  Ben Jonson, like most celebrated wits, was very unfortunate in conciliating the affections of his brother writers. He certainly possessed a great share of arrogance, and was desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre. That he was not always successful in his theatrical compositions is evident from his abusing, in their title-page, the actors and the public. In this he has been imitated by Fielding. I have collected the following three satiric odes, written when the reception of his "New Inn, or The Light Heart," warmly exasperated the irritable disposition of our poet. He printed the title in the following manner:— "The New Inn, or The Light Heart; a Comedy never acted, but most negligently played by some, the King's servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King's subjects, 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the readers, his Majesty's servants and subjects, to be judged, 1631." At the end of this play he published the following Ode, in which he threatens to quit the stage for ever; and turn at once a Horace, an Anacreon, and a Pindar. "The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, begat this following Ode to himself:— Come, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age; Where pride and impudence (in faction knit,) Usurp the chair of wit; Inditing and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vaine Commission of braine Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn; They were not made for thee,—less thou for them. Say that thou pour'st them wheat, And they will acorns eat; 'Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste On such as have no taste! To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, Whose appetites are dead! No, give them graines their fill, Husks, draff, to drink and swill. If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not their palate with the swine. No doubt some mouldy tale Like Pericles, As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish— Scraps, out of every dish Thrown forth, and rak't into the common-tub, May keep up the play-club: There sweepings do as well As the best order'd meale, For who the relish of these guests will fit, Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit. And much good do't you then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes, Dare quit, upon your oathes, The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers), Of larding your large ears With their foul comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks: Which if they're torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough The gamesters share your gilt and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take the AlcÆick lute, Warm thee by Pindar's fire; And, tho' thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat; As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy King, His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men, They may blood-shaken then, Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, As they shall cry 'like ours, In sound of peace, or wars, No harp ere hit the stars, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet raign, And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his wain.'" This Magisterial Ode, as Langbaine calls it, was answered by Owen Feltham, author of the admirable "Resolves," who has written with great satiric acerbity the retort courteous. His character of this poet should be attended to:— AN ANSWER TO THE ODE, COME LEAVE THE LOATHED STAGE, &C.Come leave this sawcy way Of baiting those that pay Dear for the sight of your declining wit: 'Tis known it is not fit That a sale poet, just contempt once thrown, Should cry up thus his own. I wonder by what dower, Or patent, you had power From all to rape a judgment. Let't suffice, Had you been modest, y'ad been granted wise. 'Tis known you can do well, And that you do excell As a translator; but when things require A genius, and fire, Not kindled heretofore by other pains, As oft y'ave wanted brains And art to strike the white, As you have levell'd right: Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal, You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall. Jug, Pierce, Peek, Fly, Your jests so nominal, Are things so far beneath an able brain, As they do throw a stain Thro' all th' unlikely plot, and do displease As deep as Pericles. Where yet there is not laid Before a chamber-maid Discourse so weigh'd, For schools, when they of love and valour told. Why rage, then? when the show Should judgment be, and know- ledge, there are plush who scorn to drudge For stages, yet can judge Not only poet's looser lines, but wits, And all their perquisits; A gift as rich as high Is noble poesie: Yet, tho' in sport it be for Kings to play, 'Tis next mechanicks' when it works for pay. AlcÆus lute had none, Nor loose Anacreon E'er taught so bold assuming of the bays When they deserv'd no praise. To rail men into approbation Is new to your's alone: And prospers not: for known, Fame is as coy, as you Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove A rape on her shall gather scorn—not love. Leave then this humour vain, And this more humourous strain, Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood, Eclipse what else is good: Then, if you please those raptures high to touch, Whereof you boast so much: And but forbear your crown Till the world puts it on: No doubt, from all you may amazement draw, Since braver theme no Phoebus ever saw. To console dejected Ben for this just reprimand, Randolph, of the adopted poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him with all that warmth of grateful affection which a man of genius should have felt on the occasion. AN ANSWER TO MR. BEN JONSON'S ODE, TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE.I. Ben, do not leave the stage Cause 'tis a loathsome age; For pride and impudence will grow too bold, When they shall hear it told They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause; Their hiss is thy applause: More just were thy disdain, Had they approved thy vein: So thou for them, and they for thee were born; They to incense, and thou as much to scorn. II. Wilt thou engross thy store Of wheat, and pour no more, Because their bacon-brains had such a taste As more delight in mast: No! set them forth a board of dainties, full As thy best muse can cull Whilst they the while do pine And thirst, midst all their wine. What greater plague can hell itself devise, Than to be willing thus to tantalise? III. Thou canst not find them stuff, That will be bad enough To please their palates: let 'em them refuse, For some Pye-corner muse; She is too fair an hostess, 'twere a sin For them to like thine Inn: 'Twas made to entertain Guests of a nobler strain; Yet, if they will have any of the store, Give them some scraps, and send them from thy dore. IV. And let those things in plush Till they be taught to blush, Like what they will, and more contented be With what Broome I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains Write not to cloaths, but brains: 'Cause moles will have no eyes; This only in my Ben I faulty find, He's angry they'll not see him that are blind. V. Why shou'd the scene be mute 'Cause thou canst touch the lute And string thy Horace! Let each Muse of nine Claim thee, and say, th'art mine. 'Twere fond, to let all other flames expire, To sit by Pindar's fire: For by so strange neglect I should myself suspect Thy palsie were as well thy brain's disease, If they could shake thy muse which way they please. VI. And tho' thou well canst sing The glories of thy King, And on the wings of verse his chariot bear To heaven, and fix it there; Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise To please him, as to praise. I would not have thee chuse Only a treble muse; But have this envious, ignorant age to know, Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low. |
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