFFAAIIJJJJAAAKKJJ LLJFFHHHHAAFFFFFAAAA BBBFFFHHHHFFFFMMFFHH JJJJFFJHFFAAFFHHHFFB BFFIIAALLHHHFFFFFBBL JLLLWell Sir 'tis granted I said Dryden's Rhimes | A |
Were stoln unequal nay dull many times | A |
What foolish Patron is there found of his | A |
So blindly partial to deny me this | A |
But that his Plays Embroider'd up and downe | B |
With Witt and Learning justly pleas'd the Towne | B |
In the same paper I as freely owne | B |
Yet haveing this allow'd the heavy Masse | A |
That stuffs up his loose Volumes must not passe | A |
For by that Rule I might as well admit | C |
Crownes tedious Scenes for Poetry and Witt | C |
'Tis therefore not enough when your false Sense | A |
Hits the false Judgment of an Audience | A |
Of Clapping Fooles assembling a vast Crowd | D |
'Till the throng'd Play House crack with the dull Load | E |
Tho' ev'n that Tallent merrits in some sort | F |
That can divert the Rabble and the Court | F |
Which blundring Settle never cou'd attaine | B |
And puzling Otway labours at in vaine | B |
But within due proportions circumscribe | G |
What e're you write that with a flowing Tyde | F |
The Stile may rise yet in its rise forbeare | H |
With uselesse Words t'oppresse the wearyed Eare | H |
Here be your Language lofty there more light | F |
Your Rethorick with your Poetry unite | F |
For Elegance sake sometimes alay the force | A |
Of Epethets 'twill soften the discourse | A |
A Jeast in Scorne poynts out and hits the thing | I |
More home than the Morosest Satyrs Sting | I |
Shakespeare and Johnson did herein excell | J |
And might in this be Immitated well | J |
Whom refin'd Etheridge Coppys not at all | J |
But is himself a Sheere Originall | J |
Nor that Slow Drudge in swift Pindarique straines | A |
Flatman who Cowley imitates with paines | A |
And rides a Jaded Muse whipt with loose Raines | A |
When Lee makes temp'rate Scipio fret and Rave | K |
And Haniball a whineing Am'rous Slave | K |
I laugh and wish the hot brain'd Fustian Foole | J |
In Busbys hands to be well lasht at Schoole | J |
Of all our Moderne Witts none seemes to me | L |
Once to have toucht upon true Comedy | L |
But hasty Shadwell and slow Witcherley | J |
Shadwells unfinisht workes doe yet impart | F |
Great proofes of force of Nature none of Art | F |
With just bold Stroakes he dashes here and there | H |
Shewing great Mastery with little care | H |
And scornes to varnish his good touches o're | H |
To make the Fooles and Women praise 'em more | H |
But Witcherley earnes hard what e're he gaines | A |
He wants noe Judgment nor he spares noe paines | A |
He frequently excells and at the least | F |
Makes fewer faults than any of the best | F |
Waller by Nature for the Bayes design'd | F |
With force and fire and fancy unconfin'd | F |
In Panigericks does Excell Mankind | F |
He best can turne enforce and soften things | A |
To praise great Conqu'rours or to flatter Kings | A |
For poynted Satyrs I wou'd Buckhurst choose | A |
The best good Man with the worst Natur'd Muse | A |
For Songs and Verses Mannerly Obscene | B |
That can stirr Nature up by Springs unseene | B |
And without forceing blushes warme the Queene | B |
Sidley has that prevailing gentle Art | F |
That can with a resistlesse Charme impart | F |
The loosest wishes to the Chastest Heart | F |
Raise such a Conflict kindle such a ffire | H |
Betwixt declineing Virtue and desire | H |
Till the poor Vanquisht Maid dissolves away | H |
In Dreames all Night in Sighs and Teares all Day | H |
Dryden in vaine try'd this nice way of Witt | F |
For he to be a tearing Blade thought fit | F |
But when he wou'd be sharp he still was blunt | F |
To friske his frollique fancy hed cry Cunt | F |
Wou'd give the Ladyes a dry Bawdy bob | M |
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab | M |
But to be just twill to his praise be found | F |
His Excellencies more than faults abound | F |
Nor dare I from his Sacred Temples teare | H |
That Lawrell which he best deserves to weare | H |
But does not Dryden find ev'n Johnson dull | J |
Fletcher and Beaumont uncorrect and full | J |
Of Lewd lines as he calls em Shakespeares Stile | J |
Stiffe and Affected To his owne the while | J |
Allowing all the justnesse that his Pride | F |
Soe Arrogantly had to these denyd | F |
And may not I have leave Impartially | J |
To search and Censure Drydens workes and try | H |
If those grosse faults his Choyce Pen does Commit | F |
Proceed from want of Judgment or of Witt | F |
Of if his lumpish fancy does refuse | A |
Spirit and grace to his loose slatterne Muse | A |
Five Hundred Verses ev'ry Morning writ | F |
Proves you noe more a Poet than a Witt | F |
Such scribling Authors have beene seene before | H |
Mustapha the English Princesse Forty more | H |
Were things perhaps compos'd in Half an Houre | H |
To write what may securely stand the test | F |
Of being well read over Thrice oat least | F |
Compare each Phrase examin ev'ry Line | B |
Weigh ev'ry word and ev'ry thought refine | B |
Scorne all Applause the Vile Rout can bestow | F |
And be content to please those few who know | F |
Canst thou be such a vaine mistaken thing | I |
To wish thy Workes might make a Play house ring | I |
With the unthinking Laughter and poor praise | A |
Of Fopps and Ladys factious for thy Plays | A |
Then send a cunning Friend to learne thy doome | L |
From the shrew'd Judges in the Drawing Roome | L |
I've noe Ambition on that idle score | H |
But say with Betty Morice heretofore | H |
When a Court Lady call'd her Buckleys Whore | H |
I please one Man of Witt am proud on't too | F |
Let all the Coxcombs dance to bed to you | F |
Shou'd I be troubled when the Purblind Knight | F |
Who squints more in his Judgment than his sight | F |
Picks silly faults and Censures what I write | F |
Or when the poor fed Poets of the Towne | B |
For Scrapps and Coach roome cry my Verses downe | B |
I loath the Rabble 'tis enough for me | L |
If Sidley Shadwell Shepherd Witcherley | J |
Godolphin Buttler Buckhurst Buckingham | L |
And some few more whom I omit to name | L |
Approve my Sense I count their Censure Fame | L |
John Wilmot
(1)
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