Poems on Several Occasions, an edition of Rochester’s works (that included many poems not by him) whose title page says that it was printed in Antwerp, but that was almost certainly not; the printers, who are not named on the title page, were trying to disguise their identities. It was digitized by the Text Creation Partnership, and forms the basis of the text we print here. But it is always worth remembering that Rochester’s texts are particularly tricky, because the poems only circulated in manuscript versions, and there’s a great deal of variation between them. The 1680 printed text leaves many blanks in the space of the proper names of the poets to whom Rochester is referring, perhaps as a way of avoiding getting into trouble with some of the authors named here, who were all still around and active. Whether it was intentional or not, this also has the effect of turning the poem into a kind of game or puzzle, as the reader has to figure out the identities of the writers to whom Rochester is referring. Some of the manuscript versions do the same thing; others fill the names in, so it is hard to know exactly what Rochester’s original intentions were. Where the authors can reliably be identified, we do so in the pop-up annotations.
The 10th Satyr of the 1st. Book.
Nempe incomposito Dixi pede, &c
D— Rhimes,
Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times:
Patron, is there found of his,
So blindly partial, to deny me this?
Plays, embroider’d up, and down,
Wit, and Learning, justly pleas’d the Town,
Paper, I as freely own.
Mass,
Volumns, must not pass:
Rule, I might as well admit,
Scenes, for Poetry, and Wit.
Audience:
Fools, assembled a vast Crowd,
Play-house, crack with the dull load;
Talent, merits in some sort,
Rabble, and the Court.
S—, never cou’d attain,
O—, labours at in vain.
But within due proportions circumscribe
Style may rise, yet in its rise forbear,
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
Rethorick, with your Poetry unite:
Elegance sake, sometimes allay the force
Epithets, ’twill soften the discourse;
A jeast in scorn, points out, and hits the thing.
Moros Satyrs sting.
Johnson, did herein excell,
E—, coppy’s not at all,
Original.
Drudge, in swift Pindarick strains,
F—, who C— imitates with pains,
Muse, whipt with loose Rains.
Lee , makes temp’rate Scipio, fret, and rave
Hannibal, a whining Amorous Slave,
Fustian Fool,
B— hands, to be well lasht at School.
Modern Wits none seems to me,
Comedy,
Shadwel , and slow Wicherley
Nature, none of Art;
With just bold strokes he dashes here, and there,
Mastery, with little Care;
Fools, and Women, praise’em more.
Wicherley, earnes hard, what e’re he gains,
He frequently excells, and at the least,
Makes fewer faults, than any of the best.
Bays design’d,
Panegyricks , does excell Mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,
Conquerors, or to flatter Kings.
Satyrs, I wou’d Buckhurst choose,
Man, with the worst natur’d Muse.
Songs, and Verses, mannerly, obscene,
Nature up, by spring unseen,
Queen.
Sidley, as that prevailing, gentle Art,
That can with a resistless Charm impart,
The loosest wishes, to the chastest heart.
Fire,
Vertue, and Desire;
Maid dissolves away,
Dreams all Night, in Sighs, and Tears, all day.
Blade, thought fit,
C—t,
Ladies, a dry Bawdy bob,
Poet Squab.
Excellencies more than faults abound,
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear,
Lawrel, which he best deserves to wear,
D—, find ev’n Johnson dull?
Fletcher and Beaumont, uncorrect, and full,
Lines, as he calls ’em? Shake-spears stile
Allowing all the justness that his Pride,
And may not I, have leave impartially,
D— Works, and try,
Pen does commit,
Proceed from want of Judgment, or of Wit?
Or of his lumpish fancy, does refuse,
Muse?
Morning writ,
Poet, than a Wit:
Authors, have been seen before
Mustapha, the English Princess, Forty more,
Test,
thrice at least;
Phrase, examine ev’ry Line,
Word, and ev’ry Thought refine;
Rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain mistaken thing,
Works might make a Play-house ring.
With the unthinking Laughter, and poor praise,
Fops, and Ladies, Factious for thy Plays?
Friend to learn thy doom,
drawing Room.
Ambition on that idle score,
Betty M—, heretofore,
Court Lady, call’d her B—, Whore;
Man of Wit, am proud on’t too,
Coxcombs, dance to Bed to you.
Knight,
Who squints more in his Judgment, than his sight,
Picks silly faults, and censures what I write?
Poets of the Town
For Scraps, and Coach-room cry my Verses down?
Rabble, ’tis enough for me,
If S—, S—, S—, W—,
G—, B—, B—, B—,
And some few more, whom I omit to name,
Fame.