Poeta de Tristibus; Or, The Poet's Complaint

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.

POEM.

Clyx.com