Edward Howard

Earl of Rochester, "Upon the Same [Edward Howard]" Poems on Several Occasions (1680) 90-91.

Thou damn'd Antipodes to common sense,
Thou Foyle to Fluence! prethee tell from whence,
Does all this mighty Rock of dullness spring,
Which in such Loads thou to the Stage dost bring?
Is't all thy own? or hast thou from Snow-hill,
Th' assurance of some Ballad making Quill?
No, they fly higher yet; thy Plays are such,
I'd swear they were translated out of Dutch:
And who the Devil, was e're yet so drunk,
To read the Volumes of Myn-Heer-Van Dunk?
Fain wou'd I know what Dyet thou dost keep,
If thou dost always, or dow never sleep?
Sure Hasty Pudding, is thy chiefest Dish,
With Lights, and Livers, and with stinking Fish.
Ox-cheek Tripe, Garbage, thou dost treat thy Brain
Which nobly pays this Tribute back again.
With Dazy Roots, thy dwafish Muse is fed,
A Gyants Body, with a Pigmyes Head.
Canst thou not find 'mongst thy num'rous Race,
One Friend, so kind, to tell thee that thy Play's;
Laught at by Box, Pit, Gallery, nay Stage,
And grown the naus'ous grievance of this Age!
Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find,
Thy Body made for labour, not thy Mind.
Nor other use of Paper, thou shou'dst make,
But carry Loads of Rhymes, upon thy Back;
Carry vast Burthens till thy Shoulders shrink,
But curst be he, that gives thee Pen, and Ink,
Those dang'rous Weapons, shou'd be kept from Fools,
As Nurse from their Children, keep Edge-tools.
For thy dull Muse, a Muckender were fit,
To wipe the slav'rings of her Infant Wit:
Which though 'tis late (if Justice cou'd be found,
Shou'd like blind, new born Puppy's, yet be drown'd)
For were it not we must respect afford,
To any Muse, that's Grand-chil, to a Lord;
Thine, in the Ducking-stool, shou'd take her Seat,
Drencht like her self, in a great Chair of State,
Where like a Muse, of Quality, she'll dye,
And thou thy self, shalt make her Elegy,
In the same Strain, thou writ'st thy Comedy.