A Pindarick ODE, IN THE PRAISE OF
Folly
and
Knavery.
By Mr.
TUTCHIN.
LONDON,
Printed and Sold by
E. W.
near
Stationers-Hall.
1696. Price 6
d.
THE EPISTLE.
SInce
Fools
and
Knaves
are the major part of the World, I must expect abundance of Enemies upon the Account of the following Poem; but as I hate the one, so I donit fear the other, and shall be unconcerned at the Resentments of both. Truth is a thing no Man need to be ashamed of, and he that's afraid to defend it deserves not the Title of a good Patriot. If these random Shot hit some, they have no reason to complain, since I could have as easily descended to particulars as have wrote in general Terms. I am sure all honest wise Men must agree with me, that none are so fit to support a just Government, as those who opposed the Tyranny of an arbitrary One, and purchased a just and legal Settlement with the expense of their Blood and Money. 'It is in vain to form a Government on the most Rational Principles of Human Policy, suited to the Universal Benefit of Mankind, if the Administration thereof be put into the hands of such Men, who have neither Wisdom to Understand, nor Honor nor Honesty enough to Support it: The very Being of that Prince is precarious, whose Government is supported by
Fools
and
Knaves.
The first are not able to give him Advice, yet through their folly may betray his Councils, which is equally as bad, as the others making themselves a piece of the Government
on purpose to rend the whole. There is as much difference betwixt Business and Grimace, the Combing of a Periwig, and the Exercise of right Reason, as there is betwixt the two greatest contraries in the World. To prefer a Man because he is a Fop, a Beau, or intrested by Marrying a Cast Chamber-maid, is very ridiculous: Or to prefer a Knave to Cheat a third King, because he has Cheated two before, is monstrous indeed, whilst noble Patriots, and Defenders of the Liberties of their Country, are perhaps forced quietly to see the Profits of their Labor and Toil ravished out of their hands, and nothing left to do but to contemplate on their Misfortunes, and can hardly distinguish betwixt their Fates, Hanging under Tyrannical Princes, and Starving under a Just One. They may look back, with an envious Eye, upon such of their Companions, who have made their
Exit
at the Gallows, whose fatherless Children are so far from being Rewarded, that the Memory of their Parents is a Bar to their Preferment; And to consider that a Righteous and Good Government is founded upon the Ruins of those very Patriots, makes the Scene yet more black and dismal. He only, that Governs the World, knows what will be the effect of such Management; But I sadly remember, it has been said,
Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat.
To my Friend, the Author of the ensuing
POEM.
ERasmus
first the noble Task began,
Expos'd the
Folly,
to reform the
Man;
In
Ironia
's pleasing Garb displayed
That
Vice,
by which we are
Fools
and
Asses
made.
But the rough
Truth
that should have made us wise,
Lay deeply hid beneath a learned Guise,
Shrowded, in Forms
Scholastic,
from our Eyes.
This hardened Age do's rougher Means require,
We must be
Cupp'd
and
Cauteriz'd
with
Fire.
For gentle Med'cines never can Health regain,
That strike the Patient with no sense of Pain.
When the Disease inveterate is grown,
Strong
Corrossives
must be applied, or none.
Thus on the Body growing
Ills
prevail,
We find we are Sick, but know not what we ail.
Our outward Weakness, and our inward Pain,
Give hints that some unknown Distempers reign.
Severely every groaning Limb do's feel
The sad Effects, yet none the Cause can tell.
To Politicians oft we have recourse,
Who, what they should have
mended,
still made
worse.
For that Physician never can give Ease,
Who's wholly Ignorant of the Disease:
Or, if he knows, would, rather than apply
The true
Specifick,
let the
Patient
die.
The mighty
Cure's
at last reserved for you,
You are our
Prophet
and
Physician
too.
First you inform us whence our
Ills
proceed,
Then kindly show what
Remedies
we need:
Next you foretell, if we these Rules neglect,
What we must from our
Negligence
expect:
A
State
that sees its Happiness too late;
A
Poet
struggling with
Cassandra
's Fate.
A Pindarick ODE In the Praise of
Folly
and
Knavery.
I.
MY humble Muse no Hero Sings,
Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings:
The great
Maria
now no more,
In Sable Lines she does deplore;
Of mighty
William
's growing fame,
At present must forget the name,
Yet she affects something that is sublime,
And would in
Dytherambick
strain
Attempt to rise, and now disdain
The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain:
He that's afraid to fall, should never pretend to climb.
II.
Let others boast of potent Wit,
And Summon in the awful
Nine,
With all their Aids of Fancy, Humor, Sence,
Fair polished Learning, Eloquence,
And call their gaudy works Divine:
Hov'ring above my Head let
dullness
sit,
The only God that's worship'd by the Age;
Immortal
Nonsence
guide my Pen,
The Fames of
Shakespear
and of
Ben,
Must warp, before my nobler fire
To their regardless Tombs retire.
Thus Arm'd, with Nonsence, I will engage
Both
Universities,
And their Pedantick fooleries,
Show the misguided World the Cheat,
And let
Man
know that
Nonsence
makes him Great.
III.
Almighty
Folly!
How shall I thy praise
To Human Understandings raise?
What shall I do
Thy worth to show?
The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day,
Gives vital warmth and life by every Ray,
His Blessings he in common grants,
To Hemlock as to nobler Plants;
Thy Virtue thou dost circumscribe,
And dost dispence
Thy influence,
But to the Darlings of thy Tribe,
Thou Wealth and Honor dost bestow
On thy triumphant
Fools,
Whilst abject Sence do's barefoot go;
So weak's the Learning of the noisie Schools.
IV.
Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who spend your time
In reading Books,
With thoughtful Heads and meagre Looks,
To Learnings Pinacle, who climb
Through the wild Briers of
Philosophy,
The Thorns of harsh
Philology,
The dirty Road where
Aristotle
went
Encumber'd with a thousand
terms
Uncouth, Unintelligible,
Not by any fancy fathomable,
Bringing distracted Minds to harms;
The rankest
Hellebore
cannot prevent.
Tell me, I say, ye Learn'd Sots!
Did ere the old or new Philosophy,
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?
Tho' you may think your Notions truer,
They'll never advance your Lots,
To the Estate of Wise Sir
Jonathan
the Brewer.
V.
A
Fool!
Heavens bless the charming Name,
So much admired in Ages past,
As long as this, and all the World shall last,
Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame.
A
Fool!
what mighty wonders has he wrought?
What mighty Actions done?
Obey'd by all, control'd by none;
Even
Love
its self is to its Footstool brought.
For toother day, I met amidst the Throng
A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young;
Madam,
said I, I wish you double Joy,
Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy,
And wish myself a sight of him you Wed,
The happy Part'ner of your Bridal Bed.
Sir, she replied, I him in Wedlock had;
Pointing unto an Image by her side,
An odder Figure no Man ere espy'd,
Long was his Chin, and carotty his Beard,
His Eyes sunk in, and high his Nose was reared,
A nauseous ugliness possessed the Tool,
And scarce had Wit enough to be a Fool:
Bless me (thought I) if Fools such fortune get,
Then who (the Devil) would be plagu'd with wit.
VI.
View but the Realms of
Nonsence,
see the State,
The Pageant pomp attends the show,
When the great God of
Dullness
does in triumph go,
How splendid and how great
His num'rous Train of Blockheads do appear?
Almighty
Jove,
That governs all above,
Is but a puny to this Mighty God,
The blustering God of War,
Who with one Nod
Makes the Earth tremble from afar,
Guarded with puissant Champions stern and bold
That breath Destruction, talk of bloody Jars,
Have naught but ragged Cloaths to keep off cold,
And tatter'd Ensigns relics of the Wars.
The God of
Dullness
mounted on his Throne▪
Beneath a Canopy
Of fixed stupidity,
Prostrate his num'rous Subjects tumble down,
They pay obeisance to their gloomy God,
And at his Nod
They act, they move,
They hate, they love,
They bless, they curse, they swear,
For they his Creatures are,
He amply does his Benefits afford,
For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord.
VII.
Then talk no more of Parts and Sence,
For Riches never attend the Wise,
Have you to dullness no pretence,
You shall to Grandeur never rise;
He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull,
Whose very aspect tells the World he is a Fool,
Whose thicker Skull
Is proof against each storm of Fate,
Is Born for Glory, and he shall be Great.
Who 'er
•
would rise,
Or great Preferment get,
Must nere pretend to Wit,
Or be that monstrous, ill shap'd Man called Wise;
He must not boast
Of Learning's value, or its cost;
But, if he would Preferment have,
He must be much a
Fool,
or much a
Knave.
VIII.
A
Knave!
the finer Creature far,
Tho' of the foolish Race of
Issachar.
As the unwieldy
Bear
among her young
Deform'd, and shapeless Cubs,
Finds one more strong,
Active and sprightly than the rest:
Him she transforms and rubs,
And licks into a better shape the Beast.
Thus do's the gloomy God of Folly do,
With the insipid Race:
He do's his num'rous Offspring call,
He handles one and feels his Skull;
If it be thick, he says, Be thou a Fool.
Another, if about his Face
He spies a roguish Mein, a cunning Look;
If there appears
The hopes of Falsehood in his tender Years,
Good signs of Perjury
And hardn'd Villany;
This for his secret Councils he do's save,
Lays on his Paw, and bids him, Be a
Knave.
IX.
A
Knave!
the elder Brother to the
Fool:
His vast Dominions are no less
Than the whole Universe:
The Lands are bounded by the Sea:
The Seas the sturdy Rocks obey:
The Storms do know the Limits of their Rule:
Neither the Land nor Sea this Hero bind,
But unconfin'd
O're both he finds a way,
O're both he bears Imperial sway:
His gay Attendants are the Cheat,
That ruins Kingdoms to be Great.
The fawning, flattring Fop, who creeps
Just like a Spaniel at your Heels,
To some illustrious Knave, who sweeps
Away a Kingdoms Wealth at once,
And with the Public Coin his Treasure fills;
For Kingdoms work toenrich the
Knave
and
Dunce.
X.
Honesty's a Garb we are mocked in,
Only wore by
Jews
and
Turks.
Merit is a Popish Doctrine;
Men have no regard to Works.
Substantial Knavery is a Virtue will
Your Coffers fill;
And Altars raise,
Unto your Praise.
Be but a Knave, you will keep the World in awe,
And fear no Law;
For no Transgression is,
Where all Men do amiss.
But here methinks an antiquated
Hero
starts,
Surpris'd at my Discourse;
He starts and boggles like a Horse,
And damns our modern Knavish Arts.
XI.
Vain
Youth,
he says misguided by a
Knave,
By some dull Blockhead tempted from thy rest;
The worldly Grandeur thou dost vainly crave,
Is naught but Noise and Foolishness at best.
What Man would quit his Sense,
Or, the wise Dictates of right Reason's Rule,
In vain pretence
To be a rich, a gaudy
Fool?
Or, quit his Honesty, so much despised,
And basely condescend,
To every little Knavish End;
Run headlong into every Cheat,
Attempt each Villany to make him Great.
Believe me Youth, (be better now advised)
Thy early Virtues will thy Temples spread,
With lasting Lawrels 'round thy Head.
Shall flourish when the Wearers dead.
I who have always honest been, though poor,
In whom the utmost signs of Age appears,
And sink beneath the Burthen of my Years,
Cou'd never yet adore
A Knave or Blockhead, were he never so Great;
Or, be like to them, to purchase an Estate.
XII.
Poor thredbare
Virtue
never admired in Courts▪
But seeks its Refuge in an honest Mind,
There it securely dwells,
Like
Anchorets
in Cells,
Where no Ambition nor wild Lust resorts:
To love our Country is indeed our Pride;
We glory in an honest Action done;
When the Reward is laid aside
The Glory and the Action is our own,
We seldom find
The Good, the Just, the Brave,
Have their Reward
From Princes they did save
From dire Destruction, or a poisoning Foe;
They let them go
Contemn'd, disdained; and most regard
Those Villians sought their overthrow.
As if the Just, the Brave, the Good,
Were but a
Bridge
of Wood
To waft to great Preferments over,
Those, who were our foes before,
And then be tumbl'd down like useless Logs,
While those, who just passed over,
And the obliging Bridge should thank,
Do scornfully stand grinning on the Bank,
To see the venerable Ruines float
Adrift upon the Stream,
Contemn'd by them,
Who give the Children's Bread unto the Dogs;
In vain,
says he,
we've fought—
But at this Word
He fiercely looked, and then he grasp'd his Sword.
XIII.
Pity it is, he said, this Sword of mine,
Of late so gloriously did shine,
In Foreign Fields 'midst Show'rs of Blood,
With which I have cut my Passage through
The Snowy
Alps
and
Pyrenean
Hills,
Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills,
'Mongst Warriors, who
Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good,
Should now be laid aside
'Mongst Rubbish Iron old,
From reeking Blood scarce cold;
Or else converted to a
Knife,
For some damned Villain first to cut
A Princes Bread, and next his Throat:
In vain we venture to preserve his Life,
In vain to Foreign Fields we come,
In vain to Foreign Force alli'd,
If a nefarious Brood at Home
Embarrass his Affairs,
Prolong the Wars,
Only t' enrich his Enemies,
Weaken his Government, and his Allies.
XIV.
'It is strange a Prince, should ere a
Fool
prefer,
To be an Officer!
A
Knave
may serve an unjust Government,
But never prevent
Those Mischiefs may attend the just:
For who would trust
A Villain may be bought by Gold,
Unless designed on purpose to be sold?
If Princes would use
Fools
as Shop-men do
Their Signs or Boards of show,
To tell the passers by there's better stuff
Within, 'tis rational enough.
But to set Centry at the Door,
A Patriot or a Senator,
Philosopher or Orator,
To tell the Passers by their is within▪
A
Merry Andrew
to be seen,
Is very much ridiculous,
Tho' to our grief▪ we often find it thus.
Thus Princes Bastardize
Their Countries Sons Legitimate,
And give the fair Estate
Unto a Spurious Brood,
That never did good;
The honest Work, the
Knave
enjoys the Prize.
XV.
A Government adorned with Fools,
Empty Trifles, useless Tools,
Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedeckt
With gaudy gewgaws, Children's play things,
Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures,
Wooden Folk, with Human features,
Made just for show, and no advantage brings,
And prove of no effect.
It dwindles to a
Raree-Show,
In which no Man must act a Part
But the dull
Blockhead
and the
Beau,
The huffing
Fop
without a Heart;
What Wise Man would a Journey take
On a dull Steed has broke his Back?
Or have recourse
Unto a
Hobby-Horse?
Those act by such wise Rules,
Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools.
XVI.
Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle
Is either lost,
Or what is worst,
Murder'd by those who should support her Fame,
Add Glory to her Name;
The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look,
Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine
But Veils its face Divine.
Jove
does misguide the Seasons every Year;
Nought can we read in Nature's Book,
To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while.
Our Mother Earth,
From whose unhappy Womb,
We Mortals come,
Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth,
But proves abortive as our Actions are;
Nought have we left but hope,
Just like the Blind at Noon we grope:
The number of our Sins we must fulfil,
And if we are saved, it is against our will.
FINIS.