Earl of ROCHESTER.
Reading edition
This Earl for Poetical Wit, was accounted the chief of his time; his Numbers flowing with so smooth and accute a Strain, that had they been all confined within the bounds of Modesty, we might well affirm they were unparallel'd; yet was not his Muse altogether so loose, but that with his Mirth he mixed Seriousness, and had a knack at once to tickle the Fancy, and inform the Judgement. Take a taste of the fluency of his Muse, in the Poem which he wrote in Defence of Satyr.
When Shakespeare, Johnson, Fletcher rul'd the Stage, They took so bold a freedom with the Age, That there was scarce a Knave, or Fool in Town, Of any note, but had his Picture shown; And (without doubt) tho some it may offend. Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend Ill Manners, or is trulier Vertues Friend. Princes may Laws ordain, Priests gravely preach, But Poets most successfully will teach. For as the Passing-Bell frights from his meat The greedy Sick-man, that too much wou'd eat; So when a Vice ridiculous is made, Our Neighbours Shame keeps us from growing bad. But wholsom Remedies few Palats please, Men rather love what flatters their Disease.
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoons, and all the Crew That under Friendship's name weak man undo; Find their false service kindlier understood, Than such as tell bold Truths to do us good. Look where you will, and you shall hardly find A man without some sickness of the Mind. In vain we wise wou'd seem, while every Lust Whisks us about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust. Here for some needless gain a Wretch is hurld From Pole to Pole, and slav'd about the World; While the reward of all his pains and cares, Ends in that despicable thing, his Heir. There a vain Fop mortgages all his Land To buy that gaudy Play-thing, a Command; To ride a Cock-horse, wear a Scarf at's —— And play the Pudding in a May-pole Farce. Here one, whom God to make a Fool thought fit, In spight of Providence, will be a Wit: But wanting strength t'uphold his ill made choice, Sets up with Lewdness, Blasphemy, and Noise. There at his Mistress feet a Lover lies, And for a Tawdry painted Baby dies; Falls on his knees, adores and is afraid Of the vain Idol he himself has made. These, and a thousand Fools unmention'd here, Hate Poets all, because they Poets fear. Take heed (they cry) yonder mad Dog will bite, He cares not whom he falls on in his fit: Come but in's way, and strait a new Lampoon Shall spread your mangled fame about the Town
This Earl died in the Flower of his Age, and though his Life might be somewhat Extravagant, yet he is said to have dyed Penitently; and to have made a very good End.