Satires 1.4 (Creech): Eupolis Atque Cratinus

CRatin and Eupolis that lash't the Age,
Those old Comedian Furies of the Stage;
If they were to describe a vile, unjust,
And cheating Knave, or scourge a Lawless Lust;
Or other Crimes; regardless of his Fame
They show'd the Man, and boldly told his Name;
This is Lucilius's way, He follows those,
His Wit the same, but other numbers chose;
I grant he was a sharp and ready Wit,
But rude and uncorrect in all he writ:
This was his fault, He hastily would rhyme
(As if 'twere such a wondrous thing in him)
Two hundred tedious lines in one hours time:
Yet when with force his muddy fancy flow'd,
Some few pure Streams appear'd amongst the mud:
In writing much 'tis true his Parts excell,
Too lazy for the task of writing well:
But grant that rare, what then? Crispinus says
You talk of writing, Sir, You claim the Bays,
Come on Sir Critick, You shall have your fill,
(The wager be as little as you will)
Here's Pen and Ink, and Time and Place, let's try
Which can write most and fastest, You or I:
Thanks Heaven that made me slow, and gave a Pe[...]
That writes but little, and but now and then:
But you, like Bellows, till the Gold's refin'd,
Are puffing still, and all but empty wind.

Fannius was happy, whom the publick praise
Preferr'd to Phoebus shrine, and Crown'd with Bays:
But few read mine, and few my Books delight,
And I scarce dare to publish what I write:
Few like this way, for most know well enough,
That they deserve, and fear my just reproof:
Take any at a venture midst the Crowd,
And you shall find him covetous or proud,
One marry'd Whores, another Boys desires,
One Silver's white, and Alpius Brass admires:
Another runs from East to West to cheat,
Like Dust by Whirlwinds tost thro storms of Fate,
And all to keep or better his Estate:
All these hate Poets, these do fear our Rhimes,
Look he's stark mad, they cry, fly, fly betimes;
He spares no Friend, He will abuse the best,
So he may laugh himself and have his Jest:
And then what e're He writes flies o're the Town,
To Pimps, to Hectors, and to Gamesters shown,
To every one He meets He tells the Tale,
Old Senseless Fops, Old Women, Boys and All:
Now hear what may for t'other side be shown;

First, I'me no Poet, for to make me one
'Tis not enough to fetter words in Rhyme,
And make a tedious and a jingling Chyme;
And chiefly since my numerous feet enclose
Such plain familiar Talk, and almost Prose;
No, He alone can claim that name that writes
With Fancy High, and bold and daring flights,
And sings as nobly as His Hero fights.
And therefore some do doubt, (though some allow)
If Comedy be Poetry or no,
Because it wants that Spirit, Flame, and Force,
And bate the numbers, 'tis but plain discourse:
Yet often there the careful Fathers rage,
They storm, and swear, and crack the trembling Stage,
A Rogue, a Dog, I'le kick him out of Door;
When his young Stripling courts a Jilting Whore,
And slights a noble Match; or stow'd with drink,
E'en whilst 'tis day, He Sails behind his Link:
And would not Pompon, were his Father here,
Expect as harsh a check, and as severe?
Well then 'tis not enough to keep due time,
Observe just feet, and put plain words in Rhyme;
For break the Numbers, and the Verse affords
But common angry talk, and usual words:
Thus take what I, or what Lucilius writes,
Tho now and then it Storms, and sometimes bites,
Invert the Order and the Words transpose,
No sign, as when you change (When violent Wars
Had burst their Brazen Gates, and broke the Bars:)
Of Poetry appears, 'tis naked Prose.

But now enough, another Time shall show
If 'tis a part of Poetry or no:
But now I will enquire how Men should hate
This way of writing Satyr, and for what:
Capri and Sulce, those Terrors of the Jayl,
Both hoarse with pleading walk the Common-Hall,
Their green Bags stusst with Bills, Indictments, Breves,
A mighty Terror those to Knaves and Thieves;
But yet an honest Man that keeps his Oath,
Nor robs nor steals, may safely scorn them both:
If Thou'rt a Thief, as Coele and Byrrhus are,
I'me not like Sulce or Capri, why do'st fear,
And why dread me? My Book's not set to Sale,
Thumb'd by the Rabble upon every Stall,
The Rascal scum, Hermogenes and All:
I seldom do rehearse, and when I do,
I'me forc't because my Friends will have it so:
But then in private, to my Friends alone,
Not every where, nor yet to every one:
Thousands i'th' publick Market-place recite,
And trouble all they meet with what they write:
Nay whilst they Bath, They studiously rehearse,
The Eccho's raise the Voice and grace the Verse:
Thus act our Fops, and without fear or wit,
Never considering if the Season's fit,
Or time convenient: Well, but what you write
Doth hurt Mens fame, that's your perverse delight:
Why this to me? Doth any Friend of mine
Boldly affirm that this is my design?
He that himself shall blame his absent Friends,
Or hears them scandaliz'd, and not defends,
Sports with their Fame, and speaks what e're He can,
And only to be thought a Witty Man,
Tells Tales, and brings his Friend in dis-esteem,
That Man's a Knave, besure beware of him:
Set Twelve to Supper, one above the rest
Takes all the talk, and breaks a scurvy Jest
On all, except the Master of the Feast:
At last on him, when frequent Cups begin,
T'unlock his Soul, and show the spight within:
Yet him you count a Wag, a merry Soul,
A pleasant, innocent, and harmless Droll:
But if I smile perchance, if I presume
To laugh because Rufillus doth perfume,
That Female Man; or nasty Gorgon note
For studied filthiness, and smell of Goat:
My smiles are Satyrs, and what e're I write,
In me 'tis all detraction, and 'tis spight:
In common Talk, as we have often done,
If we discourse how Petil stole the Crown;
And you, as you are wont, his Cause defend,
He hath a kindness for me, He's my Friend,
My old Acquaintance He, He is indeed,
And faith I'me glad at heart that He is freed;
And yet I wonder how He 'scapt; 'tis right,
This, this is base detraction, this is spight:
This, If I know my self, ne're relisht me,
My Books from this, I'me sure my Mind is free,
But if some things appear jocosely writ,
This you must pardon, this you must permit.

For my good Father did instruct me so,
And by Examples taught me how to know
What was unfit, and what was fit to do:
For when He tutor'd and advis'd to thrift,
And live content with that which He had left:
Mark Byrrhus, he would say, and Alpi's Son,
How poor They live, now They are both undone!
Two fit examples by unhappy Fates,
To fright young Heirs from spending their Estates:
When He would fright me from a lawless Love,
And Whores, He said, Young Horace do not prove
Like Sectan, do not lead so loose a Life,
And seek stoln joys, and with another's Wife;
Use what the Laws permit, and be advis'd,
Trebonius got no credit when surpriz'd:
Philosophers perhaps may show the Cause,
And talk of Reason and of Nature's Laws,
Why some things should be hated, some admir'd,
And why avoided some, and some desir'd,
But 'tis enough for me to form thy mind,
And leave it to the Ancients rules inclin'd,
And whilst Thou want'st a Tutor, keep thy Name
And manners spotless, and preserve thy Fame;
For when a Man, then thou must walk alone,
No prudent care to guide Thee but thy own:
Thus he advis'd; What e're He'd have me do,
He says, Look such a one doth so and so;
And sets a Worthy Man before my Eyes,
And when he would forbid a Thing, He crys,
Is not this bad when such and such a One
Is scandaliz'd for't over all the Town?
Unruly Patients when They chance to hear
Their Neighbour's lately dead, begin to fear,
Grow orderly and check their Appetite;
So others ill repute do often fright
Young Men from following Vice and false delight:
Hence 'tis that sound from greater faults I live,
But small, and such as Friends may well forgive,
I grant I have; yet even those grow less
By my own Care, or by my Friends advice;
For when I lye or when I walk alone,
I usually revolve what I have done;
This may be better'd sure, and this commend,
And make me greater, and a pleasant Friend:
Sure this is bad, and this is not well done;
What shall I act like such and such a one?
All this I use to think on when alone:
At leasure times I write my foolish thoughts,
And this is one of Those my little faults,
Which if you won't forgive, but prove severe,
A Band of Poets to my Aid I'll rear,
(For we can make a Band) and like the Jews
I'le force you take that side you now refuse.