The modern poetasters: or, directors no conjurers. A farce. On the famous ode writers, satyrists, panegyrists, &c. of the present times; ... Written by Isaac Bickerstaff, jun. Esq;.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- PERSONS.

- SCENE, The Piazza in Covent-Garden.

- Scene, Mother W—yb—n's in Drury-lane.

- Scene changes to an Anti-Hall, in Wealthy's House.

- EPILOGUE, Comical, and Serious; to the Play, and on the Times.

- A Copy of VERSES, Sent to the Author of EXCHANGE-ALLEY, a Farce, in Apr. 1720.

- EPIGRAM ON THE South-Sea Game.

The Modern Poetasters.

FINIS.

THE Modern Poetasters: OR, DIRECTORS no Conjurers. A FARCE. ON THE Famous Ode Writers, Satyrists, Panegyrists, &c. of the present Times; and their Patrons, &c. WITH The Character, and True Picture, of a late Director, and some Others. AND An Entertaining Original Scene of Mother W—yb—n's Theatre, as Acted in the Hundreds of Drury, by several Poets, Directors, &c. Also an EPILOGUE on the Times.

Written by Isaac Bickerstaff, jun. Esq

LONDON: Printed for and Sold by T. Bickerton, at the Crown in Pater-Noster-Row.

PERSONS.

- Sauney, a Scotch Poet, come to London.

- Goosecap, a Pretender to the Bays, renown'd for Don Quixotism.

- Smart, a sprightly young Poet.

- Aimat, a Female Poetaster.

- Wealthy, a late Director of the South-Sea, whom they all Compliment.

- Ʋpstart, his Clerk.

- Scentwell, a Woman of the Town.

- Mother W—yb—n, Whores, Bawds, Bullies, &c.

SCENE, The Piazza in Covent-Garden.

Enter Goose-cap and Sauney, embracing each other: Sauney in a Scotch Dress, and Goose-cap in Black, his Coat daub'd all o'er with Snuff, a Dirty Neckcloth round his Neck, and his Peruke hanging to one side.

Goose.

YOu're welcome, dear Sauney, from the Northern Climate to a more Friendly Air, and this famous Metropolis; where your great and exalted Genius will meet with its merited Reward, and your poetical Abilities shine in their full Splendor.

Saun.

Upon my Soul Man you say too much to an unworthy Brother—I am a Stranger to England, but extraordinarily pleas'd with your good Acquaintance, which recompences the Toil of my fatiguing Journey from the City of Edinburgh.

Goose.

Your Toil, my Friend, you'll think the greatest Pleasure of your Life, when you find by my unequall'd Pen your Character is rais'd to the Top Pinacle of Fame—Virgil's Shade will envy the Reputation I am capable of giving you.

Saun.

Virgil was an Eminent Poet: He's unequall'd in this Age, unless it be in you.

Goose.

You speak like a Man of Judgment, Brother, and I doubt not to convince the ignorant World, that Virgil, amidst his soaring Flights and pompous Elegance, was an Ass to S—l.

Saun.

But we shall find it a plaguy Task to persuade the giddy Multitude to this Opinion: You may seem to resemble the Style and Manner of the Ancients, but I fear the Colours are faint, and will not bear Examination—They are strong and sublime, we weak and spiritless.

Goose.

I thought you Gentlemen had more of the Hibernian Quality than to entertain a mean Opinion of your selves, and your own Capacities: Lay aside Humility, if you intend to thrive in the English Territories, and let Conceit, Hypocrisy and Pride take place; be bold and audacious in self-praises; learn to Cabal, flatter, and Condemn, and the Game's your own.

Saun.

To all these I'm a Stranger, my Dear—

Goose.

For what did you desert your Native Country?—Can you expect Services from me, and you entirely unqualified?

Saun.

But hold! 'tis not too late to learn—I believe I can despise Merit, and for a considerable Sum be a considerable Flatterer; but the greatest Work is to compliment my self.

Goose.

Pugh, that's the easiest Thing in the World; you've Nature on your side, which incites Fondness in all to Works of their own Production; I can do it with an Air of Gravity, and damn with a Grace the Misbelievers of an Untruth.

Saun.

But you have the Happiness, Brother, to be Establish'd, and it requires some Time for a Man to be Entered in any thing, altho' it be in Iniquity.

Goose.

Every airy Female tells ye her Ware is the best, most charming, the most inviting, and all that—And cannot we extoll our own Verses, many whereof describe those Beauties they falsly pretend to be Mistresses of.

Saun.

Woud'nt it be better that like a fair virtuous Woman, we make no Boastings of our selves, but let our own real Worth recommend us to Mankind.

Goose.

There's no such thing as real Worth, my Friend, 'tis all imaginary: The whole Universe is a sham, and false Representation—Generals are not always made with Fighting, Scholars by Learning, nor Divines by Study: No, Management and Caballing will save infinite Trouble of that kind—'Tis but to place proper Fame-brokers at the most remarkable Parts of the Town, Fellows of good Lungs to bellow out your Praise, the Work is done; the ignorant Populace, fam'd for Credulity, will believe it with as much Eagerness as they entertain Scandal against true Merit; and thus is a Reputation at once acquired.

Saun.

But this seems, according to my Notion of Things, to be inconsistent with true Sense, and 'tis contrary to all Scottish Politicks; we are equally backward in Praising as in Condemning.

Goose.

Sense, Sir, is nothing else but a Rule of acting on the Principle of Interest; so that if it promotes my Profit, I'll applaud my self, or any senseless Wretch; and if my Fortune cannot be raised without calumniating what is truly Great and Glorious, the doing it is an Argument of sound Sense, and perfectly consonant with the Dictates of Nature, and the great SENECA's Philosophy.

Saun.

I cannot be of your Opinion, Brother, I must term that Abuse, which you are pleas'd to call Sense, in Spite of the greatest Oratory to recommend it.

Goose.

You must learn to think more advantagiously, if you expect Prosperity here—But that I may not be tedious in my first Lectures, we'll quit this Conversation, and retire to a House of Diversion in the Hundreds of Drury; we'll drink 'till we rival the Sun with our ruddy Complexions; set up all Night with the Moon; lye with half a Dozen Virgins; break all the Windows of the Mansion; and then, like true Sons of Parnassus, make a hasty Escape, and pay no Reckoning, but leave that to be accounted for by the Gods.

Saun.

Will not the Substitutes of Venus exhaust our Poetical Fire?

Goose.

No, they'll encrease it.—

Saun.

But have ye no Salamanders—I fear I shall be metamorphiz'd to a Glow-worm.

Goose.

None at all, my Dear—I'll help ye to an agreeable Female with whom Safety will be your Lot.

Saun.

The Deel damn me, if I don't think the Lot of Jonas will be mine.

Goose.

You'll be in no Belly of a Whale, I'll assure ye.

Saun.

But perhaps of something worse—or the Jaws of some terrible Monster—

Goose.

Let not your Courage be cast down—Come, we'll away to Mother W—yb—ns.

Enter Smart.

Smart.

Have I found my Enemy at last.— (To Goosecap)—

Goose.

I'm an Enemy to nothing, but that Merit which is of a superiour kind, Sir.—Dear Sauney, repair to Button's; I'll be with you presently. (To Sauny.)

Exit Sauny.

Smart.

Have you any Pretence, Sir, to Merit?

Goose.

As much as you have to be a Coxcomb, Sir.

Smart.

The Coxcomb does not belong to me at present.

Goose.

I can write Sense and English, a Capacity you are unacquainted with.

Smart.

In your Walk to St. J—'s-street, there is neither English, Sense, nor Grammar; and your best Pieces of Poetry are but Trifles.

Goose.

It would be an Honour to you, Sir, to be the Author of such Trifles.

Smart.

I can receive no Honour from your Accomplishments.—You have by good Fortune indeed wrote one Piece that has sold, but more from the Popularity of the Subject, than the Performance; your best Scenes of Love are notoriously worse than those of the lowest Poet in this or any other Age.—The few Similies are no way adapted, and really appear like Flowers in a Dunghill.—In your other Poetical Writings all the Beauties are borrow'd: If we divest you of your Thefts, you'll resemble the Crow in the Fable, and little will remain but Froth and Rhime.

Goose.

Thou foolish Boy, do'st Thee pretend to criticise on the Greatest Genius of the Age.

Smart.

You may compliment your Genius as you please, and your Friends may give it out, but I shall take Liberty to affirm that 'tis far from being a perfect one in Poetry: A perfect Genius is capable of producing a finish'd Piece of the greatest Length, which is what you will never be Master of.—A few good Lines I confess you sometimes happen to write, but more from a Flashy Wit, than a true Native Genius.

Goose.

My Genius is eminently conspicuous in every thing I do—Can you peruse any Performance of mine, where I don't strike out with a surprizing Strength of Poetical Fury?—And in my Odes, my Flights are very Extraordinary.

Smart.

Your Flights are like those of the Owl, never Soaring or Lofty. If you intend to gain a solid Reputation, you must strike out the greatest part of what you have written: Leave off recommending the Works of others, in order to assume the Honour of the Whole yourself, and blaming that which you cannot mend, for no other Reason than because you've had no Hand in't.

Goose.

Why all this unmerited Calumny?

Smart.

Your Talent is Calumny, Brother, tho' preposterously mix'd with Panegyrick.—You can condemn and praise even the same thing, and at such times as it merits neither your Censure, nor Approbation.—You can lampoon your best Friends, and abuse your greatest Benefactors, in their Absence; and, supported by a Gamester, you think to Bully Mankind.

Goose.

This is provoking with a Vengeance; wou'd any one but a Poet bear all this?

Smart.

You are born to bear the Burthen of your Folly, and the Repetition of your Faults.—A first RateMinister of State was first your Patron; him you've commended to Excess; since you've let fly at him at least twenty Satyrs. On a great Statesman whom you've lately prais'd, first a Satyr, then a Panegyrick: On a certain Noble Lord first a Panegyrick, then a Lampoon: A great Commoner, first a Satyr, then a Compliment; and many other Instances of this kind I could enumerate: And as Hypocrisy is your Principle, the Whigs have your present Praises, but the Tories and Jacobites your Affections.

Goose.

If I should gain any Honour by beating of a Monkey, I wou'd do it.

Smart.

Come on—I've some Inches of my Sword at your Service.

Goose.

But few Inches for a Lady I presume.—You're a Child, and deserve the Rod—Farewell.

(Exit.

Smart.

Adieu.—What a vain conceited Wretch is this? He gives me an Aversion to all Poetry and Poets, and almost to my self as one of the Number.

Enter Aimat.

Aimat.

Your Servant, Mr. Smart—I've been looking for you an Age, and want to consult you in an Affair of the greatest Consequence.

Smart.

I am at your Service.—What is your Business, Madam?

Aim.

To correct a Poem of my Writing, on the Man in the Moon.

Smart.

Your Subject, Madam, is equally high with your Exalted Genius.—I soar beneath your airy Flights; and you might as well ask me to Correct the Skies.

Aim.

O Dear Sir, I am much obliged t'ye; but I'm no Angel as yet.

Smart.

Your Flights are extraordinary, Madam, I'll assure ye.—My Pegasus is a Jade to yours.

Aim.

You shall mount mine, if you please.

Smart.

I should be glad to mount—my Dear.

Aim.

Pugh, if you won't correct my Poem, I'll leave you to the Tormentors of the Hundreds of Drury.

Smart.

I may find a Woman's Case there.

Aim.

You have wicked Imaginations—My Designs are honest, but you ungenerously construe all for the worst.

Smart.

I construe every thing according to Nature, Madam, and Nature's Rules are a Law to me.

Aim.

Nature is a Jest.

Smart.

When pursued jestingly, with a fair Lady, or so—

Aim.

When pursued in Earnest.—

Smart.

And the Gallant laid breathless at your Feet.

Aim.

This is intolerable, I can't bear it. Adieu.

Smart.

Nor I neither.

(Exeunt.

Scene, Mother W—yb—n's in Drury-lane.

Enter Mother W—yb—n, Goosecap and Sauny.

Wyb.

MY Sons you're welcome to my Palace, but you dear Sauncy must first kneel down, and ask my Blessing, e'er you're admitted to my Favours.

Goose.

She tells ye the Truth, Brother, 'tis what is customary; and tho' I've already done it, I'll lead you the way.

(He kneels down, Mother W—yb—n, pulls up her Coats, and pisses in his Face.

Wyb.

There, dear Son, you're doubly free.—

Saun.

The De'el damn the Freedom—What must I lose my Eye-sight before I can be admitted, for the Benefit of Feeling.

Goose.

'Tis nothing but a decent Sprinkling—'twill have an extraordinary Effect.—Thus Plants are water'd e'er they rise.—

Saun.

But not between a Woman's Thighs—

Wyb.

Kneel down, dear Sauney, or you shall have it standing.

(Sauney refusing to Kneel, she lets fly at him with such good Aim, that Part of the Stream enters his Mouth.

Saun.

Plague on the Blessing—Your Water is damnable strong.—

Wyb.

That's a certain Sign of setled Health.—You shall have another Taste, unless you submissively kneel.

Goose.

Forbear, dear Mother, he has had his Share.—What he wants in Duty, shall be made up by me in filial Obedience.

Saun.

Pox take the Obedience—Where is the Girl?

Goose.

O Mother, I desire you to send for the lovely Mrs. Scentwell.

Wyb.

Let us first drink, my Dear— (She calls the Maid for a Bottle of Cherry Bounce, who comes in with it and a Glass.) —Fill me a Bumper.

Maid.

Yes, Madam.

Wyb.

Dear Sauney you're the greatest Stranger, my Service to you.—May your Purse and—never fail you.

Saun.

A good Health, upon my Soul, Man—

Wyb.

Fill him a Bumper.

Saun.

Here, Brother Goosecap, here's Health to our Pleasures, and Wealth to our Pockets. (Drinks.

Goose.

With all my Heart; about we't.—I long for a Taste of the Brandy, and—

Wyb.

You shall have both, my Child, have a little Patience.—Fill him a Bumper. (To the Maid.)

Maid.

Madam, I do.

Goose.

Come, here's to the longest and strongest, plumpest and fairest—

Wyb.

Let it go round—Maid do you pledge him.

Maid.

Yes, Madam. (She Drinks a large Bumper.)

Wyb.

You are to take t'other Glass my Friends, and then— (They drink round again and again 'till the Bottle is Empty.)

Saun.

Now where's Mrs. Scentwell.

Wyb.

You must have one Dram more, dear Sauney; don't be impatient.—She'll come soon enough to cool your Pegasus.—Maid, fetch another Bottle. (They drink a second Bottle of Bounce.)

Goose.

Mother, you must not now detain us any longer from the Sight of the Mistress of my Affections.

Wyb.

Pay your Reckoning Gentlemen, and sh• shall be immediately brought in.

Saun.

What is the Damage we've done?

Wyb.

You've Twelve Shillings to pay.

Saun.

I'll pay this, Brother, if you will satisf• the following Arrears. (To Goosecap.)

Goose.

I will—You have my Promise.

Saun.

There's the Money-bring in the Girl— (To Mother W—yb—n

Wyb.

It shall be done— (She calls to the Mai• and bids her bring in Mrs. Scentwe••

Saun.

The Deel damn me if the Sight of a W•¦man be not plaguy dear in England—For ha•… this Money I could have lain with twenty Wom•• in Scotland—But I hope she is very handsom•… Brother.

Goose.

She's Divinely Fair—She has the Fa•• of an Angel, and her lower Cheeks are so excee•¦ing white, plump and beautiful, that you'll 〈◊〉 tempted to kiss them.

Enter Scentwell.

Scent.

Gentlemen, your humble Servant—

Saun.

Your Servant, Madam—By my So•… Charming Creature—Let me give you a Buss•…

Scent.

With all my Heart, my Dear—What can I refuse to such fine Gentlemen— (Sauney kisses her.

Goose.

Now 'tis my Turn—Madam, you're to enjoy these Ruby Lips, and this delightful Person: Come to my Arms, and make your self Blest—

Scent.

Let me first bless my self with Liquor, my Dear—I am thirsty, and my Spirits are low—

Saun.

Is there no Kissing without a Continuance of Tipling?

Scent.

No, Sir, not at this Part of the Town.

Saun.

Call for it then— (Scentwell calls for a Bottle of Bounce, they drink it up.

Goose.

You'll now kiss me, my Dear.

Scent.

Yes, with all my Heart— (She takes him round the Neck and kisses him.

Goose.

I hope you'll at last permit me to examine those Beauties which are yours.

Scent.

Let us have another Bottle, and you shall do what you please.

Saun.

Call for it instantly. (She calls for another Bottle which they drink, and being still refused, they drink a third, and then she complies, but insists upon Money.)

Goose.

Madam, now I expect you'll resign all your Charms to the ingenious Mr. Sauney.

Scent.

For Half a Piece I am at his Service.

Saun.

There it is— (Giving her Money.)

Scent.

I hope you'll make me a Present of a Crown, my Dear, to buy me a Pair of Stockings; and you shall then really do what ever you desire.

Saun.

I'll give it ye—there is the Crown.

Scent.

But I want a Pair of Gloves—Give me half a Crown more, and let me die if I don't let you Buss Breech, or any Thing.

Saun.

Pox on't—there it is.

Scent.

Now, my Dear, if you'll give me a Shilling for Coach Hire to my Lodgings, and pay the Reckoning,—I am entirely at your Service.

Goose.

Let him have his agreed for Pleasure, and the Reckoning shall afterwards be discharg'd.

Scent.

We never trust, Sir—There's Eighteen Shillings to pay— (Calls for the Mistress) Here, Madam, come and receive your Reckoning.

Saun.

We're jilted, be Gad—Goosecap, you are to pay the Money demanded.

Goose.

I've but a single Six-pence in my Pocket, by Jove.

Saun.

And I have not remaining a Shilling—What shall us do, Madam— (To Mother Wyb—n.

Wyb.

You must only strip, Gentlemen—

Goose.

We'll neither strip nor pay ye, Mrs. Jezabel.

Wyb.

Won't ye, you'll find your selves mistaken—I'll make ye, Sirrah— (Pulling him by the Nose, Goosecap cries out, enter a Bully.

Bully.

I'll teach you to cry out, Rascals, Villains! D'ye come here to cheat an honest industrious Woman, ye Scoundrels!

(He pulls down Sauney's Breeches, and flogs him lustily; then he pulls off Goosecap's Coat, and cloaths him with a Soldier's Rug, and afterwards Kicks them both out of Doors.)

Goose.

This is abominable Usage—and by no means agreeable; to a Man of Taste—I'll go home, and fetch my Blunderbuss.

Saun.

A most damnable Pleasure—I'll set Fire to the House, and make way to my Lodgings by the Light of the Conflagration.

(Exeunt.

Scene changes to an Anti-Hall, in Wealthy's House.

Enter Wealthy and Upstart.

Wealth.

HAVE you transferr'd my S— Sea Stock?

Ʋpst.

Yes, Sir, I have.

Wealth.

How stands the present State of my Fortune?

Ʋpst.

At about Two Millions Five hundred thousand Pounds, Sir—Your Estate is now beyond that of a Lord Treasurer of Great-Britain, or a Comptroller of the Finances in France.

Wealth.

A Lord Treasurer is nothing to us—We have superior Methods for the acquiring of Fortunes to any of our Treasurers, and can make them attend our Levees with an obsequious Air; they are first to give the Congee on all Approaches.—We expect to be Dukes by Title, and Princes by Possessions.

Ʋpst.

I my self intend to be an Irish L—d; and I don't know but my Pretensions are most righteous; 'twill be a worthy and eminent Rise from the Character of your Worship's Footman to that of L—d Ʋpstart.

Wealth.

Be not too hasty; you must first have a suitable Fortune.

Ʋpst.

I am already worth Five Hundred Thousand Pounds, Sir; and if I marry your Worship's Chambermaid Dulcinea, with the Addition of her Riches, I shall be in Circumstances equal to a D—ke.

Wealth.

But you're not Master of Behaviour—

Ʋpst.

I can swear gracefully; speak what I never mean incessantly; ravish Virgins decently; lie with other Mens Wives, and beat their Husbands out of Door couragiously; I can contemn my Betters, who have less Money, audaciously: I can flatter, cringe to and carress a Minister of State; build magnificent Houses, and never pay for 'em; Cheat Gamesters, and deceive a Stockjobber.

Wealth.

These are uncommon Qualities indeed—but not sufficient—

Enter Servant.

Serv.

Sir, there's a Gentleman without who says he is come from the City of Edinburgh on purpose to wait on you—He desires Audience of your Worship.

Wealth.

Since his Applications are proper, let him be admitted.

Serv.

It shall be as you command.

(Exit.

Wealth.

This is some Gentleman of Worth, I presume, who sollicits to be a Subscriber in the S— S— a Stock.

Enter Sauney bowing.

Saun.

I am come, Sir, a Journey from on far, to spread your exalted Fame, and that of the unparallell'd S— S—ea Stock.—I have humbly presum'd to be the Author of a Poetical Performance, inscrib'd to your Worship, which I hope you'll accept.

Wealth.

I cou'd not expect any such thing, Sir— (Reads.) You say too much of me, yet too little to the Purpose.—I desire you'll humbly take your Paper again; but I'll thus far remember you, that when I am advanc'd to Lord-Mayor, for that Year, you shall be the City Laureat.

Saun.

Won't you be pleased to give me a Subscription, Sir.

Wealth.

I'll willingly subscribe to your Beating Sir?

Saun.

That's very kind truly—

Wealth.

If this be all your Business, quit my House.

Saun.

Your Servant—I hope you'll not forget me when you're Lord-Mayor.

(Exit.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv.

A Gentleman, Sir, has sent me to you, to desire Admittance in an Affair of great Importance relating to your Life.

Wealth.

Introduce him—

Enter Goosecap.

Goose.

My Business, Sir, is to congratulate you on your accumulating the Wealth of the Indies.—I hope you'll receive some Lines on your Immortal Fame— (Offering a Paper.

Wealth.

Here, Tom, Tom, beat this Fellow out of my House—Have I nothing else to do but to be plagu'd with these Mortals, who come a begging in such Numbers? Here's my Cane, give the Lunatick his Correction.

Serv.

I obey, Sir.

Goose.

Devilish Fortune, to have a Cudgel for the Coin.

(Exit.

Enter Aim-at.

Aim.

Mr. Wealthy, I hope you'll excuse this extraordinary Trouble—I have here brought ye my C-a-se in Rhime, and I desire you'll please to make it your own.

Wealth.

I desire to be excus'd, Madam—Pox on't, I've but just kickt one Poet out of Doors, when another steps in.

Aim.

I hope, Sir, you'll not beat your humble Servant; if you engage with me, it must not be with the same Weapon as you attack'd my Brother Goosecap.

Wealth.

Tom, Tom, haste hither—remove thi• talkative impertinent Woman.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv.

I will, Sir.

Aim.

My Case is ruin'd—What's worse tha• ill Luck—

Exi•

Enter Smart.

Smart.

Sir, My Business, I own has some Impe•¦tinence: I ask your Pardon for trespassing o• your important Moments; but Respect to you• Merit, Sir, is wholly the Occasion of it.—I ha•… wrote—

Wealth.

Wrote, what—

Smart.

A familiar Epistle to your Honour, high¦ly approv'd—It has not the least Grain 〈◊〉 Flattery, and it is free from Satyr—Be ple•¦sed to receive it.

Wealth.

You are very familiar Gentlemen truly.—I've had no less than three with me this Morning on the same Errand, whom I've Rewarded with an Oaken Cudgel—but you may go if you please unrewarded.

Smart.

I thank you for this Favour.—

(Exit.

Wealth.

These Sons of Vanity are the Plague of Greatness; the worst Disturbers of our Repose; and we may truly say,

Poets, like Women, more than usual kind,

For Gain, are Prostitutes in Life we find;

One yields her Heav'nly Form, the other lets his Mind.

EPILOGUE, Comical, and Serious; to the Play, and on the Times.

THE Farce is o'er, I hope my Breth'ren all,

Will skreen young Isaac from a W-yb-n's Fall;

If my fam'd Scenes, shou'd Goosecap once provoke,

He must Revenge himself without his Cloke;

And, if He'd well his Adversary Cuff,

He shou'd e'en strip himself, and Arm in Buff:

Nor does our Author Sauney's Ire regard;

He's sure his Play will meet with this Reward,

Be Read once through—then curs'd, by Modern Bard.

But he no Quixot, nor Knight-Errant, fears,

No Wit Buttonian with the Longest Ears;

Altho' Great Cibber in the Front appears:

No Female Poet, of the Largest Parts

He dreads to meet; with all he fairly starts;

He boldly challenges the World's Applause,

And hopes e'en Drury-Lane approves his Cause.

But to the Times—Ay, here his Scope I find,

Men prey on Men, and All are Prey design'd;

If Cheats must only Flourish in this Isle,

And Honesty no more upon us smile;

If Crimes shou'd go unpunish'd in this Age;

What may not Villany in Time engage;

And what can we expect will end our Care,

But that we should the worst of Mis'ries share:

But may all Harpies this, this, justly see,

That there's a Debt due to their Infamy;

That Halters, Gibbets, and the Ax attend,

(And all great W-yb--n's Plagues their Aid will lend)

To give to Villains, Traitors, a Deserved End.

A Copy of VERSES, Sent to the Author of EXCHANGE-ALLEY, a Farce, in Apr. 1720.

IF Truth-Prophetick will procure a Name,

And humorous Satyr gain a lasting Fame;

If Frauds detected, plainly made appear,

Can serve a Nation in a Poet's Sphere;

Thou Bard advent'rous, well deserv'st my Praise,

In Spite of Fortune, shalt be crown'd with Bays.

If Bears and Monkeys thou hast made of those

Who gain great Riches, but gain no Repose;

Like Forest Animals, their Coaches grace,

And who are fitter for another Place;

Thy Lines have Reason, and thy Thoughts are strong,

Those will acknowledge who observe 'em long:

Tho' Bl—nt or F—ll—ws Thee with Rashness charge;

If low in Wealth, in Sense thy Fortune's large:

And what are Riches, and a glitt'ring Train,

Without this Treasure, which conducts, the Brain:

Like Ships at Sea well fraught, with Weather crost,

So many are in Rising Tempests lost.

O Glorious South-Sea, whom the Crouds obey,

By Thee have Misers gain'd a pow'rful Sway;

Great Wealth and Treasure, but 'tis Credit all,

And when this fails, the great Dependents fall:

To Ashes Paper may be burnt at Will,

But Coin, tho' melted, is of Value still.

EPIGRAM ON THE South-Sea Game.

WHEN Men against themselves combine,

And Whores, and Bawds, and Statesmen join;

The Widow, Orphan's, spoil'd, undone,

Our Money fled, and Credit gone;

We, Poets, then may well conclude,

This is the Devil's Interlude.

Information about this book

Title statement

The modern poetasters: or, directors no conjurers. A farce. On the famous ode writers, satyrists, panegyrists, &c. of the present times; ... Written by Isaac Bickerstaff, jun. Esq;.

Bickerstaff, Isaac, Jun.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5287

ID [isbn10]

1106022866

ID [isbn13]

9781106022868

ID [TCP]

K112188.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3312252899

ID [ECLL]

0394000100

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The modern poetasters: or, directors no conjurers. A farce. On the famous ode writers, satyrists, panegyrists, &c. of the present times; ... Written by Isaac Bickerstaff, jun. Esq;., Bickerstaff, Isaac, Jun.. 25,[7]p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for and sold by T. Bickerton,. [1721]. [Isaac Bickerstaff, jun. is a pseudonym.] ['A copy of verses' dated 1720.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT144057.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

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