The First CANTO.

Since here I'm bandy'd up and down By the keen blows of Fortunes frown, Whil'st Art and Nature vainly strive To make th' unhappy Poet live; I'le fly such Native Plagues as these For Refuge, to the calmer Seas: And try if boading Stars dispence Ev'ry where the same influence. Climes vary Constitutions, so Why may not they change Fortunes too? Through th' habitable World I'le go, And if that fails, I'le search for new. Wit somewhere has a happy Reign, Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain. Tho' here her bounty she provides For ev'ry thing which breaths besides. The Dunce made Batchelor of Art, Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart, Then Preaches 'fore a Country Squire,} Who his deep Learning does admire, } And gives him sixscore pounds a year.} But he must Marry th' Chamber-Maid, Who is, forsooth, a Mistress made: So he goes on with a fair hope, And of his Pulpit makes a Shop. So Quacks as eas'ly as they will, Can get Licenses to kill, Whil'st the hungry Poet may } For an Imprimatur stay,} Till h'has eaten up his Play. } Yet since the Press has lately had Its Liberty, 'tis near as bad. For scarce a broken Shop-keeper, Or a cast Serving man grown bare, But herds among our starved Crew, And falls a Writing Poems too. The Plot, the Jesuit, and the Pope Are now grown Theams for ev'ry Fop. Who by such wretched, Ballad-ware, Makes Writing cheap, and Paper dear. See how the gaping Merchants range, Hunting their Chapmen on the Change, Whose Various Voices frame a sound, Like Billows when their Ships are drown'd, And in one hour more fat do sweat Than th' Poet in a year can get. Those worst of Atheists! who do hold There is no Deity but Gold! They hate the Poet 'cause he's poor, And only th' Golden Calf adore. Our Plays, they say, are wicked dear, Th' expence in Ballads will go far. Nay, I protest I've heard some say Plays are a kind of Popery. I'th' City-shops they're thought Profane, As were Minc'd-pies in Cromwel's Reign. Where, when for Dryden's Works I came, They vow'd they never heard his Name. But they had Baxter's, if you please, And such-like precious things as these. Bless 'em from Plays; they'd rather go Unto a Conventicle, or so. The Stationer grows fat on th' gain, He sucks from the poor Poet's brain. He, and the Printer, who does know Nothing beyond the Cris-cros-row, Do still their Heads together joyn To cheat the Poet of his Coyn. Whil'st he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat Honourable stabs to get; And is forc'd to sigh, and stay For the Lawrel 'till he's gray: And at last together come To his Honour, and his Tomb. Tho' when dead, his Friends may'nt raise Enough to gild his Fun'ral Bays. The Players, who scarce know to write Their Names, or spell one word aright, Or read their Parts, unless writ fair In a large Roman Character, Call us their Slaves, who for their gain Must toil, and all their faults sustain. In gay Attire each day they shine; Eat well, and drink the Richest Wine, All fat and plump, except some few The French-man prov'd invet'rate to. Look how they strut it as they go! } And in the streets make such a show,} As if they'ld there Act Princes too!} While th' Poet sneaking all alone In some by-lane where he's unknown; No farther than his Pot can go, And has a Pipe to th' bargain too. I hardly a poor Lawyer know, Unless some who are Poets too. They thrive by Rapine and Revenge, And making Enemies of Friends: Feeding on others hopes and fears, On Orphants groans, and Widows tears. In short, the World it self; and all We Trade, and Art, and Science call, Are grand Impostures; false and vain, Invented but to bring in gain. Astronomy does our Faith engage, And with dark Notions cheats the Age: But take off its Disguise, you'll see It is as feign'd as Poetry. Else let it for a certain show Whether this Globe has Wings or no, Or Ovid blame, who said, the Sun Did run away with Phaëton. I cannot chuse but laugh to think If these poor Moon-calves had no Drink But that same thinnish, blewish Whey Press'd from green Cheese i'th' Milky-way; When Goddesses make the New Moon, How soon they'd throw their Cross-staves down! What is Geometry, I'ld know, But a false Brat of Fancy too? If 'tis a Science, let it tell How far from hence the Stars do dwell; And due proportion give between A direct and a crooked Line. Yet while the Dotards sit at home, Each Line is tip't with Golden Plumme; And still we find that each Right-Angle Some Gain or other does entangle; As Tonnellers catch Partridge; so Geometricians, you must know, Although in other things but Asses, } They eat, and drink, and sleep with Lasses } Between the Legs of their Compasses.} So th' Natural Philosopher 'S perpetual Motion keeps a stir, But straight his Engines rest obtain, And all the Motion's in his brain; Except some easie hand, forsooth, That opens but to fill his mouth. Rhet'rick, which we so much adore, Ne'r had a perfect Orator. And yet their mouths provide; I trow,} As lame and cripled people's do, } Who lie, because they cannot go. } And what is Logick, but a cheat? Nothing, or something worse than it. A Delphick Sword, bends any way } To make Truth yield to Sophistry,} And bring home Gold from BARBARA.} The lingring Chymsts blow their fire, Till their own Lamps of Life expire; And searcheth for th' Inchanted stone, Till they themselves grow cold as one; Which they would quickly do, but that 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The great work (much too great for one) Cannot be carried on alone, But asks more hands; and so another, That's Rich, helps his poor Chymick Brother. Speak, dull Philosopher; what's all You, in mistake, do Science call? Since Socrates with much ado, Learn'd only that he nothing knew. There's nothing unconfin'd and free, Except the Soul of Poetry, When it does on our Organs play. Throw all your Mystick Books away, And study Natures Library: Mount up to Heaven's refulgent Throne, There by the Lab'ring Muses drawn. First, pause a while, then Write, and all The Gods to Convocation call; Then with Imperious frowns survey Poor Mortals damn'd to treading clay; And raising Piles, till pitying Fate Pulls the brick ruins on their pate. There laugh at Princes, who do groan Under the burden of a Crown: And condemn Riches, which we see} Is but a Golden Slavery; } We're Richer far in Poetry. } But hold!—— I'm almost starv'd, as I'm a Sinner, Prethee, Jack, Trust me for a Dinner. Poor Poet! what a wretch th'art grown? Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne! Thou who but now did'st reach the Sky, Low as Despair art forc'd to lie: Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire, With thy Poetick rage expire. 'Twas but a Dream, and now I see Riddles unty'd to Fetter me. The Angels height procur'd their Thrall, But 'tis my lowness makes me Fall. Had Nature giv'n me a Rich Mine, As other Fops I'd happy been; Nor had I been exposed thus, To make my plaints ridiculous. For Wit and Wealth such Rivals are, That they can't Reign in the same Sphere, But as when Kings each other thwart, Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart: So those t' whom Nature has been kind, Must Fortunes Rage and Malice find. And 'till these Friends and Partners grow, Who can have Wit and Money too? But if the World hath such a Creature, He's Monstrous, and not made by Nature. Poets are Chymists, who want skill To perfect Metals as they will; Yet Clothes, or Money, what you please, Be sure they'l turn to Sack with ease; Then with that Sack they can prepare} Castles, nay, Kingdoms in the Air, } And carve themselves whole Lordships there.} But since they here so disagree About a paltry Lawrel Tree, I wonder what a Dev'l they do, When to these fancy'd Lands they go: But hold! they'l all be De'ties there, And every one will have his Sphere. For all the Gods of which we read, Were by th' Almighty Poets made: And they who did their God-heads make, May at their pleasures take 'em back.