An Epistle to Mr. Dryden.
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DRYDEN, thy Wit has catterwauld too long,
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Now Lero, Lero, is the only Song.
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What Singing, Dancing, Interludes of late
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Stuff, and set off our goodly Farce of State?
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Not Abbevil can turn a deep intrigue,
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Till first well warmd with Bishop Talgols Jigg.
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Wem cannot sleep, or if a Nap he takes,
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His Dream some old Tressilian Ballad breaks.
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But was eer seen the like, in Prose or Metre,
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To this mad Play, or work of Father P?
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At Court no longer Punchionello takes,
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Each Scene, Part, Cue, mishapen to the Macs.
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Such Plot, and the Catastrophe is such,
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We must be either Irish all, or Dutch.
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Our very Judges in Westminster-Hall,
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Like their old Roof, are Irish Timber all.
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And (bless us!) Irish Wolves are brought to keep
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The Nation, grown now all such silly Sheep;
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Such errant Asses, errant Cattle made,
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Or to be yoakd, or saddld, fleecd, or flead.
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O Martyrs Son! thy destiny is shown,
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Such props are for a Scaffold, not a Throne:
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So Juno, in her impotence of rage,
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By Heaven denyd, did Hells black Powers engage;
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Yet sped the Heroe: Jove and Fate were strong;
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Religious care! He took his Gods along:
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But heark, O heark, the Belgick Lion roars,
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And shakes afar the French and British Shoars:
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One Brandy drinks, one mad with Prophecies:
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Lord! what they tell us of some Prince from Frize;
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Arms, and the Man they sing, no French finess,
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But hearty Blows, and Brandenburg Address.
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Hence Vigor, and our Figure come agen,
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We rise, and walk, all true erected men.
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The force of those Circaean Cups subdud,
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And the wild Charms our new Armida brewd,
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The Witchcraft he (our true Rinaldo) broke,
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And grubs the base pretenders to his stock.
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But oh, what Spirit of Deceit afar,
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Possessd our Pulpits,and bewitchd the Bar?
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What Bane, what Mischief on poor Mortals shed
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By Vermin, from the Laws corruption bred?
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Tho to their Irish Roof no Cobwebs cleave,
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Below what strife and endless toyls they weave:
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Wanting brave Strength to strangle men to death,
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What Frauds they hide! What Venom underneath!
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And when some shorter course to Murders shown,
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Cry, O that (luscious) Point! they gaind the Crown.
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Sons of the Pulpit the same measures keep,
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And of that same stummd Cup have drunk as deep.
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Agog for some odd transubstantiate thing,
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Chimera reign, and Metaphysick King,
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Sublimd to School Divinity texreams,
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Their Brains would crow with Patriarchal Dreams.
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So high from solid honest wisdom blown,
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Theyd have some Hippo-Centaur on the Throne.
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Not Law-ordaind, but by some God appointed,
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Not Lay-elected, but be Priest-anointed.
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Away this Goblin Witchcraft, Priestcraft-Prince;
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Give us a King, Divine, by Law and Sense.
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Now Bar and Pulpit to Dragoons a sport,
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Their Cause is carried to the last Resort.
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Princes in more compendious method teach,
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Force is their way; let old Apostles preach.
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Whats stablishd Law, where standing Armies come;
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Or wholl talk Gospel to a Kettle Drum?
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When God would hear, where Giants did oppress,
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The several Nations had their Hercules.
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So were the Horns of grizly violence broke,
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So People freed from triple Geryons yoke.
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The various Snake in Lerna-Lough that bred,
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That lolld and hissd to death, at every head,
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Nemaean Lion, Erymanthian Boar,
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In Bogs that wallow, and on Hills that roar:
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All by his Godlike Prowess done away,
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Their lawless rule, and that Gigantick sway.
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In vain whilst this high Virtue Nations sought,
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The Nassau-House were never yet without.
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Nor is confind to Provinces their care,
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Their generous labour neighboring Kingdoms share.
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Here the foul Herd flee from his lifted hand,
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That long had made a Stable of the Land.
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The Monster of the Lough, new Lerna-Plague
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(But scarce in head) the Bog-begotten Teague,
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The ravenous kind, the Harpyes sharp for prey,
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With Birds obscene, and uncouth to the day.
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No Den, no Ditch, no rousting for em more,
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Now, now is come our Hercules ashore.
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Vile Fraud dispelld, and superstitious Mists:
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He from our Temple drives all knavish Priests.
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Then warmer Wallop, in due Scarlet shown,
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To Coffee-Dick bequeaths his rusty Gown.
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Oh Dryden, if this Hercules were thine,
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How woud his Club, and Atlas-shoulders shine:
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How woudst thou all our Maids of Honor fright,
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With naughty Tale, of Fifty in a night?
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Howeer, no more let Xavier mar thy Pen,
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No Miracle to Forty thousand Men.
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When Law, and bald Divinity begins,
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Why then, the marvel that a Poet sins?
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