This satire was written in reply to a savage poem by the dramatist, Thomas Shadwell, entitled "The Medal of John Dayes". Dryden and Shadwell had been friends, but the enmity begotten of political opposition had separated them. Flecknoe, who gives the name to this poem, and of whom Shadwell is treated as the son and heir, was a dull poet who had always laid himself open to ridicule. It is not known (says W.D. Christie in the _Globe_ Dryden) whether he had ever given Dryden offence, but it is certain that his "Epigrams", published in 1670, contain some lines addressed to Dryden of a complimentary character. All human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey; This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long; In prose and verse, was own'd, 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, pond'ring, which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, Cry'd, "'Tis resolv'd; 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: Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he, Who stands confirm'd 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 fabrick fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. Heywood and Shirley 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, 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, With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge. Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; And big with hymn, commander of an host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. Methinks I see the new Arion fail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore, The trebles squeak with 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,