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Title: Poeta de Tristibus; Or, The Poet's Complaint

Author: Anonymous

Commentator: Harold Love

Release date: September 8, 2013 [eBook #43673]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETA DE TRISTIBUS; OR, THE POET'S COMPLAINT ***

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY

POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

OR, THE

Poet's Complaint

(1682)

Introduction and Notes by

HAROLD LOVE

PUBLICATION NUMBER 149

WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

1971

GENERAL EDITORS

William E. Conway, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

George Robert Guffey, University of California, Los Angeles

Maximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los Angeles

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

David S. Rodes, University of California, Los Angeles

ADVISORY EDITORS

Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan

James L. Clifford, Columbia University

Ralph Cohen, University of Virginia

Vinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los Angeles

Arthur Friedman, University of Chicago

Louis A. Landa, Princeton University

Earl Miner, University of California, Los Angeles

Samuel H. Monk, University of Minnesota

Everett T. Moore, University of California, Los Angeles

Lawrence Clark Powell, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

James Sutherland, University College, London

H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los Angeles

Robert Vosper, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

Curt A. Zimansky, State University of Iowa

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Lilly Kurahashi, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

List of Contents (created by transcriber)

INTRODUCTION

The Publisher's Epistle to the

The Author's Epistle.

The First CANTO.

The Second CANTO.

The Third CANTO.

The Fourth CANTO.

PRESS VARIANTS

NOTES

REGULAR PUBLICATIONS FOR 1970-1971

SPECIAL PUBLICATION FOR 1969-1970-1971

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY

INTRODUCTION

Poeta de Tristibus: or, the Poet's Complaint (PdT) was published by two newly established booksellers, Henry Faithorne and John Kersey, early in November 1681 (title-page dated 1682). The poem is only one of a large number of Restoration satires on writers as a group, its nearest neighbors in time being the pseudo-Rochester "A Session of the Poets," the anonymous "Advice to Apollo," Mulgrave's "An Essay upon Satyr," Otway's The Poet's Complaint, Robert Gould's "To Julian, Secretary to the Muses," the anonymous "Satire on the Poets," Shadwell's The Tory Poets, and Thomas Wood's Juvenalis Redivivus. It differs from these in its Hudibrastic meter, the richness of its biographical detail, and a relatively mild degree of animus against its victims, though there is quite a deal against poetry as art and trade.

In the two introductory epistles, we are asked to believe first that the poem is the work of a young writer driven into exile by his poverty and secondly that the manuscript was sent from Dover to a relative on 10 January 1681 in acknowledgment of a piece of gold. It is possible, as will be seen, that this reflects an actual history; however, the matter is complicated by the existence of a second text, published by 12 November 1681 (Luttrell's date on his copy, now at Harvard, and apparently the only one still extant) as The Poet's Complaint (PC) in which the story is presented in a slightly different form and the text of the poem is little more than a third the length of PdT. An advertisement placed in Nathaniel Thompson's Loyal Protestant and True Domestick Intelligence on 19 November 1681 claims that the rival version, published by Dan Brown, was printed from a "spurious and very imperfect Copy which contains only the first Part of the said Poem, the three last Parts (which are the most considerable) being wholly left out, excepting some few lines of them foisted in here and there without any Sense or Coherence" and describes the Faithorne and Kersey manuscript as "from the Authors Original Copy in four parts (together with several Additions and Corrections by an Ingenious Person)." In a recent article (PQ, XLVII [1968], 547-562) the present editor has argued against this account of the poem's genesis, and has proposed the following hypothetical order of versions. (For the details of the argument the reader is referred to the article.)

(1) An impromptu written as The Poet's Complaint on or about 30 December 1680, for despatch to "a Person of Quality," using materials from a commonplace book dating from circa 1677. This assumption is based on the terminal dates of its collection of quotations from other writers which differs from that of PdT, and a disparity between the times of composition alleged in the epistles to the two poems—PdT claiming "less than a fortnight's space" and PC "less than three days space."

(2) An enlarged version of #1 in four cantos completed by 10 January 1681. (The "Authors Original Copy.")

(3) The version of #2 revised and augmented by "The Ingenious Person," who may or may not have been identical with the "Publisher," and printed as Poeta de Tristibus.

It would follow that the near-simultaneous publication of versions #1 and #3 in November 1681 was wholly coincidental. My initial assumption that PC represents an early draft rather than a truncated copy of PdT has been reviewed with approval by my colleague David Bradley, using criteria developed during a study of analogous situations among Elizabethan dramatic texts. One of his most valuable observations is that the two versions are thematically distinct, PC being a satire on backbiting, attacking those who abuse poets and poetry, and PdT a more general study of the notion "Wit versus Wealth." It is unfortunately impossible to reproduce his more detailed comments since this would also involve reproducing sizeable sections of PC; however, the basic point concerning the direction of copying can be made in another way through the pattern of variants revealed in extracts from the epilogue to Lacy's The Old Troop and Dryden's prologue to Aureng-Zebe which are quoted in both PC and PdT. Collation shows that both texts are derived from a lost intermediary which was in close though not complete agreement with PC against PdT. This rules out any chance that this section of PC could be derived from the printer's copy of PdT, and suggests that the intermediary is more likely to have been the hypothetical commonplace book or the MS of PC than any four-canto text, though the second possibility cannot be dismissed on textual grounds alone.

The only real clues to the authorship of the poem are the biographical details of the preface and the signature initials "T.W." following the author's epistle of PC—either or both of which may of course result from a conscious intention to deceive. Surprisingly, both seem to be relevant to the history of Thomas Ward, the author of the hudibrastic anti-protestant satire, England's Reformation (1719), who is known to have left England at roughly the time suggested as that of the poem's composition. In the life of Ward prefixed to An Interesting Controversy with Mr. Ritschel, Vicar of Hexham (1819), which appears to be based at an unknown degree of removal on a personal memoir, he is said to have been born on 13 April 1652, and to have returned to England in the thirty-fourth year of his age after at least "five or six years" abroad, a figure which may just be reconciled with a departure date in January 1680/1. However, other details of the case do not fit so well. To start with, it is hard to see how a man of twenty-eight could refer, as the author does in both epistles, to his "want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages humour." Nor is it easy to reconcile Ward's fervent Catholicism with a satiric allusion in PC to non-preaching bishops—a favorite topic of Puritan polemic—or with a reference to the Pope as "Rome's great Idol." Ward is said in the Life to have been a Catholic before his departure, and writes movingly in England's Reformation of his friendship with the Yorkshire anchorite Father Posket, executed in March 1679. The matter is further complicated by the appearance of the initials "T.W." together with the dateline "Rome, June 10. 79. Stilo Novo." on a broadsheet of 1679, A letter from Rome to a Friend in London in Relation to the Jesuits Executed, and those that are to be Executed in the Countryes, which is in fact an anti-Catholic tract vigorously supporting the executions. For this to have been the work of Ward we would have to assume that he had set out for Rome at least two years before the departure of the Poeta and then suffered a violent relapse into Puritanism. On the other hand, if the pamphlet, as is quite probable, was really the work of one of Shaftesbury's propagandists in London, there would have been excellent reasons for attaching the initials of a known Catholic exile. As the year 1679 is also within the stated date-range of Ward's departure, the existence of the broadsheet must count marginally against his being the author of PdT.

I can cast no further light on this mystery beyond proposing that if the story of the exiled poet is in fact a fabrication, the poem may have been the work of a younger (b. 1661) and Protestant "T.W." in the person of Thomas Wood, Anthony à Wood's nephew, later celebrated as a legal writer, poet, and controversialist and for his fondness for anonymous and pseudonymous publication. Two of Wood's poems, Juvenalis Redivivus (published anonymously in 1683) and an elegy on the death of Oldham (included with Dryden's lines in the Remains of 1684), are satires on the poets of a similar kind to PdT, while the second has a striking structural similarity to its opening canto. Neither PdT nor PC is included in Wood's list of his writings sent to his uncle in 1692 for inclusion in Athenae Oxonienses (Bodl. MS. Wood F.45, f.#229), nor do they appear in A Catalogue of Part of the Library of the Reverend Dr. Wood (London, 1723); however, neither omission need be significant. A third possibility is Thomas Walters, claimed by Anthony à Wood as the true author of William Bedloe's tragedy, The Excommunicated Prince (1679); but I have found nothing beyond the fact he was an author to connect him with PdT, nor any evidence that either he or Thomas Wood spent the years 1681-1682 otherwise than accumulating time for their degrees at Oxford.

Monash University

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

This facsimile of Poeta de Tristibus (1682) is reproduced from a copy (*PR3291/P795) in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library.

POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

OR, THE

Poet's Complaint.

A

POEM

In Four CANTO'S.

Ovid de Trist.

Parve, nec invideo, sine me Liber ibis in Urbem: Hei mihi! quò——

LONDON,

Printed for Henry Faitborne and John Kersey, at the Rose in St. Paul's Church-Yard. 1682.

The Publisher's Epistle to the

READER

Courteous Reader,

The following Poem was presented me about a year ago; and (as it appears by the Author's Epistle to me) was designed only for my Private Divertisement: But numerous Draughts being dispers'd abroad, by the Unworthiness of a Gentleman I Trusted it withal, I was more easily perswaded to Publish the Original, to prevent the Inconveniencies of a Surreptitious Copy, which, without my Allowance, was designed for the Press.

The Author being out of England, I would not venture to set his Name to it; nor have I presumed thus far, without extraordinary regret; not that I know any other Reason that enforces a concealment, besides that it was sent to me with such a Bond. I am sure no particular Person can pretend to any distaste; and Satyr on general Subjects was ever Allowable, Religion and Government only excepted.

But I must Confess, that in the Third Part of this Poem, there were some Capital Letters which began the Names of certain Poets of this Age, but them I have so altered, lest any Offence should be given, that by them I am sure no Discovery can be made. I will no longer detain you from your better Divertisement in the following Poem; which, if you have any good Nature, you cannot chuse but favour, especially if you carry along with you those several Circumstances which in the way will offer themselves to you in the Author's behalf.

Farewel.

The Author's Epistle.

SIR,

My Obedience to your desire so happily concentring with my Inclination to this Subject, has in less than a fortnight's space produc'd what here you see. To you I need not make any Apology for its Artless Habit, who very well know my want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages humour; nor can you reasonably expect any extraordinary strokes from one whose thoughts are divided between so many various Afflictions; since Ovid himself, when Condemn'd to Banishment, was forc'd to resign that Spirit of Poetry, which animated all his Works, besides that of his De Tristibus. Besides, I must desire your Patience to observe, that (the Verse I use being a kind of Doggrel) it is but Natural that now and then it should run harsh and rugged; nor do I believe I have done amiss by forcing my self sometimes to be so very plain and familiar. As for the Rhyme and Measure, though perhaps they may not always answer the strictest Law, yet I do not think it worth the while to make any excuse for that, being faults so inconsiderable, that they are seldom reflected on, but by the meanest sort of Criticks, who want judgment to discern the Intrigues of Humour and Invention, which are the Principal Ingredients of a Poem, and which I must needs confess are here extreamly deficient: For as this little Poem was written extempore, so it presumes to kiss your hand in its Native unpolish'd shape, not having the least thought or word of it Corrected; for to Morrow being the time we design to take Shipping, I had not so much leisure as to Transcribe it.

I must Confess, it seems unnatural, that one who pretends to the Title of a Poet, should endeavour, as I have done, to disparage his own Profession. However, the Poets of this Age, whom it most concerns, I hope will not take it unkindly of me, since doing thus, I only follow the Example they have given me; for in that short time of my Residence in London, among all the Poets I was in Company with, I heard little else besides their Complaints, and unmerciful damnings both of the Times and one another. Neither have I seen a Modern Play but either began or ended in the same Tune. Some few of which I have, for Example-sake, here presumed to quote.

In the Prologue to Aurenzebe.

The Clergy thrives, and the Litigious Bar,

Dull Heroes fatten by the Spoils of War.

All Southern Vices (Heav'n be prais'd) are here,

But Wit's a Luxury you count too dear.

In the Epilogue to the Libertine.

S Death! What a Devil would you have us do?}

Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue, }

Angling for single Money in a Shoe? }

In the Epilogue to Monsieur Rogooe.

I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,

Both by my empty Purse, and empty Brain.

I've other Reasons to confirm it too;

I've great, and self-conceits of all I do.

As for my Play, I Pawn'd it to some Cit,

At least six Months before my Play was writ.

But when the third day comes, away I run,

Knowing that then in sholes come all my Duns.

If these things make me not a proper Poet,

He that has better Title, let him shew it.

In the Prologue to Theodosius; Or the Force of Love.

On Poets only no kind Star e're smil'd,

Curst Fate has damn'd 'em every Mothers Child.

Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage

To write no more to an ingrateful Age.

Think what penurious Masters you have serv'd;

Tasso ran mad, and Noble Spencer starv'd.

Turn then, who e're thou art, that canst Write well,

Thy ink to Gall, and in Lampoons excell.

Forswear all Honesty, traduce the Great,

Grow Impudent, and rail against the State;

Bursting with Spleen, abroad thy Pasquils send,

And choose some Libel-spreader for thy Friend.

The Wit and Want of Timon point thy Mind,

And for thy Satyr-subject chuse Mankind.

In the Prologue to the Unhappy Favourite; or the Earl of Essex.

The Merchant, joyful with th' hopes of Gain,

Ventures his Life and Fortunes on the Main;

But the poor Poet oft'ner does expose

More than his Life, his Credit, for Applause.

In the Epilogue to the same Play.

Let those who call us Wicked, change their Sence,

For never Men liv'd more on Providence:

Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half so poor,

Nor broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore;

Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents

Of the three last ungiving Parliaments.

So Wretched, that if Pharaoh could Divine, }

He might have spar'd his Dream of seven lean Kine,}

And chang'd the Vision for the Muses Nine. }

And a little after.

'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,

For then the Printer's Press would suffer more:

Their Pamphleteers their Venom daily spit,

They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit.

Now I do not blame these Ingenuous Gentlemen for inveighing against the thing to which they owe their Ruin; nor were it to any purpose to endeavour to conceal a Truth so generally taken notice of: For who is Ignorant of this, that a Man, in all Professions, except that of Poetry, may with Honour advance a Livelihood? But that (though it may be sometimes found proper for the Divertisement of those few who have leisure to read it) was ever known to be most unprofitable to the Authors; for few or none have been Advanced by it, though many have been hindred by this Art of Versifying, from making their Fortune otherwise in the World. Yea, this Profession is grown so Vile and abject, that whereas others count it an Honour to be stiled Physicians, Barristers, or the like; these are offended with the very Name of Poet: And that with good Reason too, since Poetry only glories in Disguising the Truth; for which cause it begins to be Banished even from Theatres, to which alone it was Destinated; and Prose is now come in request, being prefer'd for its Gracefulness and Naturalness above it: By which means this Art is in danger to be confin'd to the Corners of Streets; to serve only for Songs and Ballads. Hence it was that Ovid was so severely Punished by his Father, to make him leave off this Art, which proved so unlucky to him, that he became of a Rich Roman Knight, a Miserable Exile among Barbarians. Hence Plato was pleased to Banish it out of his imaginary Common-Wealth. And Philip, the first Christian Emperour, denied them those Immunities which he granted to all others. Numerous Instances of this Nature offer themselves to my Pen, but I must take care not to stretch my Epistle too far, for fear you should Reflect on it, what was formerly said on Sir William D'avenant's Preface before his Gondibert,

A Preface to no Book, a Porch to no House,

Here is the Mountain, but where is the Mouse?

However, I must not neglect to desire this one Favour of you, that after you have taken the pains to peruse these undigested Lines, you would be pleased to bestow on them a Funeral Fire; or if you apprehend that Sentence to be too severe, I do most earnestly beg of you to keep them Secret to your self, without shewing them to your trustiest Friend, at least, with my Name to them. It were superfluous now to engage you not to convey them to the Censorious World through the Press, since that, and more was already by the precedent Caution imply'd; besides, the Opinion I have of your Candour, is better grounded, than to admit of any such Jealousie.

I will now only add my most hearty Thanks for all your Favours, particularly for the Piece of Gold I Received inclosed in your last Letter; and had some others of my Relations proved as kind to me as your self, or had I in my own Countrey met with encouragement any way sutable to my Endeavours, I had not in this Passion shaken hands with it. But now I am in hast to be gone, yet will for ever remain,

Dearest Cousin!

Your assured, Faithful Friend,

and most Humble Servant.

Dated at Dover the Tenth

day of January, 1680/1.

POETA DE TRISTIBUS:

OR, THE

Poet's Complaint.

A

POEM.

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.

The Second CANTO.

How often have I seen the Taylor,

The Shoe-maker, and Milliner,

And ev'ry Fop that sells his Ware,

O're this poor Creature domineer?

And I can't choose but let you know it,

How a curst Broker met a Poet,

Walking through Smithfield on a time,

O're whom he swagger'd thus in Rhime.

Is this your Wit! the Devil take it!

For without question he did make it.

The truest Wit is Honesty,

And to get Coyn your Debts to pay.

Wit is an Ass, when Money's slow;

Nay, 'tis that makes the Ass to go.

Why? I am but a mean Trades-man,

And yet do more than any Poet can.

I walk the Streets, yet fear no Dun,

Nor in their Debts, nor from 'em run.

Nor yet for fear of being found out,

Do walk half a mile about.

Altho' you're in White-Fryers lurking,

I've certain Ingeneers a working:

And, Sir, unless you quickly pay me,

Expect a Visit from a Baylie.

This Language less dismaid the Poet,

Having been long accustom'd to it:

Howe're, he thought it not amiss

To give him these fair promises.

Sweet Sir! I vow I'm mighty sorry

You've so long tarry'd for your Mony:

But should you my late Suff'rings hear,

Pity would force you to forbear.

Howe're, as soon as th' Term begin }

I shall recruit my self agen; }

For my Play will be ready then.}

Last Night the Lord—read what I'd made on't;

And should I tell you what he said on't,

'Twould be immodest in the Author;

But you'll hear more of it hereafter.

How'ere, to tell you as a Friend,

He did it mightily commend.

And 'twixt me and you, he said, }

He did not question to perswade }

The King, and Court, to see it Play'd.}

And if it takes, (which I don't fear)

'Tmay bring an hundred pounds, or near.

And for your great Civility,

Sir, you're the first I intend to pay.

When this Doggrel Speech was ended,}

The Poet, having lowly bended, }

Took his leave, by me attended. }

We had not walk'd past half so far

As 'twixt Fleet-Bridge and Temple-Bar,

Ere my sad Brother was so kind,

As thus to let me know his mind.

Oh, wretched Man! what shall I do!

Or whither had I best to go!

Job happy was, compar'd to me,

A Prince in th' midst of's misery.

Oh Heavens! since all his Griefs I know,

Why have I not his Patience too?

Hells self less Torment does contain

Than is lodg'd in a Poet's brain;

Howe're we may hereafter fare,

I'm sure we meet Damnation here.

I'd rather be a Dog; or Cat,

The thing which next my self I hate.

A Snake, an Adder, or a Toad:

To these once Egypt's Dotage bow'd.

But me, the wretched'st thing e'r Born,

Ev'n these by instinct loath and scorn.

Then sighing, Oh, my Play! he cry'd;

My Play both Houses have deny'd.

They tell me, that their Summer-store

Will all this Winter last, or more:

Besides, that mine won't please the Times,

Being Tragedy, and writ in Rhimes.

Oh, I am ruin'd utterly!

What shall I do! My Play! My Play!

There's no one knows what pains I took,

Ere I stretch'd it, to a Book.

Nine Months my Muse labour'd to bring

Forth this Abortive, hapless thing:

And suffer'd more than can be told

Of Summers heat, and Winters cold.

I've walk'd from Morning until Noon,

'Twixt Lyon-Fields and Kentish-Town;

Study'ng my self hungry and dry,

I envy'd th' Beggers on the way.

Then being forc'd to jogg it home

Empty as a vacuum:

I'd no way to appease my Hostess,

But vow my Play finish'd almost is;

Then reading what I'd made of't o're,

She'ld trust me for one shilling more.

But since she heard it was refus'd,

None can guess how I've been us'd.

'Bout Eight o'th'Clock on Thursday Morning,

(My Angel then giving me warning)

I had scarce lock'd my Door, but th' Baily

Knock'd, saying, he'd a Letter for me:

From first to last, he knock'd an hour,

Ere I could get him to give o're;

But when he saw it was in vain,

The Rogue went swearing back again.

But from that time to Sunday Morning,

I kept the Fort, for all their Storming.

Then without fear away I went;

Thanks to the King and Parlement.

And now it is five days compleat,

Since I had any thing to eat:

Nor know I where to get Relief,

No, not one Meal to save my Life.

I've not a Neighbour, or Relation,

But when they see me, quit their Station,

And from me, as a Plague, they go,

I wish my Creditors would do so!

The Dev'l a rag of Clothes has Jack

'Sides these you see upon my back;

And they're so torn, I'm taken still

For a walking Paper-Mill.

My Hat is like a Funnel grown,

To vent the Vapours of my Crown.

M' Eternal Peruque does appear

Golden, as Apollo's Hair.

And the Moss which hides my Face

Is thicker, and as long as his.

My Breeches like th' Ship Argo seem,

Which is, and yet is not the same;

For 'tis so patch'd, you cannot call

One shred of 't the Original.

As for my Cloak, 'tis well enough.

Only 'tis out of Fashion now.

But I'm content my Rags 't does hide,

For this is an ill time for Pride.

My Stockings are worse rent and torn,

Than ever Poverty was drawn:

And round about more Stars appear }

Than Ursa major has in th' Sphere, }

Or any Constellation there. }

My Shoes made of thin Spanish Leather,

Do sigh, and sob this Rainy Weather:

And in dumb Language of their own,

Pity mine, 'cause their Souls are gone.

As for my Linnen, let 't alone, }

It needs not a Description; }

As I'm a Poet, I have none. }

My lac'd Crevat lies in Shoe-Lane,

Pawn'd for Tripe, and Chitterlin,

With an honest Mother there,

One Mistress Smith, a Victualler.

My Shirt lies Morgag'd in a Celler,

About the middle of Long-Acre,

With a Shee-Cook, call'd Goody Dutton,

For Porrage, Beans, and Chops of Mutton.

Oh that I had a wooden Leg!

Or but one Arm, then might I beg!

I'd Steal or Cheat, did I know how,

'Tis better hang than perish so.

I could not hear this piteous moan

Unmov'd, nor let him sigh alone.

But when I'd all the Comfort gave,

He could from Friendly Advice receive;

I lent him six-pence, which was half

Of the small Stock I had my self.

Then after many thanks, and vows,

Unto White-Fryers straight he goes:

Where Bread and Cheese he said he'ld buy;

Or fill himself with Curds and Whey.

You see what Malice Fate has shown }

To this poor Wretch, who once was known}

To be the gayest Spark in Town. }

One who would play at six-pence gleek,

And go to Creswel's once a week:

Who Din'd at Locket's ev'ry day,

And sate in th' Boxes at a Play.

Envy it self cannot dispraise

His Poems, nor some of his Plays.

Three of which just Applause did bear

In the Royal Theatre.

Lords and Knights desired to be

Made happy in his Company;

And did with a due Rev'rence mark

Him, as he walk'd the Streets or Park.

But this did in a moment cease,

'Twas but a sudden, short-liv'd blaze,

Like that which is from Meteors sent,

Which end their Shine when th' Fuel's spent.

Running in Debt, and living High,}

And the hissing of his last Play,}

Did bring him to this Misery. }

May all the Sons of Helicon } }

Take heed, this Fate prove not their own!}

For I've a shrewd suspicion! }

I've seen the briskest of our Crew

Walk peny-less, and hungry too,

In Temple-walks, 'bout Dinner-time,

Digesting his crude thoughts int' Rhime;

Where, if he meets with a Sir-fool,

With empty Head, and Pockets full,

Up to him straight he'll make, and cry,

Where does your Worship Dine to day?

I was this Morning bid by two; }

But Faith I don't much care to go,}

I'd rather take a bit with you. }

Then, stretching, swears he is not right,

Since being plaguy drunk last Night.

And's Company, you needs must know,

My Lord—Sir John—and God knows who.

But tho' the Gallant he attacks,

Not the least Invitation makes:

He must, he says, out of esteem,

Not that he's Hungry, wait on him.

Then as soon as Dinner's ended,

And his last Work read and commended,

(Which without Vanity, he says,

Is th' best he writ, his Master-piece.)

He whisp ring in his Cully's ear,

Makes his Necessity appear:

Tells him of his last-nights expence,

And how he's not recruited since.

Then begs his Pard'n, he must away, }

To get a Ticket for th' new Play, }

Acted at the Duke's House to day. }

I've sev'ral Coffee-Houses known }

By these unhappy Guests undone, }

For People, now adays, are grown }

So wise, they first of all peep in, }

And if a Poet there is seen, }

They presently down stairs agen. }

For who a Devil cares to sit

To be drawn by a Poet's wit?

Sir Am'rous can't make a Relation

Of his last-nights Assignation.

The Sycophant can't exercise

His Art, for these quick-sighted Spies:

Nor Fopling comb his Wigg, but they

Make it a Humour for a Play.

The Cheat, the Pick-pocket, and Bully,

(Who're the best Guests, and spend most Money)

Flie the loath'd House where these appear,

As if the Constable were there.

But there are some of Honour yet, }

Who're great pretenders unto Wit, }

And that they m'seem t' encourage it, }

Will have a Poet at their tail;

And whom to know that you mayn't fail,

Has an old-fashion thread-bare Coat,

Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a groat.

If it be Summer, Freeze he'l wear; }

In th' Winter Stuff, and that so bare, }

His Lice can scarce find Harbour there.}

Perhaps, he wears a Sword by's side,

To 'ts Hilt one yard of Ribband ty'd.

In fine, by all he meets, he's t'ane

To be th' Epitome of Long-Lane.

And when their Lordships walk before

To th' Tavern, or to see a Whore,

He's caution'd not to come too nigh,

Lest he disgrace the Company:

But b'hind like one new fluxt does crawl,

And lets each Foot-boy take the Wall.

But when he comes to th' place design'd,

Their Lordships use to seem more kind.

There he may swagger, swear, and lie,

And do any thing—but pay.

Then after a sufficient stay,

Borrows a Crown, and so good-by'e.

The Third CANTO.

I'd e'en forgot to let you know

The Club w' once kept in Channel-row;

Where A. & B. C. D. & I,

Were th' elements o' th' Company:

But all which past there was so common,

'Tis scarce worth th' pains of a Relation,

How they kept a hideous pother,

Damning the Times, and one another.

Who most Glasses did destroy,

Or with most Courage beat the Boy.

How such-a-one commends a Whore,

Which t'other prizes Sack before.

Or who so neatly div'd away,

Ere he his Reckoning did pay.

Humours so trite as these, are known

To ev'ry Tapster in the Town.

But e're they so unruly grew,

Thus each ones Character I drew.

A. as 'tis first in th' Alphabet,

So here he took the highest seat.

As one whose Fortune, Birth, and Wit,

Indeed did truly merit it.

And here he neither struts nor swaggers,

As I have known some Kings o' th' Beggers.

But that convenient distance gave,

Which else they'ld take without his leave.

But him let all with Rev'rence name

The Darling, and the Pride of Fame:

Who's so all over wrapt in Bays,

There's nothing to be seen but's Praise.

He's one t' whom each Officious Muse

Were of their Favours so profuse,

That they have brought themselves to be

Fed by his Mercy now; and we,

The little Infants of the Art, }

Do as severely feel the smart, }

Deny'd a Younger Brothers part. }

Nay, all our stocks won't mount t' a sum

To pay him an Encomium.

He's one whose Works, in times to come,

Will be as Honour'd, and become

Deathless as Ben's or Cowley's are, }

As Beaumont, Fletcher, or Shakespear, }

One he himself is pleas'd t' admire. }

Nor could these Laureats living, be

Better prefer'd, or lov'd than he.

What could the Muses more have done,

Or Apollo for a Son?

Yet still he discontented is,

And snarles at all the happiness

The Richest Poetry can bring,

And wounds it too with its own Sting.

But who can blame that Active Soul,

Which in a larger Sphere would roul?

Whose Wit and Learning does deserve

More than that narrow Art can give.

Next unto A.B. took his place,

Or Sir Fopling, if you please.

I mean that Famous Limner, who

So exactly his own Picture drew.

Bless me! how neat a Wigg he has!

What a rich Watch and Pocket-Glass!

What a gay Suit trim'd all about!

Made by a French-man without doubt.

His Ruffles and Cravat's all Lace,

Poynt a Venice he says it is.

To what advantage does he wear

His Rings? How stuft with Stones they are?

One having this Inscription,

My Plow is all my Portion.

For you must know he's kept by a Miss,

A French one too, I've heard she is;

Whose Favours tho' he strives to shew,

Her scars he has, I assure you too.

Here I must his Description end,

For fear he should a Challenge send.

Tho' he had better stay at home,

To Hector Foot-boy, or a Groom.

On th' other side Heroick C.

Did seat himself most formally.

Whose Clothes now did not seem so bad,

Because he lately vampt 'em had.

His Hat new dress'd, darn'd were his Hose,

And neatly underlay'd his Shoes.

His Lac'd Cravats again appear, }

And his kind Laundress lets him wear}

His Ruffles, and an Hankercher. }

And now he seems to be a made Man,

Since he an Int'rest got in Cadem—

Who now-and-then does not refuse

A Crown, t' encourage a slow Muse,

A Dish of Coffee, or Bochet,

Or on a Sunday a Meals-meat.

And 'tis most Charitably done,

T' encourage such a wretched one,

Without hopes of a Recompence,

At least 'till two or three years hence,

About which time his Play, we guess,

Will be ready for the Press.

He's one who much of Oxford talks,

Its stately Structures, Air, and Walks:

Who, in his time, were Proctors there; }

How often he was caught, and where, }

Or with what craft he 'scap'd the snare.}

But if you speak one word of's Chumb,

The man immediately grows dumb.

Then who sat next, if you would know it,

'Twas D. the brisk lack-latine Poet;

Who'll talk of Virgil and Horatius,

Homer, Ovid, and Lucretius.

And by the help of I know who,

Sometimes presumes to quote 'em too.

He's the fam'd Comedian of the Town,}

Who near a dozen Plays does own, }

Tho' I dare swear he ne'r writ one: }

But he has good Acquaintance, thô,

I am inform'd, a Lord or two,

To whom he brings the lump; and they

Club to mould it to a Play.

And if my Author tells me right,

Epistles too themselves they write.

May they continue to do so, }

Or else poor D. to th' Goal must go,}

Angling for single Money in a Shoe. }

Lastly, I must my self explain,

One of the same unhappy Train:

Who neither Wit or Learning boast,

For both are in a Poet lost.

Scatter'd to nought in his Carreer,

Through Airy Roads, he knows not where.

Neither do I hope to find

One grain of Fortune left behind.

For all I grasp'd which pleas'd me here,

Whether they Wealth, or Honours were,

As soon they were snatch'd back again,

And swallow'd in this Hurricane.

But, Sir, I need not op'e to you }

These Ulcers of my Fate anew, }

You've seen so oft, and pitty'd too.}

I'll therefore only blame the Cause

Which did such Miseries produce:

And then for ever bid good-by'e

To that starv'd Hag of Poetry.

The Fourth CANTO.

Phœbus! art thou the God of Wit,

Yet takest no more care of it?

Because thou art invok'd by us,

Must we be damn'd and tortur'd thus?

And art resolv'd, lean Poverty

Shall still thy Badge and Liv'ry be?

As well, let Paper-Mills, and all

The lousie Tribe of Begger's Hall,

With the ragged Gipsie-Crue,

Be Dedicated to thee too!

All the Muses ask thee why

Thou 'dopt'st 'em to such Slavery!

And suffer'st ev'ry Fop in Town, }

For to insult and trample on }

These rad'ent Di'dems of thy Crown! }

Sure thou want'st Pow'r to Rule below;

For 'tis not Policy to do so.

No! Kings their Greatness do secure

By their Subjects Wealth and Pow'r.

Nay, th' Gods may lose their Deities,

If their Religious Votaries

Do so Poor and Needy grow,

That they want Victims to bestow.

But Wit will above all things cease,

Deny'd the helps of Wealth and Ease.

It must be cherish'd and kept warm;

Which, like the Halcyon, hates a Storm.

But since I find I am us'd so,

And treated worse than Turk or Jew:

Since the Tinker and his Trull

Strut it with their Bellies full:

Since the Cobler and the Sweep-Chimney

Live happier and more safe than me,

I'll quit thy Service, great Apollo,

And some new Vocation follow:

And tear thy Idea's from my Brain,

With thy starv'd, wretched Female Train.

But must I from thy Service go

Naked, in mid'st of Winter too?

Did I for this a year, or more,

Thy Airy, empty Shrine adore?

Are thus my Cares and Watchings pay'd?

The thousand Vows and Pray'rs I made?

The Lights which on thy Altar shone,

When thou wert forc'd to hide thy own?

Think how ost thou hast me espy'd

Walking by such a Rivers side!

When I saw thy shining Beam

Gild the smooth Surface of the Stream,

Thou know'st I did thy Image greet,

And sang a thousand Hymns to it.

But since I find I am thus serv'd,

Rent and torn, and almost starv'd,

Yet would'st thou have me longer stay

To expect a fairer Day?

Should I be couzen'd to do so,

And again my Vows renew,

My Case would never better'd be }

Under thy Conduct, no, tho' I }

Should share in th' Immortality.}

Loath'd Muse! Hag of my rest, be gone!

Who'rt Scandalous as Av'rice grown:

Common as any Whetstone-Whore,

Where Poets learn their Stage-Amour.

Go jilt among thy Vot'ries there,

And clap 'em with Poetick fire!

Flie to some Rhymer of the Town,

By his lean, hungry Visage known!

That Renegado, whifling Blade,

Who's not himself but when he's Mad!

But 'tis not all thy Syren-charms

Can again tempt me to thy Arms:

For I too well thy Couz'nage know,

Thy hollow Heart, and painted Brow.

How first thou to my Brain did'st creep,

And whil'st my Sense was lock'd in sleep,

Thou did'st before my Fancy's Eye

A thousand gaudy Fantasms lay.

Then thorow false Perspectives show

Groves, where gilded Lawrels grow.

And ev'ry Tree's Ambrosiack Root

With Arms of Nectar clasp'd about,

In whose bright Streams I did espie

Nine Naked Airy Ladies play:

Some swimming on their Backs were seen,

Who rise aloft, then dive agen;

Whilst others yet more Am'rous grew,}

And seem'd not only to bestow }

Brimmers, but gave Embraces too. }

And th' little Mansions where they dwell,}

Were some of Gold, and some of Pearl, }

Tyl'd and Pav'd with Tortoise-shell. }

A hundred things as vain as these,

Did once my partial Fancy please:

But when I look'd about to know

Whether they real were, or no;

I apprehended the mistake,

As Dreams of Pleasures when we 'wake.

For when the crafty Muses thought

They'd me for a Disciple got;

They took the painted Scene away;

Lay'd down their Smiles and Flattery,

And now in their own Shapes appear

Rough, and Ghastly, as they are.

Wherefore once more, Ladies adieu!

Farewel to England, and to you.

For I'm resolv'd; and now ev'n Gain

Shan't draw me to yee back again.

Tho' Juno should assure me more,

Than she did Paris heretofore:

Or Venus too at the same time;

I would not give 'em thanks in Rhyme.

No, tho' should all of you agree

To give your Helicon to me.

Tho' those dear Bays I once did woo, }

Should strive to cling about my Brow;}

Nay, thô they were gilded too. }

I'ld thence those fruitless Branches tear,

And throw 'em with my Muse in th' fire.

So what she so long courted, shall

At last adorn her Funeral.

Here I would end, be'ng much in hast,

And tyr'd with scribbling so fast:

Howe're a word or two I'll add,

Lest you infer from what I've said,

That Poverty's the only cause

Which makes me thus desert my Muse.

Thus far, indeed, the cause 't'as bin,

As 'tis th' effect of such a sin.

For who 'n that Art can hope to thrive,

Which does such wicked Licence give?

Whose first Founders Pagans were,

Groping for Truth they knew not where?

And shall we Christians Sacrifice

To their Fantastick Deities?

No, were I Rich 'nough to set up,

I would not keep a Poet's Shop;

Nor Traffick in such dang'rous Ware,

They sell so cheap, and buy so dear.

I'ld not pick up each Whore I meet, }

Give her a Guynie and a Treat; }

Nor maintain Pimps nor Bawds for wit. }

No, I'ld not give one brass Half-crown

For all the Bawdry in the Town:

For all th' Intrigues your Whetstone-Bawd,

More-Fields, or Tower-Hill afford.

To see Miss Betty ev'ry day,

Dance Naked, or the Tumbler play.

How well upon her Head she stood,

Or with what Art she us'd the Rod.

Or how she was unrig'd and kick'd,

When Sir John found his Pockets pick'd.

I have not been at Newgate yet,

To learn the Lifter, or the Cheat.

But such lewd Learning let alone

To the brisk Poets of the Town.

FINIS.

PRESS VARIANTS

AND

NOTES

PRESS VARIANTS

Copies collated: Clark (CLC); Trinity College, Cambridge, H. 6. 93^9 (CT1) and H. 10. 28^6 (CT2); British Museum (L); Folger (WF1); Folger/Luttrell (WF2).

Sheet B—Outer Forme.

Uncorrected: CT1, CT2, L, WF1.

Corrected: CLC, WF2.

B4v, 0x2113 7. Paragraph indentation supplied.

Sheet B—Inner Forme.

Uncorrected: CLC, CT1, WF1.

Corrected: CT2, L, WF2.

B4r, 0x2113 1. Chymsts] Chymists

Sheet C—Inner Forme.

Uncorrected: CT1, CT2, CLC

Corrected: L, WF1, WF2.

C3v, 0x2113 15. Peruque] Perruque

C4r, 0x2113 13. Crevat] Cravat

NOTES

These notes are of necessity selective and are chiefly concerned with the identification of persons. No attempt has been made to indicate the complex textual relationships of the two versions. Where detailed evidence for identifications is not given, the reader is referred to the article mentioned above.

Title-page. Parve ... quò-. Ovid, Tristia, I, i, 1-2.

A2v-A3v. The authors of the extracts are Dryden, Shadwell, Lacy, Lee, and Banks. The Banks extract is unlikely to have been in print for more than a few weeks at the time PdT was published. The corresponding list in PC is called "Quotations" and contains twenty-three passages of which only two reappear in PdT.

A4r: 15-16. Philip, the first Christian Emperour. Marcus Julius Philipus, c. 204-249.

P. 2: 21-22. Yet ... Liberty. The press regained its liberty through the expiry of the Licensing Act in 1679. This passage does not occur in PC and may be one of the "Ingenious Person's" additions to PdT.

P. 3: 28. Cris-cros-row. I.e., Christ-cross-row. The alphabet with a cross before it as represented in horn books.

P. 4: 4. Honourable stabs. Perhaps a reference to the attack on Dryden in Rose Alley on 16 December 1679, which was popularly attributed to various honorable persons satirized in Mulgrave's An Essay upon Satyr.

P. 4: 9-10. Tho' ... Bays. Cf. John Aubrey on the funeral of Samuel Butler on 27 September 1680:

About 25 of his old acquaintance at his Funerall. I myself being one of the eldest, helped to carry the Pall. His coffin covered with black Bayes. (Brief Lives, ed. O. L. Dick [London, 1958], p. 47.)

P. 6: 7. As Tonnellers catch Partridge. A tunnel was a kind of net used by bird-catchers.

P. 6: 21-22. As ... go. Cf. Donne's "A Lame Begger," The Satires, Epigrams and Verse Letters, ed. W. Milgate (Oxford, 1969), p. 51.

P. 6: 27. BARBARA. The opening word of a mnemonic used in expressing the moods of the syllogism.

P. 7: 21. Lab'ring Muses. PC has "tab'ring" (i.e., playing on tabors), a fairly clear case of lectio difficilior.

P. 10: 6. How a curst Broker met a Poet. The earlier part of the description seems to be hinting at the distresses of John Banks, who was reduced to poverty after two of his plays met censorship trouble; however, the closing section on pp. 16-17 is clearly meant to refer to Wycherley. It is possible that this is another of the "Ingenious Person's" additions. Indeed it would have to be as Wycherley's troubles did not begin until after the date given for the departure of the Poeta.

P. 10: 21. White-Fryers. The sanctuary area on the city side of the Temple: Shadwell's Alsatia.

P. 12: 1-2. half ... Temple-Bar. I.e., Whitefriars.

P. 12: 26. Being Tragedy, and writ in Rhimes. Dryden abandoned rhyme with All for Love (1677). Cf. Elkanah Settle's complaint in the preface to Ibrahim (licensed 4 May 1676): "Another misfortune the Play had, that it was written in Rhime, a way of writing very much out of Fashion...."

P. 16: 9. Where Bread and Cheese he said he'ld buy. This detail has some resemblance to a circumstance in Shiels and Cibber's account of the death of Otway, which may derive from a mistaken belief that he was the subject of the passage. See R. G. Ham, Otway and Lee (New Haven, 1931), p. 214.

P. 16: 14. One who would play at six-pence gleek. The index of extravagance at gleek seems to have advanced alarmingly in the course of the seventeenth century. Jonson in The Devil is an Ass (V, ii, 31) specifies three-pence; however, Shadwell in 1680 was already foreseeing a shilling (Works, ed. M. Summers, IV, 60).

P. 16: 15. Creswel's. The famous bawdy house, finally closed down in 1681.

P. 16: 16. Locket's. An ordinary at Charing-Cross mentioned in many Restoration comedies.

P. 16: 21. the Royal Theatre. Presumably the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, although the term could equally well be meant for the theatre at Whitehall.

P. 17: 7. the briskest of our Crew. Probably Dryden, although the description has some problematical features. The fact that the poet is a rhymer and connected with the Duke's house rules out most other possibilities.

P. 19: 1. Will have a Poet at their tail. Possibly Otway. In PC (pp. 2-3), a shorter version of the description is combined with lines from the "Dryden" portrait—the one piece of evidence for the truncation theory:

Then there are mighty Peers o' th' Realm,

Whose conduct helps to steer the Helm:

They're great pretenders unto Wit.

And that they may seem to incourage it

They'll have a Poet at their Tail:

And that to know him they mayn't fail,

He has an old fashion thread-bare Coat,

Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a Groat;

One points and cries, there goes Long-lane,

Another cries, he's Long-and-Lean.

For like one newly fluxt he'l crawl,

And lets the Foot-Boys take the Wall.

But when to th' Tavern they do go,

Their Honours will more freedom show;

There they may Swagger Swear and Lye,

And doe any thing, but Pay:

Damn ye, I din'd with such a Lord to Day,

And such a Lord did like my Play:

And without Vanity it is

The best I writ, my Master-piece.

P. 20: 2. Channel-row. The scene of this canto is Arthur Prior's Rhenish house in Channel-row near Whitehall.

P. 20: 19. A. as 'tis first in th' Alphabet. In view of his exalted station, wealth, and Whiggish company, it is probably safe to identify "A" with Charles Sackville, Sixth Earl of Dorset, who is known as a habitué of Prior's wineshop through the stories of his encouragement of the owner's nephew Matthew. However, most details would apply equally well—in his own mind at least—to another prominent patron of the day, John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave. In this connection, it is interesting to note that Mulgrave's account at Child's bank records a payment of £20/—/—made on 14 May 1683 to a Thomas Wood. The name was, naturally, a common one.

P. 21: 28. And wounds it too with its own Sting. Presumably a reference to Dorset's "On Mr. Edward Howard upon his British Princes" or Mulgrave's "An Essay upon Satyr." Both poems may be found in the first volume of the Yale Poems on Affairs of State series (ed. George deForrest Lord [New Haven, 1963]).

P. 22: 3. Next unto A. B. took his place. Sir George Etherege. The opening lines anticipate Dean Lockier's comment recorded by Spence that "he was exactly his own Sir Fopling Flutter" which may on the other hand be derived from it. See Joseph Spence, Observations, Anecdotes, and Characters of Books and Men, ed. James M. Osborn (Oxford, 1966), p. 281.

P. 22: 17. For you must know he's kept by a Miss. Frederick Bracher has pointed out in a letter that Etherege was closely connected at this time with the circle of the Duchesse de Mazarin. See James Thorpe's note on "A Song on Basset," The Poems of Sir George Etherege (Princeton, 1963), pp. 85-87.

P. 22: 25. Heroick C. Elkanah Settle.

P. 23: 7. Cadem——. William Cademan, Settle's principal publisher.

P. 23: 23. But if you speak one word of's Chumb. Probably William Buller Fyfe, an Oxford friend who had assisted Settle with his first play, Cambyses. Fyfe was dead by the time the play reached the stage and Settle was criticized for bringing it out under his own name only.

P. 23: 26. D. the brisk lack-latine Poet. Thomas Shadwell. The accusation that he knew no Latin was repeated by Dryden in The Vindication of the Duke of Guise (1683) and is denied with characteristic stridency by Shadwell in The Tenth Satyr of Juvenal (1687). The accusation that his plays were partly written by others is made by Dryden in Mac Flecknoe ("But let no alien Sedley interpose") and is present by implication in Rochester's reference in "Timon" to "Shadwell's unassisted former Scenes...." Shadwell began his career as the collaborator of the aged Duke of Newcastle and acknowledges Sedley's help in his best comedy, A True Widow (1678). He was on good terms with Rochester, Dorset, and Buckingham and addressed dedications to the two last. The references to Horace and Lucretius allude to the preface to The Humorists and the opening scene of The Virtuoso, respectively.

P. 24: 14. Angling for single Money in a Shoe. This line from the Epilogue to The Libertine (1676) is quoted in context in the Author's Epistle. It also appears on the title-page of PC.

P. 27: 14. Whetstone-Whore. A reference to Whetstone Park, a street at the North end of Lincoln's Inn Fields. The name was subsequently changed to Whetstone St., but has since reverted, perhaps under the liberalizing influences of its principal present-day occupants, The New Statesman and the Olivetti typewriter company.

P. 30: 12-17. To ... pick'd. The reference is apparently to one of the "posture artists" of Moorfields, another brothel district; however, there may also be an allusion intended to an incident in the Duke's playhouse on 23 June 1679, when John Churchill, the future Duke of Marlborough, attempted to cane Betty Mackerell, an orange girl, and was thrashed in his turn by Thomas Otway. See Ham, Otway and Lee, pp. 112-115.

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1949-1950

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious spelling and typos corrected in the prose. Poetry lines corrected to image

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Table of Contents

POETA DE TRISTIBUS: OR, THE Poet's Complaint

List of Contents (created by transcriber)

INTRODUCTION

The Publisher's Epistle to the READER

The Author's Epistle.

The First CANTO.

The Second CANTO.

The Third CANTO.

The Fourth CANTO.

PRESS VARIANTS

NOTES

REGULAR PUBLICATIONS FOR 1970-1971

SPECIAL PUBLICATION FOR 1969-1970-1971

The Augustan Reprint Society

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