MacFlecknoe
by John
Dryden
|
All human things are subject to decay, |
And when fate summons, monarchs must
obey. |
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus,
young |
Was called to empire, and had governed
long; |
In prose and verse, was owned, without
dispute, |
Through all the realms of Nonsense,
absolute. |
This aged prince, now flourishing in
peace, |
And blest with issue of a large increase, |
Worn out with business, did at length
debate |
To settle the succession of the state; |
And, pondering which of all his sons was
fit |
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, |
Cried: ‘’Tis resolved; for nature
pleads, that he |
Should only rule, who most resembles me. |
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, |
Mature in dullness from his tender years: |
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he |
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. |
The rest to some faint meaning make
pretence, |
But Shadwell never deviates into sense. |
Some beams of wit on other souls may
fall, |
Strike through, and make a lucid
interval; |
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no
ray; |
His rising fogs prevail upon the day. |
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, |
And seems designed for thoughtless
majesty; |
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade
the plain, |
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. |
Heywood and Shirley were but types of
thee, |
Thou last great prophet of tautology. |
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, |
Was sent before but to prepare thy way: |
And, coarsley clad in Norwich drugget,
came |
To teach the nations in thy greater name. |
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom
strung, |
When to King John of Portugal I sung, |
Was but the prelude to that glorious day, |
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy
way, |
With well-timed oars before the royal
barge, |
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial
charge; |
And big with hymn, commander of a host, |
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets
tossed. |
Methinks I see the new Arion sail, |
The lute still trembling underneath thy
nail. |
At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore to
shore |
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses
roar; |
Echoes from Pissing Alley "Shadwell"
call, |
And "Shadwell" they resound
from Ashton Hall. |
About thy boat the little fishes throng, |
As at the morning toast that floats
along. |
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious
band, |
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing
hand. |
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal
time, |
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's
rhyme; |
Though they in number as in sense excel: |
So just, so like tautology, they fell, |
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore |
The lute and sword, which he in triumph
bore, |
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius
more.’ |
Here stopped the good old sire, and wept
for joy |
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. |
All arguments, but most his plays,
persuade, |
That for anointed dullness he was made. |
Close to the walls which fair Augusta
bind, |
(The fair Augusta much to fears
inclined,) |
An ancient fabric raised to inform the
sight, |
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: |
A watchtower once; but now, so fate
ordains, |
Of all the pile an empty name remains. |
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, |
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted
joys, |
Where their vast courts the
mother-strumpets keep, |
And, undisturbed by watch, in silence
sleep. |
Near these a nursery erects its head, |
Where queens are formed, and future
heroes bred; |
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and
cry, |
Where infant punks their tender voices
try, |
And little Maximins the gods defy. |
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins
here, |
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; |
But gentle Simkin just reception finds |
Amidst this monument of vanished minds: |
Pure clenches the suburban muse affords, |
And Panton waging harmless war with
words. |
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well
known, |
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's
throne; |
For ancient Dekker prophesied long since, |
That in this pile should reign a mighty
prince, |
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of
sense; |
To whom true dullness should some Psyches
owe, |
But worlds of Misers from his pen
should flow; |
Humourists and
Hypocrites should produce, |
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of
Bruce. |
Now Empress Fame had published the renown |
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, |
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay; |
From dusty shops neglected authors come, |
Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum. |
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogilby there lay, |
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the
way. |
Bilked stationers for yeomen stood
prepared, |
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. |
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories,
grace, |
And lambent dullness played around his
face. |
As Hannibal did to the altars come, |
Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; |
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be
vain, |
That he till death true dullness would
maintain; |
And, in this father's right, and realm's
defence, |
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce
with sense. |
The king himself the sacred unction made, |
As king by office, and as priest by
trade. |
In his sinister hand, instead of ball, |
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; |
Love's Kingdom to
his right he did convey, |
At once his sceptre, and his rule of
sway; |
Whose righteous lore the prince had
practised young, |
And from whose loins recorded Psyche
sprung. |
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, |
That nodding seemed to consecrate his
head. |
Just at that point of time, if fame not
lie, |
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did
fly. |
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, |
Pressage of sway from twice six vultures
took. |
The admiring throng loud acclamations
make, |
And omens of his future empire take. |
The sire then shook the honours of his
head, |
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed |
Full on the filial dullness: long he
stood |
Repelling from his breast the raging god; |
At length burst out in this prophetic
mood: |
‘Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let
him reign |
To far Barbados on the western main; |
Of his dominion may no end be known, |
And greater than his father's be his
throne; |
Beyond Love's Kingdom let him
stretch his pen!’ |
He paused, and all the people cried, ‘Amen’. |
Then thus continued he: ‘My son,
advance |
Still in new impudence, new ignorance. |
Success let others teach, learn thou from
me |
Pangs without birth, and fruitless
industry. |
Let Virtuosos in five years be
writ; |
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of
wit. |
Let gentle George in triumph tread the
stage, |
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; |
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the
pit, |
And in their folly show the writer's wit. |
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy
defence, |
And justify their author's want of sense. |
Let 'em be all by thy own model made |
Of dullness, and desire no foreign aid; |
That they to future ages may be known, |
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. |
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, |
All full of thee, and differing but in
name. |
But let no alien Sedley interpose, |
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom
prose. |
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou
wouldst cull, |
Trust nature, do not labour to be dull; |
But write thy best, and top; and, in each
line, |
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine: |
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy
quill, |
And does thy northern dedications fill. |
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to
fame, |
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name. |
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with
praise, |
And uncle Ogilby thy envy raise. |
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no
part: |
What share have we in nature, or in art? |
Where did his wit on learning fix a
brand, |
And rail at arts he did not understand? |
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's
vein, |
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble
strain? |
Where sold he bargains,
"whip-stitch, kiss my arse", |
Promised a play and dwindled to a farce? |
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes
purloin, |
As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to thine? |
But so transfused, as oil on water's
flow, |
His always floats above, thine sinks
below. |
This is thy province, this thy wondrous
way, |
New humours to invent for each new play: |
This is that boasted bias of thy mind, |
By which one way, to dullness, 'tis
inclined; |
Which makes thy writings lean on one side
still, |
And, in all changes, that way bends thy
will. |
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence |
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. |
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, |
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. |
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly
creep; |
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic
sleep. |
With whate'er gall thou settst thyself to
write, |
Thy inoffensive satires never bite. |
In thy felonious heart though venom lies, |
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and
dies. |
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase
fame |
In keen iambics, but mild anagram. |
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy
command |
Some peaceful province in acrostic land. |
There thou mayst wings display and altars
raise, |
And torture one poor word ten thousand
ways. |
Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents
suit, |
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy
lute.’ |
He said: but his last words were scarcely
heard; |
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap
prepared, |
And down they sent the yet declaiming
bard. |
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, |
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. |
The mantle fell to the young prophet's
part, |
With double portion of his father's art.
|
John Dryden | Classic
Poems |
|
[ A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 ] [ from Absalom and Achitophel ] [ London After the Great Fire, 1666 ] [ To the Memory of Mr Oldham ] [ Macflecknoe ] |