A Prologue to Satyr

To that prodigious height of vice we're grown, Both in the court, the theatre, and town, That 'tis of late believ'd, nay fix'd a rule, Whoever is not vicious, is a fool: Hiss'd at by old and young, despis'd, opprest, If he be not a villain like the rest. Virtue and Truth are lost: search for good men, Among ten thousand you will scarce find ten. Half wits, conceited coxcombs, cowards, braves. Base flatterers, and the endless fry of knaves, Pops, fools, and pimps, we every where may find; And not to meet them is to shun mankind. The other sex too, whom we all adore, When search'd, we still find rotten at the core, An old dry bawd, or a young juicy whore: Their love all false, their virtue but a name, And nothing in them constant but their shame. What satyrist then that's honest can sit still, And unconcern'd see such tide of ill With an impetuous force o'erflow the age, And not strive to restrain it with his rage; On Sin's vast army seize, wing, rear, and van, And, like impartial Death, not spare a man? For where, alas! where is that mighty he, That is from pride, deceit, and envy free, Or rather is not tainted with all three? Mankind is criminal, their acts, their thoughts; 'Tis charity to tell them of their faults, And shew their failings in a faithful glass: For who won't mend who sees himself an ass? And this design 'tis that employs my Muse, That for her daily theme she 's proud to chuse, A theme that she 'll have daily need to use. Let other poets flatter, fawn, and write, To get some guineas and a dinner by 't: Such mercenary wretches, should they starve, They meet a kinder fate than they deserve. But she could ne'er cringe to a lord for meat, Or praise a prosperous villain, though he's great: Quite contrary her practice shall appear, Unbrib'd, impartial, pointed, and severe: That way my nature leads, compos'd of gall, I must write sharply, or not write at all.

Though Thyrsis wings the air in towering slights, And to a wonder panegyrick writes, Though he is still exalted and sublime, Scarce to be match'd by past or present time; Though smooth and lofty all his lines appear, The thoughts all noble, the expression clear, With judgement, wit, and sancy, shining every where; Yet what instruction can from hence accrue? 'Tis flattery all; too fulsome to be true. Urge not, for 'tis to vindicate the wrong, It causes emulation in the young, A thirst to fame, while some high act they read, That prompts them to the same romantic deed. As if some powerful magick lay in rhimes, That made them braver than at other times. 'Tis false and fond; heroes may huff and fight; But who can merit so as he can write? To say a glow-worm is the morning-star, And that it may with ease be seen as far, Were most ridiculous; so far from truth, It justly would deserve a sharp reproof. That slave is more to blame, whose hireling pen Calls knaves and coxcombs wise deserving men; Says the rank bawds are all with sweetness grac'd, Courtiers all just, and all court-strumpets chaste. If to be prais'd does give a man pretence To glory, learning, honesty, and sense, Cromwell had much to say in his defence: Who, though a tyrant, which all ills comprize, Has been extoll'd and lifted to the skies. Whilst living, such was the applause he gave, Counted high, princely, pious, just, and brave; And with encomiums waited to his grave. Who then would give this for a poet's praise, Which rightly understood does but debase, And blast the reputation it would raise? Hence 'tis, and 'tis a punishment that 's fit, They are contemn'd and scorn'd by men of wit. 'Tis true some Scots may nibble at their praise, And think it great to stand i' th' front of plays; Though most to that stupidity are grown, They waive their patron's praise to write their own: And yet they never fail of their rewards; And faith in that I cannot blame the bards. If coxcombs will be coxcombs, let them rue; If they love flattery, let them pay for 't too. 'Tis one sure method to convince the elves, They spare my pains, and satirize themselves.

In short, nought helps like Satyr to amend. While in huge volumes motley priests contend, And let their vain disputes ne'er have an end: They plunge us in those snares we else should shun; Like tinkers, make ten holes in mending one. Our dearest friends too, though they know our faults, For pity, or for shame, conceal their thoughts; While we, who see our failings, not forbid, Loosely run on in the vain paths we did. 'Tis Satyr then that is our truest friend; For none, before they know their faults, can mend: That tells us boldly of our foulest crimes, Reproves ill-manners, and reforms the times, How am I then to blame, when all I write Is honest rage, not prejudice or spite? Truth is my aim, with truth I shall impeach; And I'll spare none that comes within its reach. On then, my Muse—the world before thee lies— And lash the knaves and fools that I despise.