* * * * *

MAC FLECKNOE.[139]

  All human things are subject to decay,
  And when fate summons, monarchs must obey. 
  This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
  Was call’d to empire, and had govern’d long;
  In prose and verse, was own’d, without dispute,
  Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. 
  This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
  And blest with issue of a large increase;
  Worn out with business, did at length debate
  To settle the succession of the state:  10
  And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
  To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
  Cried, ’Tis resolved; for nature pleads, that he
  Should only rule, who most resembles me. 
  Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
  Mature in dulness from his tender years: 
  Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
  Who stands confirm’d in full stupidity. 
  The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
  But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 20
  Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
  Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
  But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray,
  His rising fogs prevail upon the day. 
  Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
  And seems design’d for thoughtless majesty: 
  Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
  And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
  Heywood and Shirley[140] were but types of thee,
  Thou last great prophet of tautology. 30
  Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
  Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
  And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came
  To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
  My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
  When to king John of Portugal I sung,
  Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
  When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
  With well-timed oars before the royal barge,
  Swell’d with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40
  And big with hymn, commander of an host,
  The like was ne’er in Epsom blankets toss’d. 
  Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
  The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 
  At thy well-sharpen’d thumb, from shore to shore
  The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar: 
  Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,
  And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall. 
  About thy boat the little fishes throng,
  As at the morning toast that floats along. 50
  Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
  Thou wield’st thy papers in thy threshing hand. 
  St Andre’s[141] feet ne’er kept more equal time,
  Not even the feet of thy own Psyche’s[142] rhyme: 
  Though they in number as in sense excel;
  So just, so like tautology, they fell,
  That, pale with envy, Singleton[143] forswore
  The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
  And vow’d he ne’er would act Villerius more.