JOHN DRYDEN MAC FLECKNOE OR, A SATIRE UPON THE TRUE-BLUEPROTESTANT POET T. S. BY THE AUTHOR OF ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL [Publ. 1682.] [Thomas Shadwell, once Dryden's friend, now his enemy, and an ardent Whig, had published an answer to The Medal, entitled, The Medal of John Bayes, a Satire against Folly and Knavery, in which he assailed Dryden with foul and scurrilous abuse. Dryden's reply was the following poem, published, according to Malone (I, 1, 169), who probably had some authority for his statement, on October 4, 1682.] ALL human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge, Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40 And big with hymn, commander of a host, At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore Now Empress Fame had publish'd the renown Of Sh's coronation thro' the town. Rous'd by report of Fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street. No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay; From dusty shops neglected authors come, Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum. 101 Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, But loads of Sh- almost chok'd the way. Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd, And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labors rear'd. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the State. His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, "Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140 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 paus'd, 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, 151 Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; Trust nature, do not labor to be dull; Sir Formal's oratory will be thine: Sir Formal, tho' unsought, attends thy quill, And does thy northern dedications fill. 170 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 Ogleby 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? |