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ODEL

(TO HIMSELF.)

OME leave the loathed stage,

And the more loathsome age;

Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,

Usurp the chair of wit!

Indicting and arraigning every day,

Something they call a play.

Let their fastidious, vain

Commission of the brain

Run on and rage, sweat, censure and condemn;
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.

Say that thou pour'st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat;

'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!

To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
Whose appetites are dead!

No, give them grains their fill,
Husks, draff to drink and swill:

If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not, their palate's with the swine.

No doubt some mouldy tale,
Like Pericles, and stale

1 This Ode is prefaced with the following explanatory notice:

"The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, by some malicious spectators, begat this following Ode to himself."

As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish

Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub,
May keep up the Play-club:

There, sweepings do as well
As the best-order'd meal;

For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit.

And much good do't you then :
Brave plush and velvet-men,

Can feed on orts; and, safe in your stage-clothes,
Dare quit, upon your oaths,

The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers,
Of larding your large ears

With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks;

Which if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough,

The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.

Leave things so prostitute,

And take the Alcaic lute;

Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar's fire:

And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold
Ere years have made thee old,

Strike that disdainful heat,
Throughout, to their defeat,

As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain.

But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,

His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men:
They may, blood-shaken then,

Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers
As they shall cry, "Like ours,

In sound of peace or wars,

No harp e'er hit the stars,

In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign;
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain." 2

2 This "strain of defiance," which is both vigorous and poetical, was not heard without impatience by some of the minor critics of the day, who took offence at its "arrogance," and retorted on the poet with more justice (it must be said) than humanity. The only piece on the subject, which is come down to us, is a kind of parody of the style and measure of the ode, by Owen Feltham, the author of the Resolves.

Several of the first scholars of the time amused themselves with putting this ode into Latin verse. There is a translation by Randolph; and another by W. Strode, whom Oldys, in his MS. notes to Langbaine, calls, how correctly I know not, "the University Orator of Cambridge," is now before me, in the hand-writing of sir Kenelm Digby. The reader may take the two last stanzas as specimens of its latinity.

Hæc conamina prostituta mitte,

Alcaumque manu resume plectrum,

Anacreonta, tuum Flaccum, simul igne calescas
Pindarica musæ :

Contractusque licet nervis, et sanguine lentus,
Ante dies canos,

Indignante lyrå cie calorem:

Sic tenta modulos ubique Victor,
Ut stolide percontatrix ac invida turba,
Hoc cerebrum juret nullum quassare tremorem.

At quando audierint lyra accinentem
Te magnalia Cæsaris Britanni,
Quâ pietate Deum, quâ majestate popellum
Et colit et terret;

Sanguine stent quassi, carnis tremor occupet artus,
Quod lyra sic nulla

Seu pacem resonat, vel arma clangat,
Vere sidera perforare posset,

Quando gesta legent Caroli, currumque videbunt
Alterius Caroli plaustrum superare triumpho.

AN ANSWER TO THE ODE,

Come leave the loathed Stage, &c.

(BY OWEN FELTHAM.)

OME leave this saucy way
Of baiting those that pay

Dear for the sight of your declining wit :
'Tis known it is not fit,

That a sale poet, just contempt once thrown,
Should cry up thus his own.

I wonder by what dower,

Or patent, you had power

From all to rape a judgment. Let 't suffice,
Had you been modest, you'd been granted wise.
'Tis known you can do well,
And that you do excell,

As a Translator: But when things require
A genius, and fire,

Not kindled heretofore by others pains;
As oft you've wanted brains

And art to strike the white,

As you have levell'd right:

Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.

Jug, Pierce, Peck, Fly, and all

Your jests so nominal,

Are things so far beneath an able brain,

As they do throw a stain

Through all th' unlikely plot, and do displease As deep as Pericles,

Where, yet, there is not laid

Before a chambermaid

Discourse so weigh'd as might have serv'd of old
For schools, when they of love and valour told.
Why rage then! when the show
Should judgment be and know-

ledge, there are in plush who scorn to drudge
For stages, yet can judge

Not only poets looser lines, but wits,
And all their perquisits.

A gift as rich, as high

Is noble poesie :

Yet though in sport it be for kings a play,
Tis next mechanics, when it works for pay.
Alcæus lute had none,

Nor loose Anacreon

Ere taught so bold assuming of the bays,
When they deserv'd no praise.

To rail men into approbation,

Is new to yours alone;

And prospers not: for know,

Fame is as coy, as you

Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove
A rape on her, shall gather scorn, not love.
Leave then this humour vain,

And this more humorous strain,

Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood
Eclipse what else is good:

Then if

you please those raptures high to touch, Whereof you boast so much;

And but forbear your crown,

Till the world puts it on:

No doubt from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phoebus ever saw.3

3 Whalley speaks somewhat slightly of Feltham: but his parody appears to me to have a considerable degree of merit, and its good sense and pertinacity cannot be denied. A little more mercy to the sick and sorrowful state of the declining poet would not have

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