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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The purpose and scope of "Mac-Flecnoe" was strangely misconstrued by the
object of it, and by our poet's editors. Shadwell took it into his head, that
Dryden meant seriously to tax him with being an Irishman; a charge which he
seems more anxious to refute than seems necessary. Cibber, or whoever
wrote Dryden's Life in the collection bearing his name, supposes, that
Flecnoe, who died in 1678, had actually succeeded our author in the office of
poet-laureat. Derrick, though he corrects this error, has fallen into another, in
which he is followed by Dr Johnson, who considers "Mac-Flecnoe" as written
in express ridicule of Shadwell's inauguration as court poet. The scarcity of
the first edition of "Mac-Flecnoe" might have been some excuse for these
errors, had not the piece been printed in the first Miscellany, in 1684, four
years before Dryden's being deposed, and Shadwell succeeding him. Certainly
the two events tallied strangely; and the friends of Shadwell might have
considered the substantial office which he gained by the downfall of Dryden,
as a just compensation for the ludicrous and mock dignity with which his foe
had invested him.
MAC-FLECKNOE.
A llhuman things are subject to decay,
And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found,[417] who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owned, 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;
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;[418]
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he,
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense;
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 designed for thoughtless majesty;
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley[419] were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology!
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,[420] 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,
[421]
With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,[421]
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,—
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.[422]
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.[423]
At thy well-sharpened 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.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'st thy papers in thy threshing hand;
St André's[424] feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel;[425]
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton[426] forswore
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
}
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more.—
Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,[427])
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains;
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys;
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturbed by watch, in silence sleep.[428]
Near these a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry;
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
}
And little Maximins the gods defy
And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin[429] just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanished minds;
Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords,
And Panton[430] waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker[431] prophesied long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
}
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense;
To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists, and Hypocrites, it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.[432]
Now empress Fame had published the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Roused by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street.
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way,
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay;
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum;
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way;
Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared,
And Herringman[433] was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appeared,
High on a throne of his own labours reared.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state;
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent dulness played around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Swore by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome,
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he till death true dulness would maintain;
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale;
"Love's kingdom"[434] to his right he did convey,
At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway;
Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young,
And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung.
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,[435]
That nodding seemed to consecrate his head.
Just at the point of time, if fame not lie,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly;—
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
The admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
}
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:—
Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign,
To far Barbadoes on the western main;
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen!—
He paused, and all the people cried, Amen.—
Then thus continued he: My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ,
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.[436]
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,[437]
And in their folly show the writer's wit;
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness and desire no foreign aid;
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own:
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name;
But let no alien Sedley interpose,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.[438]
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull,
Trust nature; do not labour to be dull,
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.[439]
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;[440]
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share have we in nature, or in art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, "whip-stitch, kiss my arse,"[441]
Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfused, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wonderous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:[442]
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined;
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
h i i il h i l
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite;
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius call thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command,
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.
There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,[443]
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;
Or, if thou would'st thy different talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.—
He said:—but his last words were scarcely heard;
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepared,
}
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.[444]
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.
 NOTES
ON

MAC-FLECKNOE.

Note I.

This Flecknoe found.—P. 433.

Richard Flecknoe, the unfortunate bard whom our author has damned to
everlasting fame, was by birth an Irishman, and by profession a Roman
Catholic priest. Marvel, who seems to have known him at Rome, describes his
person as meagre in the extreme, and his itch for scribbling as incessant. The
poem, in which Marvel depicts him, is in the old taste of extravagant
burlesque, and the lines are as rugged as Flecknoe could himself have
produced. It contains, however, some witty and some humorous description,
and the reader may be pleased to see a specimen:
Flecknoe, an English Priest at Rome.
Obliged by frequent visits of this man,
Whom, as a priest, poet, musician,
I for some branch of Melchizedec took,
Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke,
I sought his lodging, which is at the sign
Of the sad Pelican, subject divine
For poetry. There, three stair-cases high,
Which signifies his triple property,
I found at last a chamber, as 'twas said,
But seemed a coffin set on the stair's head,
Not higher than seven, nor larger than three feet;
There neither was a ceiling, nor a sheet,
Save that the ingenious door did, as you come,
Turn in, and show to wainscot half the room;
Yet of his state no man could have complained,
There being no bed where he entertained;
And though within this cell so narrow pent,
He'd stanzas for a whole apartement.
——————
————Nothing now, dinner staid,
But till he had himself a body made;
I mean till he were dressed; for else, so thin
He stands, as if he only fed had been
With consecrated wafers; and the host
Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast.
This basso-relievo of a man,
Who, as a camel tall, yet easily can
The needle's eye thread without any stitch;
His only impossible is to be rich.
Lest his too subtle body, growing rare,
Should leave his soul to wander in the air,
He therefore circumscribes himself in rhymes,
And, swaddled in's own paper seven times,
Wears a close jacket of poetic buff,
With which he doth his third dimension stuff.
Thus armed underneath, he over all
Doth make a primitive sotana fall;
And over that, yet casts an antique cloak,
Worn at the first council of Antioch,
Which, by the Jews long hid and disesteemed,
 , y g ,
He heard of by tradition, and redeemed;
But were he not in this black habit decked,
This half transparent man would soon reflect
Each colour that he past by, and be seen
As the camelion, yellow, blue, or green.

It appears that Flecknoe either laid aside, or disguised, his spiritual character,
when he returned to England; but he still preserved extensive connections
with the Roman Catholic nobility and gentry.[445] He probably wrote upon
many occasional subjects, but his poetry has fallen into total oblivion. I have
particularly sought in vain for his verses to King John of Portugal, to which
Dryden alludes a little lower. Langbaine mentions four of his plays, namely,
"Damoiselles a la Mode," "Erminia," "Love's Dominion," and "Love's Kingdom,"
(of which more hereafter;) but none of these were ever acted, excepting the
last. This gave Flecknoe great indignation, which he thus vents against the
players in his preface to "Damoiselles a la Mode." "For the acting of this
comedy, those who have the governing of the stage have their humour, and
would be entreated; and I have mine, and won't entreat them: and were all
dramatic writers of my mind, they should wear their old plays thread-bare
before they should have any new, till they better understood their own
interest, and how to distinguish betwixt good and bad." Notwithstanding this
ill usage, he honoured the players so far, as to prefix to each character, in the
dramatis personæ of his pieces, the name of the actor, by whom, had the
managers been less inexorable, he meant it should have been performed. But
this he did for the sake of the gentle reader, whom he assures, that a lively
imagination being thus assisted in bodying forth the character, he may receive
as much pleasure from the perusal as from the actual representation of the
performance. Flecknoe bore the damnation of the only one of his plays which
was represented, with the same valiant indifference with which he supported
the rebuffs of the players. In short, he seems to have been fitted for an
incorrigible scribbler, by a happy fund of self-satisfaction, upon which neither
the censures of criticism, nor the united hisses of a whole nation, could make
the slightest impression. When or how Flecknoe died is uncertain, and of very
little consequence; I presume, however, that he was dead when this satire
was published. I am uncertain whether the reader will think, that this poor
poetaster merited mercy at the hands of Dryden, for the following lines which
he had written in his praise, and which, at any rate, may serve as a specimen
of Flecknoe's poetry:
Dryden, the muses darling and delight,
Than whom none ever flew so high a flight:
Some have their veins so drossy, as from earth,
Their muses only seem to have ta'en their birth.
Other but water-poets are, have gone
No farther than to the fount of Helicon:
And they're but airy ones, whose muse soars up
No higher than to mount Parnassus top;
Whilst thou, with thine, dost seem to have mounted higher
Than he who fetch from heaven celestial fire;
And dost as far surpass all others, as
Fire does all other elements surpass.

Flecknoe's memory being only preserved by this satire, his very name came to
be identified with its title. King, in "A Dialogue in the Shades," introduces him
under the name of Mac-Flecknoe; and Derrick falls into the same error.

Note II.

Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,

Mature in dulness from his tender years.—P. 433.

Thomas Shadwell was born at Santon-hall, in Norfolk, in which county his

father represented a very ancient family. He was educated at Caius College, in
Cambridge, and placed in the Middle Temple to study law; but, like many of
the inhabitants of these buildings, he preferred the smoother paths of
literature. He made several essays in heroic verse, all of which are deplorably
bad. They are chiefly occasional pieces; as, an Address to the Prince of
Orange on his Landing, another to Queen Mary, and a Translation of the Tenth
Satire of Juvenal; which, though prefaced by a violent refutation of our
author's attacks upon him, is so execrable, as fully to confirm Dryden's
censures of the author's poetical talents. But, in comedy, he was much more
successful; and, in that capacity, Dryden does him great injustice in
pronouncing him a dunce. On the contrary, I think most of Shadwell's
comedies may be read with great pleasure. They do not, indeed, exhibit any
brilliancy of wit, or ingenuity of intrigue; but the characters are truly dramatic,
original, and well drawn; and the picture of manners which they exhibit gives
us a lively idea of those of the author's age. As Shadwell proposed Jonson for
his model, peculiarity of character, or what was then technically called
humour, was what he chiefly wished to exhibit; and in this, it cannot be
denied that he has often succeeded admirably. His powers, as a dramatist, are
highly rated by Rochester, who imputes his coarseness to rapidity of
composition:

Of all our modern wits, none seem to me

Once to have touched upon true comedy, }
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley.
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of genius, none of art;
With just bold strokes he dashes here and there,
Showing great mastery with little care;
Scorning to varnish his good touches o'er,
To make the fools and women praise them more.
Allusion to Tenth Satire of Horace.

Shadwell's plays are seventeen in number, and were published, in four

volumes, under the inspection of his son, Sir John Shadwell, M. D.
Shadwell's life was chequered with misfortune. As he espoused the party of
the Duke of Monmouth, to whom he dedicated "Psyche," and of Shaftesbury,
he thought himself obliged to draw the quill in defence of their cause.
Accordingly, as we have seen, he attempted to answer "The Medal" on the
one hand, and, on the other, accused our author of intending a parallel
between Monmouth and the Duke of Guise, in the play so entitled. This zeal
seems to have cost Shadwell dear; for, besides undergoing the severe
flagellations administered by Dryden, in the "Defence of the Duke of Guise,"
in "Absalom and Achitophel," and in the present poem, he complains, that his
ruin was designed, and his life sought; and that, for near ten years, he was
kept from the exercise of that profession which had afforded him a competent
subsistence.[446] It is no wonder, therefore, he was among the first to hail the
dawn of the Revolution, by the address already mentioned, of which the full
title is, "A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the Prince of Orange his
coming into England. Written by T. S. (Thomas Shadwell,) a True Lover of his
Country, (10th January) 1689;" and that King William distinguished him by the
honours of the laurel. Dorset, who was high chamberlain, answered, to those
who remonstrated on Shadwell's lack of poetical talent, that, without
pretending to vouch for Mr Shadwell's genius, he was sure he was an honest
man. Shadwell did not long enjoy this triumph over his great enemy. He died
19th November, 1692,[447] in the fifty-second year of his age. It is said, this
event was hastened by his taking an over dose of opium, to the use of which
he was inordinately addicted. "His death," says Dr Nicholas Brady, who
preached his funeral sermon, "seized him suddenly; but he could not be
unprepared, since, to my certain knowledge, he never took a dose of opium
but he solemnly recommended himself to God by prayer." In person, Shadwell
was large, corpulent, and unwieldy; a circumstance which our author
generally keeps in the eye of the reader. He seems to have imitated his
prototype, Ben Jonson, in gross and coarse sensual indulgence, and profane
conversation. But, if there be truth in a funeral sermon, he must have
corrected these habits before his death; for Dr Brady tells us, "that our author
was a man of great honesty and integrity, and inviolable fidelity and strictness
in his word; an unalterable friendship wherever he professed it; and however
the world may be mistaken in him, he had a much deeper sense of religion
than many who pretended more to it. His natural and acquired abilities,"
continues the Doctor, "made him very amiable to all who knew and conversed
with him, a very few being equal in the becoming qualities which adorn and
set off a complete gentleman; his very enemies, if he has now any left, will
give him this character, at least if they knew him so thoroughly as I did."—
Cibber's Lives of the Poets, Article Shadwell, Vol. III.

Note III.

Heywood and Shirley.—P. 434.

Voluminous dramatic authors, who flourished in the beginning of the 17th

century. There were no less than four Heywoods who wrote plays; so that,
Winstanley says, the name of Heywood seemed to be destinated to the stage.
But he whom Dryden here means, is Thomas Heywood, a person rather to be
admired for the facility, than for the excellence of his compositions. Every
place and situation was alike to him while composing; and the favourite
register of his scenes was the back of a tavern bill. Far the greater part of his
labours are now lost; and yet there remain, in the libraries of the curious,
twenty-four printed plays by Thomas Heywood. He was an actor by
profession, and a good scholar, as is evinced by several of his classical
allusions. His plays may be examined with advantage by the antiquary, but
afford slender amusement to the lovers of poetry. The following character of
him, by an old poet, is preserved by Langbaine:
———————Heywood sage,
The apologetic Atlas of the stage;
Well of the golden age he could entreat,
But little of the metal he could get.
Threescore sweet babes be fashioned at a lump,
For he was christened in Parnassus pump,
The muses' gossip to Aurora's bed;
And ever since that time his face was red.

If we cannot call Heywood a second Lope de Vega, in point of the extent of

his dramatic works, he overtops most English authors; since he assures us, in
his preface to the "English Traveller," that it was one reserved among two
hundred and twenty plays, in which he had either had "a whole hand, or, at
the least, a main finger." It is a pity, as Johnson said of Churchill, so fruitful a
tree should have borne only crabs.
James Shirley, whom our author most unjustly couples with Heywood, to
whom, as well as to Shadwell, he was greatly superior, was born in 1594, and,
although for some time a schoolmaster, appears to have lived chiefly by the
stage. When the civil wars broke out, he followed the fortune of William, Earl
of Newcastle. During the usurpation, when theatres were prohibited, he
returned to his original profession of a schoolmaster. He died of fatigue and
distress of mind during the great fire of London, in 1666. He wrote forty-two
plays, and there are thirty-nine in print; a complete set of which is much
esteemed by collectors. Dr Farmer has traced, to this neglected bard, an idea,
which Milton thought not unworthy of adoption.
Shirley is spoken of with contempt in "Mac-Flecknoe," but his imagination is
sometimes fine to an extraordinary degree. I recollect a passage in the Fourth
Book of the "Paradise Lost," which hath been suspected of imitation, as a
prettiness below the genius of Milton: I mean, where Uriel glides backward
and forward to heaven on a sun-beam. Dr Newton informs us, that this might
possibly be hinted by a picture of Annabal Caracci, in the king of France's
cabinet; but I am apt to believe, that Milton had been struck with a portrait in
Shirley. Fernando, in the comedy of the "Brothers," 1652, describes Jacinta at
vespers:
Her eye did seem to labour with a tear,
Which suddenly took birth, but overweighed
With its own swelling, dropped upon her bosom;
Which, by reflection of her light, appeared
As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament':
After, her looks grew cheerfull, and I saw
A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes,
As if they had gained a victory o'er grief;
And with it many beams twisted themselves,
Upon whose golden threads the angels walk
To and again from heaven.
Essay on the Learning of Shakespeare.

Note IV.

Coarsely clad in Norwich drugget.—P. 434.

This stuff appears to have been sacred to the use of the poorer votaries of
Parnassus; and it is somewhat odd, that it seems to have been the dress of
our poet himself in the earlier stage of his fortunes. An old gentleman, who
corresponded with the "Gentleman's Magazine," says, he remembers our
author in this dress. Vol. XV. p. 99.

Note V.

When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,

With well-timed oars, before the royal barge.—P. 434.

I confess myself, after some research, at a loss to discover the nature of the
procession, in which Shadwell seems to have acted as leader of the band.
One is at first sight led to consider the whole procession as imaginary, and
preliminary to his supposed coronation; but, on closer investigation, it
appears, that Flecknoe talks of some real occurrence, on which Shadwell
preceded the royal barge, at the head of a boat-load of performers. We may
see, in the seventh note, that he professed to understand music, and may
certainly have been called upon to assist or direct the band during some
entertainment upon the river, an amusement to which King Charles was
particularly addicted.

Note VI.

The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.—P. 434.

This seems to be in ridicule of the following elegant expression which

Shadwell puts in the mouth of a fine lady: "Such a fellow as he deserves to be
tossed in a blanket." This, however, does not occur in "Epsom-Wells," but in
another of Shadwell's comedies, called "The Sullen Lovers."

Note VII.

Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.—P. 434.

Shadwell appears to have been a proficient in music, and to have himself

adjusted that of his opera of "Psyche," which Dryden here treats with such
consummate contempt. Indeed, in the preface of that choice piece he affected
to value himself more upon the music than the poetry, as appears from the
following passage in the preface: "I had rather be author of one scene of
comedy, like some of Ben Jonson's, than of all the best plays of this kind, that
have been, or ever shall be written; good comedy requiring much more wit
and judgment in the writer, than any rhiming, unnatural plays can do. This I
have so little valued, that I have not altered six lines in it since it was first
written, which (except the songs at the marriage of Psyche, in the last scene)
was all done sixteen months since. In all the words which are sung, I did not
so much take care of the wit or fancy of them, as the making of them proper
for music; in which I cannot but have some little knowledge, having been
bred, for many years of my youth, to some performance in it.
"I chalked out the way to the composer, (in all but the song of Furies and
Devils, in the fifth act,) having designed which line I would have sung by one,
which by two, which by three, which by four voices, &c. and what manner of
humour I would have in all the vocal music."

Note VIII.
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel.—P. 435.

This unfortunate opera was imitated from the French of Moliere, and finished,
as Shadwell assures us, in the space of five weeks. The author having no
talents for poetry, and no ear for versification, "Psyche" is one of the most
contemptible of the frivolous dramatic class to which it belongs. It was,
however, got up with extreme magnificence, and received much applause on
its first appearance, in 1675. To justify the censure of Dryden, it is only
necessary to quote a few of the verses, taken at random as a specimen, of
what he afterwards calls "Prince Nicander's vein:"

Nicander. Madam, I to this solitude am come,

Humbly from you to hear my latest doom.

Psyche. The first command which I did give,

Was, that you should not see me here;
The next command you will receive,
Much harsher will to you appear.

Nic. How long, fair Psyche, shall I sigh in vain?

How long of scorn and cruelty complain?
Your eyes enough have wounded me,
You need not add your cruelty.
You against me too many weapons chuse,
Who am defenceless against each you use.

The poet himself seems so conscious of the sad inferiority of his verses, that
he makes, in the preface, a half apology, implying a mortifying consciousness,
that it was necessary to anticipate condemnation, by pleading guilty. "In a
thing written in five weeks, as this was, there must needs be many errors,
which I desire true critics to pass by; and which, perhaps, I see myself, but
having much business, and indulging myself with some pleasure too, I have
not had leisure to mend them; nor would it indeed be worth the pains, since
there are so many splendid objects in the play, and such variety of diversion,
as will not give the audience leave to mind the writing; and I doubt not but
the candid reader will forgive the faults, when he considers, that the great
design was to entertain the town with variety of music, curious dancing,
splendid scenes, and machines; and that I do not, nor ever did intend, to
value myself upon the writing of this play."
Shadwell, however, had no right to plead, that this affected contempt of his
own lyric poetry ought to have disarmed the criticism of Dryden; because, in
the very same preface, he sets out by insinuating, that he could easily have
beaten our author on his own strong ground of rhyme, had he thought such a
contest worth winning. So much, at least, may be inferred from the following
declaration:
"In a good-natured country, I doubt not but this, my first essay in rhyme,
would be at least forgiven, especially when I promise to offend no more in
this kind; but I am sensible that here I must encounter a great many
difficulties. In the first place, (though I expect more candour from the best
writers in rhyme,) the more moderate of them (who have yet a numerous
party, good judges being very scarce) are very much offended with me, for
leaving my own province of comedy, to invade their dominion of rhyme: but,
methinks, they might be satisfied, since I have made but a small incursion,
and am resolved to retire. And, were I never so powerful, they should escape
me, as the northern people did the Romans; their craggy barren territories
being not worth conquering."

Note IX.

——Pale with envy, Singleton forswore

The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more.—P. 435.

Singleton was a musical performer of some eminence, and is mentioned as

such in one of Shadwell's comedies.—"'Sbud, they are the best music in
England: there's the best shawm and bandore, and a fellow that acts Tom of
Bedlam to a miracle; and they sing Charon, oh, gentle Charon! and, Come,
my Daphne, better than Singleton and Clayton did."—Bury Fair, Act III. Scene
I. Villerius, the grand master of the knights hospitallers, is a principal
character in "The Siege of Rhodes," an opera by Sir William D'Avenant, where
great part of the dialogue is in a sort of lyrical recitative; in the execution of
which Singleton seems to have been celebrated. The first speech of this
valorous chief of the order of St John runs thus:
Arm, arm! let our drums beat,
To all our outguards, a retreat;
And to our main-guards add
Files double lined; from the parade
Send horse to drive the fields,
Prevent what ripening summer yields;
To all the foe would save
Set fire, or give a secret grave.

The combination of the lute and sword, which Dryden alludes to, is ridiculed
in "The Rehearsal," where Bayes informs his critical friends, that his whole
battle is to be represented by two persons; "for I make 'em both come forth
in armour cap-a-pee, with their swords drawn, and hung with a scarlet
ribband at their wrists, (which, you know, represents fighting enough,) each
of them holding a lute in his hand.—Smith. How, sir; instead of a buckler?—
Bayes. O Lord, O Lord! instead of a buckler! Pray, sir, do you ask no more
questions. I make 'em, sir, play the battle in recitativo; and here's the conceit:
Just at the very same instant that one sings, the other, sir, recovers you his
sword, and puts himself into a warlike posture; so that you have at once your
ear entertained with music and good language, and your eye satisfied with
the garb and accoutrements of war."—Rehearsal, Act V. The adverse generals
enter accordingly, and perform a sort of duet, great part of which is a parody
upon the lyrical dialogue of Villerius and the Soldan Solyman, in the "Siege of
Rhodes."

Note X.

Ancient Decker.—P. 436.

Decker, who did not altogether deserve the disgraceful classification which
Dryden has here assigned to him, was a writer of the reign of James I., and
the antagonist of Jonson. I suspect Dryden knew, or at least recollected, little
more of him, than that he was ridiculed, by his more renowned adversary,
under the character of Crispinus, in "The Poetaster." Indeed, nothing can be
more unfortunate to an inferior wit, than to be engaged in controversy with
an author of established reputation; since, though he may maintain his
ground with his contemporaries, posterity will always judge of him by the
character assigned in the writings of his antagonist. Decker was admitted to
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