BOOK I.

POETICAL WORKS

OF

JOHN DRYDEN.

With Life, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes,

BY THE

REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.

VOL. II.

M. DCCC. LV.

CRITICAL ESTIMATE

OF THE

GENIUS AND POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN.

In our Life of Dryden we promised to say something about the question,

how far is a poet, particularly in the moral tendency and taste of his

writings, to be tried--and either condemned or justified--by the

character and spirit of his age? To a rapid consideration of this

question we now proceed, before examining the constituent elements or

the varied fruits of the poet's genius.

And here, unquestionably, there are extremes, which every critic should

avoid. Some imagine that a writer of a former century should be tried,

either by the standard which prevails in the cultured and civilised

nineteenth, or by the exposition of moral principles and practice which

is to be found in the Scriptures. Now, it is obviously, so far as taste

is concerned, as unjust to judge a book written in the style and manner

of one age by the merely arbitrary and conventional rules established in

another, as to judge the dress of our ancestors by the fashions of the

present day. And in respect of morality, it is as unfair to visit with

the same measure of condemnation offences against decorum or decency,

committed by writers living before or living after the promulgation of

the Christian code, as it would be to class the Satyrs, Priapi, and

Bacchantes of an antique sculptor, with their imitations, by inferior

and coarser artists, in later times. There must be a certain measure of

allowance made for the errors of Genius when it was working as the

galley-slave of its tradition and period, and when it had not yet

received the Divine Light which, shining into the world from above, has

supplied men with higher æsthetic as well as spiritual models of

principles, and revealed man's body to be the temple of the Holy Ghost.

To look for our modern philanthropy in that "Greek Gazette," the Iliad

of Homer--to expect that reverence for the Supreme Being which the Bible

has taught us in the Metamorphoses of Ovid--or to seek that refinement

of manners and language which has only of late prevailed amongst us, in

the plays of Aristophanes and Plautus--were very foolish and very vain.

In ages not so ancient, and which have revolved since the dawn of

Christianity, a certain coarseness of thought and language has been

prevalent; and for it still larger allowance should be made, because it

has been applied to simplicity rather than to sensuality--to rustic

barbarism, not to civilised corruption--and carries along with it a

rough raciness, and a reference to the sturdy aboriginal beast--just as

acorns in the trough suggest the immemorial forests where they grew, and

the rich greenswards on which they fell.

In two cases, it thus appears, should the severest censor be prepared to

modify his condemnation of the bad taste or the impurity to be found in

writers of genius--first, in that of a civilization, perfect in its

kind, but destitute of the refining and sublimating element which a

revelation only can supply; and, secondly, in that of those ages in

which the lights of knowledge and religion are contending with the gloom

of barbarian rudeness. Perhaps there are still two other cases capable

of palliation--that of a mind so constituted as to be nothing, if not a

mirror of its age, and faithfully and irresistibly reflecting even its

vices and pollutions; or that of a mind morbidly in love with the

morbidities and the vile passages of human nature. But suppose the case

of a writer, sitting under the full blaze of Gospel truth, professedly a

believer in the Gospel, and intimately acquainted with its oracles,

living in a late and dissipated, not a rude and simple age--possessed of

varied and splendid talents, which qualified him to make as well as to

mirror, and with a taste naturally sound and manly, who should yet seek

to shock the feelings of the pious, to gratify the low tendencies, and

fire to frenzy the evil passions of his period--he is not to be shielded

by the apology that he has only conformed to the bad age on which he was

so unfortunate as to fall. Prejudice may, indeed, put in such a plea in

his defence; but the inevitable eye of common sense, distinguishing

between necessity and choice, between coarseness and corruption, between

a man's passively yielding to and actively inviting and encouraging the

currents of false taste and immorality which he must encounter, will

find that plea nugatory, and bring in against the author a verdict of

guilty.

Now this, we fear, is exactly the case of Dryden. He was neither a

"barbarian" nor a "Scythian." He was a conscious artist, not a high

though helpless reflector of his age. He had not, we think, like his

relative, Swift, originally any diseased delight in filth for its own

sake; was not--shall we say?--a natural, but an artificial _Yahoo_. He

wielded a power over the public mind, approaching the absolute, and

which he could have turned to virtuous, instead of vicious account--at

first, it might have been amidst considerable resistance and obloquy,

but ultimately with triumphant success. This, however, he never

attempted, and must therefore be classed, in this respect, with such

writers as Byron, whose powers gilded their pollutions, less than their

pollutions degraded and defiled their powers; nay, perhaps he should be

ranked even lower than the noble bard, whose obscenities are not so

gross, and who had, besides, to account for them the double palliations

of passion and of despair.

In these remarks we refer principally to Dryden's plays; for his poems,

as we remarked in the Life, are (with the exception of a few of the

Prologues, which we print under protest) in a great measure free from

impurity. We pass gladly to consider him in his genius and his poetical

works. The most obvious, and among the most remarkable characteristics

of his poetic style, are its wondrous elasticity and ease of movement.

There is never for an instant any real or apparent effort, any

straining for effect, any of that "double, double, toil and trouble," by

which many even of the weird cauldrons in which Genius forms her

creations are disturbed and bedimmed. That power of doing everything

with perfect and _conscious_ ease, which Dugald Stewart has ascribed to

Barrow and to Horsley in prose, distinguished Dryden in poetry. Whether

he discusses the deep questions of fate and foreknowledge in "Religio

Laici," or lashes Shaftesbury in the "Medal," or pours a torrent of

contempt on Shadwell in "MacFlecknoe," or describes the fire of London

in the "Annus Mirabilis," or soars into lyric enthusiasm in his "Ode on

the Death of Mrs Killigrew," and "Alexander's Feast," or paints a

tournament in "Palamon and Arcite," or a fairy dance in the "Flower and

the Leaf,"--he is always at home, and always aware that he is. His

consciousness of his own powers amounts to exultation. He is like the

steed who glories in that tremendous gallop which affects the spectator

with fear. Indeed, we never can separate our conception of Dryden's

vigorous and vaulting style from the image of a noble horse, devouring

the dust of the field, clearing obstacles at a bound, taking up long

leagues as a little thing, and the very strength and speed of whose

motion give it at a distance the appearance of smoothness. Pope speaks

of his

"Long resounding march, and energy divine."

Perhaps "_ease_ divine" had been words more characteristic of that

almost superhuman power of language by which he makes the most obstinate

materials pliant, melts down difficulties as if by the touch of magic,

and, to resume the former figure, comes into the goal without a hair

turned on his mane, or a single sweat-drop confessing effort or

extraordinary exertion. We know no poet since Homer who can be compared

to Dryden in this respect, except Scott, who occasionally, in "Marmion,"

and the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," exhibits the same impetuous ease and

fiery fluent movement. Scott does not, however, in general, carry the

same weight as the other; and the species of verse he uses, in

comparison to the heroic rhyme of Dryden, gives you often the impression

of a hard trot, rather than of a "long-resounding" and magnificent

gallop. Scott exhibits in his poetry the soul of a warrior; but it is of

a warrior of the Border--somewhat savage and coarse. Dryden can, for the

nonce at least, assume the appearance, and display the spirit, of a

knight of ancient chivalry--gallant, accomplished, elegant, and gay.

Next to this poet's astonishing ease, spirit, and elastic vigour, may be

ranked his clear, sharp intellect. He may be called more a logician than

a poet. He reasons often, and always acutely, and his rhyme, instead of

shackling, strengthens the movement of his argumentation. Parts of his

"Religio Laici" and the "Hind and Panther" resemble portions of Duns

Scotus or Aquinas set on fire. Indeed, keen, strong intellect, inflamed

with passion, and inspirited by that "ardour and impetuosity of mind"

which Wordsworth is compelled to allow to him, rather than creative or

original genius, is the differentia of Dryden. We have compared him to a

courser, but he was not one of those coursers of Achilles, who fed on no

earthly food, but on the golden barley of heaven, having sprung from the

gods--

[Greek: Xanthon kai Balion, to ama pnoiaesi, petesthaen.

Tous eteke Zephuro anemo Arpua Podargae.]

Dryden resembled rather the mortal steed which was yoked with these

immortal twain, the brood of Zephyr and the Harpy Podarga; only we can

hardly say of the poet what Homer says of Pedasus--

[Greek: Os kai thnaetos eon, epeth ippois athanatoisi.]

He was _not_, although a mortal, able to keep up with the immortal

coursers. His path was on the plains or table-lands of earth--never or

seldom in "cloudland, gorgeous land," or through the aerial altitudes

which stretch away and above the clouds to the gates of heaven. He can

hardly be said to have possessed the power of sublimity, in the high

sense of that term, as the power of sympathising with the feeling of the

Infinite. Often he gives us the impression of the picturesque, of the

beautiful, of the heroic, of the nobly disdainful--but never (when

writing, at least, entirely from his own mind) of that infinite and

nameless grandeur which the imaginative soul feels shed on it from the

multitudinous waves of ocean--from the cataract leaping from his rock,

as if to consummate an act of prayer to God--from the hum of great

assemblies of men--from the sight of far-extended wastes and

wildernesses--and from the awful silence, and the still more mysterious

sparkle of the midnight stars. This sense of the presence of the

_shadow_ of immensity--immensity itself cannot be felt any more than

measured--this sight like that vouchsafed to Moses of the "backparts" of

the Divine--the Divine itself cannot be seen--has been the inspiration

of all the highest poetry of the world--of the "Paradise Lost," of the

"Divina Commedia," of the "Night Thoughts," of Wordsworth and Coleridge,

of "Festus," and, highest far, of the Hebrew Prophets, as they cry,

"Whither can we go from Thy presence? whither can we flee from Thy

Spirit?" Such poets have resembled a blind man, who feels, although he

cannot see, that a stranger of commanding air is in the room beside him;

so they stand awe-struck in the "wind of the going" of a majestic and

unseen Being. This feeling differs from mysticism, inasmuch as it is

connected with a reality, while the mystic dreams a vague and

unsupported dream, and the poetry it produces is simply the irresistible

cry springing from the perception of this wondrous Some One who is

actually near them. The feeling is connected, in general, with a lofty

moral and religious nature; and yet not always, since, while wanting in

Dryden, we find it intensely discovered, although in an imperfect and

perverted shape, in Byron and Rousseau.

In Dryden certainly it exists not. We do not--and in this we have

Jeffrey's opinion to back us--remember a single line in his poetry that

can be called sublime, or, which is the same thing, that gives us a

thrilling shudder, as if a god or a ghost were passing by. Pleasure,

high excitement,--rapture even, he often produces; but such a feeling as

is created by that line of Milton,

"To bellow through the vast and boundless deep,"

never. Compare, in proof of this, the description of the tournament in

"Palamon and Arcite"--amazingly spirited as it is--to the description of

the war-horse in Job; or, if that appear too high a test, to the

contest of Achilles with the rivers in Homer; to the war of the Angels,

and the interrupted preparations for contest between Gabriel and Satan

in Milton; to the contest between Apollyon and Christian in the

"Pilgrim's Progress;" to some of the combats in Spenser; and to that

wonderful one of the Princess and the Magician in midair in the "Arabian

Nights," in order to understand the distinction between the most

animated literal pictures of battle and those into which the element of

imagination is strongly injected by the poet, who can, to the inevitable

shiver of human nature at the sight of struggle and carnage, add the far

more profound and terrible shiver, only created by a vision of the

concomitants, the consequences--the UNSEEN BORDERS of the bloody scene.

Take these lines, for instance:--

"They look anew: the beauteous form of fight

Is changed, and war appears a grisly sight;

Two troops in fair array one moment showed--

The next, a field with fallen bodies strowed;

Not half the number in their seats are found,

But men and steeds lie grovelling on the ground.

The points of spears are stuck within the shield,

The steeds without their riders scour the field;

The knights, unhorsed, on foot renew the fight--

The glittering faulchions cast a gleaming light;

Hauberks and helms are hew'd with many a wound,

Out-spins the streaming blood, and dyes the ground."

This is vigorous and vivid, but is not imaginative or suggestive. It

does not carry away the mind from the field to bring back thoughts and

images, which shall, so to speak, brood over, and aggravate the general

horror. It is, in a word, plain, good painting, but it is not poetry.

There is not a metaphor, such as "he _laugheth_ at the shaking of a

spear," in it all.

In connexion with this defect in imagination is the lack of natural

imagery in Dryden's poetry. Wordsworth, indeed, greatly overcharges the

case, when he says (in a letter to Scott), "that there is not a single

image from nature in the whole body of his poetry." We have this minute

taken up the "Hind and the Panther," and find two images from nature in

one page:--

"As where in fields the fairy rounds are seen,

A rank sour herbage rises on the green;

So," &c.

And a few lines down:--

"As where the lightning runs along the ground,

No husbandry can heal the blasting wound."

And some pages farther on occurs a description of Spring, not unworthy

of Wordsworth himself; beginning--

"New blossoms flourish and new flowers arise,

As _God had been abroad_, and walking there,

Had left his footsteps, and reform'd the year."

Still it is true, that, taking his writings as a whole, they are thin in

natural images; and even those which occur, are often rather the echoes

of his reading, than the results of his observation. And what Wordsworth

adds is, we fear, true; in his translation of Virgil, where Virgil can

be fairly said to have his eye upon his object, Dryden always spoils the

passage. The reason of this, apart from his want of high imaginative

sympathy, may be found in his long residence in London; and his lack of

that intimate daily familiarity with natural scenes, which can alone

supply thorough knowledge, or enkindle thorough love. Nature is not like

the majority of other mistresses. Her charms deepen the longer she is

known; and he that loves her most warmly, has watched her with the

narrowest inspection. She can bear the keenest glances of the

microscope, and to see all her glory would exhaust an antediluvian life.

The appetite, in her case, "grows with what it feeds on;" but such an

appetite was not Dryden's.

Another of his great defects is, in true tenderness of feeling. He has

very few passages which can be called pathetic. His Elegies and funeral

Odes, such as those on "Mrs Killigrew" and "Eleonora," are eloquent; but

they move you to admiration, not to tears. Dryden's long immersion in

the pollutions of the playhouses, had combined, with his long course of

domestic infelicity, and his employments as a hack author, a party

scribe, and a satirist, to harden his heart, to brush away whatever fine

bloom of feeling there had been originally on his mind, and to render

him incapable of even simulating the softer emotions of the soul. But

for the discovered fact, that he was in early life a lover of his

relative, Honor Driden, you would have judged him from his works

incapable of a pure passion. "Lust hard by Hate," being his twin idols,

how could he represent human, far less ethereal love; and how could he

touch those springs of holy tears, which lie deep in man's heart, and

which are connected with all that is dignified, and all that is divine

in man's nature? What could the author of "Limberham" know of love, or

the author of "MacFlecknoe" of pity?

Wordsworth, in that admirable letter to which we have repeatedly

referred, says, "Whenever his language is poetically impassioned, it is

mostly upon unpleasing subjects, such as the follies, vices, and crimes

of classes of men, or individuals." This is unquestionable. He never so

nearly reaches the sublime, as when he is expressing contempt. He never

rises so high, as in the act of trampling. He is a "good hater," and

expresses his hatred with a mixture of _animus_ and ease, of fierceness

and of trenchant rapidity, which makes it very formidable. He only, as

it were, waves off his adversaries disdainfully, but the very wave of

his hand cuts like a sabre. His satire is not savage and furious, like

Juvenal's; not cool, collected, and infernal, like that of Junius; not

rabid and reckless, like that of Swift; and never darkens into the

unearthly grandeur of Byron's: but it is strong, swift, dashing, and

decisive. Nor does it want deep and subtle touches. His pictures of

Shaftesbury and Buckingham are as delicately finished, as they are

powerfully conceived. He flies best at the highest game; but even in

dealing with Settles and Shadwells, he can be as felicitous as he is

fierce. No satire in the world contains lines more exquisitely inverted,

more ingeniously burlesqued, more artfully turned out of their

apparently proper course, like rays at once refracted and cooled, than

those which thus ominously panegyrise Shadwell:--

"His brows thick fogs, instead of glories grace,

And _lambent dulness_ play'd about his face.

As Hannibal did to the altar come,

Sworn 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."

Better still the following picture, in imitation of the Homeric or

Miltonic manner:--

"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."

What inimitable irony in this epithet! The God of dulness _raging_! A

stagnant pool in a passion; a canal insane; a _mouton enragé_, as the

French says; or a snail in a tumultuous state of excitement, were but

types of the satirical ideas implied in these words. What a description

of labouring nonsense--of the Pythonic genius of absurdity, panting and

heaving on his solemnly ridiculous tripod!

The language and versification of Dryden have been praised, and justly.

His style is worthy of a still more powerful and original vein of genius

than his own. It is a masculine, clear, elastic, and varied diction,

fitted to express all feelings, save the deepest; all fancies, save the

subtlest; all passions, save the loftiest; all moods of mind, save the

most disinterested and rapt; to represent incidents, however strange;

characters, however contradictory to each other; shades of meaning,

however evasive: and to do all this, as if it were doing nothing, in

point of ease, and as if it were doing everything in point of felt and

rejoicing energy. No poetic style since can, in such respects, be

compared to Dryden's. Pope's to his is feeble--and Byron's forced. He

can say the strongest things in the swiftest way, and the most

felicitous expressions seem to fall unconsciously from his lips. Had his

matter, you say, but been equal to his manner, his thought in

originality and imaginative power but commensurate with the boundless

quantity, and no less admirable quality, of his words! His versification

deserves a commendation scarcely inferior. It is "all ear," if we may so

apply an expression of Shakspeare's. No studied rules,--no elaborate

complication of harmonies,--it is the mere sinking and swelling of the

wave of his thought as it moves onward to the shore of his purpose. And,

as in the sea, there are no furrows absolutely isolated from each other,

but each leans on, or melts into each, and the subsidence of the one is

the rise of the other--so with the versification of his better poetry.

The beginning of the "Hind and Panther," we need not quote; but it will

be remembered, as a good specimen of that peculiar style of running the

lines into one another, and thereby producing a certain free and noble

effect, which the uniform tinkle of Pope and his school is altogether

unable to reach; a style which has since been copied by some of our

poets--by Churchill, by Cowper, and by Shelley. The lines of the

artificial school, on the other hand, may be compared to _rollers_, each

distinct from each other,--each being in itself a whole,--but altogether

forming none. Pope, says Hazlitt, has turned Pegasus into a

rocking-horse.

We are, perhaps, nearly right when we call Dryden the most _eloquent_

and _rhetorical_ of English poets. He bears in this respect an analogy

to Lucretius among the Romans, who, inferior in polish to Virgil, was

incomparably more animated and energetic in style; who exhibited,

besides, traits of lofty imagination rarely met with in Virgil, and

never in Dryden; and who equalled the English poet in the power of

reasoning in verse, and setting the severe abstractions of metaphysical

thought to music. With the Shakspeares, Chaucers, Spensers, Miltons,

Byrons, Wordsworths, and Coleridges, the _Dii majorum gentium_ of the

Poetic Pantheon of Britain, Dryden ranks not, although towering far

above the Moores, Goldsmiths, Gays, and Priors. He may be classed with a

middle, but still high order, in which we find the names of Scott, as a

_poet_, Johnson, Pope, Cowper, Southey, Crabbe, and two or three others,

who, while all excelling Dryden in some qualities, are all excelled by

him in others, and bulk on the whole about as largely as he on the

public eye.

We come to make a few remarks, in addition to some we have already

incidentally made, on Dryden's separate works. And first of his Lyrics.

His songs, properly so called, are lively, buoyant, and elastic; yet,

compared to those of Shakspeare, they are of "the earth, earthy." They

are the down of the thistle, carried on a light breeze upwards.

Shakspeare's resemble aerial notes--snatches of superhuman

melody--descending from above. Compared to the warm-gushing songs of

Burns, Dryden's are cold. Better than his songs are his Odes. That on

the death of Mrs Killigrew has much divided the opinion of critics--Dr

Johnson calling it magnificent, and Warton denying it any merit. We

incline to a mediate view. It has bold passages; the first and the last

stanzas are very powerful, and the whole is full of that rushing

torrent-movement characteristic of the poet. But the sinkings are as

deep as the swellings, and the inequality disturbs the general effect.

This is still more true of "Threnodia Augustalis," the ode on the death

of Charles II. Not only is its spirit fulsome, and its statement of

facts grossly partial, but many of its lines are feeble, and the whole

is wire-spun. Yet what can be nobler in thought and language than the

following, descriptive of the joy at the king's partial recovery!--

"Men met each other with erected look,

The steps were higher that they took;

Each to congratulate his friend made haste,

And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd."

How admirably this last line describes that sudden solution of the

hostile elements in human nature-that swift sense of unity in society,

produced by some glad tidings or great public enthusiasm, when for an

hour the Millennium is anticipated, and the poet's wish, that

"Man wi' man, the warld o'er,

Shall brithers be, for a' that,"

is fulfilled!

The two odes on St Cecilia's Day are both admirable in different ways.

"Alexander's Feast," like Burns's "Tam o' Shanter," seems to come out at

once "as from a mould." It is pure inspiration, but of the second

order--rather that of the Greek Pythoness than of the Hebrew prophet.

Coleridge or Wordsworth makes the objection to it, that the Bacchus it

describes is the mere vulgar deity of drink--

"Flush'd with a purple grace,

He shows his honest face"--

not the ideal Bacchus, clad in vine-leaves, returning from the conquest

of India, and attended by a procession of the lions and tigers he had

tamed. But this, although a more imaginative representation of the god

of wine, had not been so suitably sung at an entertainment presided over

by an Alexander and a Thais, a drunk conqueror and a courtezan. Dryden

himself, we have seen, thought this the best ode that ever was or would

be written in the English language. In a certain sense he was right. For

vivacity, freedom of movement, and eloquence, it has never been

equalled. But there are some odes--such as Coleridge's "Ode to France"

and Wordsworth's "Power of Sound"--which as certainly excel it in

strength of imagination, grandeur of conception, and unity of execution

and effect.

Of Dryden's Satires we have already spoken in a general way. "Absalom

and Achitophel" is of course the masterpiece, and cannot be too highly

praised as a gallery of portraits, and for the daring force and felicity

of its style. Why enlarge on a poem, almost every line of which has

become a proverb? "The Medal" is inferior only in condensation--in

spirit and energy it is quite equal. In "MacFlecknoe," the mock-heroic

is sustained with unparalleled vigour from the first line to the last.

Shadwell is a favourite of Dryden's ire. He _fancies_ him, and loves to

empty out on his head all the riches of his wrath. What can be more

terrible than the words occurring in the second part of "Absalom and

Achitophel"--

"When wine hath given him courage to blaspheme,

He curses God--but _God before curst him_!"

He has written two pieces, which may be called didactic or controversial

poems--"Religio Laici" and "The Hind and Panther." The chief power of

the former is in its admirable combination of two things, often

dissociated--reason and rhyme; and its chief interest lies in the light

it casts upon Dryden's uncertainty of religious view. The thought has

little originality, the versification less varied music than is his

wont, and no passage of transcendent power occurs. Far more faulty in

plan, and far more unequal, is "The Hind and Panther;" but it has, on

the other hand, many passages of amazing eloquence--some satirical

pictures equal to anything in "Absalom and Achitophel"--some vivid

natural descriptions; and even the absurdities of the fable, and the

sophistries of the argument add to its character as the most exquisitely

perverted piece of ingenuity in the language. Nothing but high genius,

very vigorously exerted, could reconcile us to a story so monstrous, and

to reasoning so palpably one-sided and weak.

His Epistles are of divers merit, but all discover Dryden's usual sense,

sarcastic observation, and sweeping force of style. The best are that to

Sir Godfrey Kneller--remarkable for its knowledge of, and graceful

tribute to, the "serene and silent art" of painting; and the very noble

epistle addressed to Congreve, which reminds you of one giant hand of

genius held out to welcome and embrace another. Gross flatterer as

Dryden often was, there is something in this epistle that rings true,

and the emotion in it you feel even all his powers could never have

enabled him to counterfeit. Such generous patronage of rising, by

acknowledged merit, was as rare then as it is still. The envy of the

literary man too often crowns his gray hairs with a chaplet of

nightshade, and pours its dark poison into the latest cup of existence.

His "Annus Mirabilis" is another instance of perverted power, and

ingenuity astray. Written in that bad style he found prevalent in his

early days--the style of the metaphysical poets, Cowley, Donne, and

Drayton--the author ever and anon soars out of his trammels into strong

and simple poetry, fervid description, and in one passage--that about

the future fortunes of London--into eloquent prophecy. The fire of

London is vigorously pictured, but its breath of flame should have

burned up petty conceit and tawdry ornament. He should have sternly

daguerreotyped the spectacle of the capital of the civilised world

burning--a spectacle awful, not only in the sight of men, but, as Hall

says of the French Revolution, in that of superior beings. We need not

dwell on the far-famed absurdities which the poem contains--about God

turning a "crystal pyramid into a broad extinguisher" to put out the

fire--of the ship compared to a sea-wasp floating on the waves--and of

men in the fight killed by "aromatic splinters" from the Spice Islands!

Criticism has long ago said its best and its worst about these early

escapades of a writer whose taste, to the last, was never commensurate

with his genius.

His Translations we have not included in this edition, as we reserve

them, along with other masterpieces of translated verse, for a separate

issue afterwards. That of the "Art of Poetry," sometimes included in

editions of his works, was not his, but only revised by him. We may say

here, in general, however, that although there are more learned and more

correct translators than Dryden, there are few who have produced

versions so vigorous, so full of exuberant life, and, in those parts of

the authors suitable to the peculiarities of the translator's own

genius, so faithful to their spirit and soul, if not to their letter and

their body, as he. Parts of Virgil he does not translate well; he has no

sympathy with Maro's elegance, _concinnitas_, chaste grandeur, and

minute knowledge of nature; but wherever Virgil begins to glow and

gallop, Dryden glows and gallops with him; and wherever Virgil is

nearest Homer, Dryden is nearest him.

We have reserved to the close his Fables, as, on the whole, forming the

culmination of Dryden the artist, if not, perhaps, of Dryden the poet.

In preparing his poems for publication, how refreshing we found it to

pass from a needful although cursory perusal of his plays, and a

revision of his prologues, to these comparatively pure, right-manly, and

eloquent compositions--the fables of Dryden! We do not, because it would

be hardly fair, with Wordsworth, seek to compare them with the

Chaucerian originals--a comparison under which they would be infallibly

crushed. We prefer looking at them as bearing only the relation to

Chaucer which Macpherson's, did to the original, Ossian. And regarding

them in this light, as adaptations, where the original author furnishes

only the ground-work, they are surely masterpieces and models of

composition, if not exemplars of creative power and genius. How free and

majestic their numbers! How bold and buoyant their language! How

interesting the stories they tell! How perfect the preservation, and

artful the presentment, of the various characters! What a fine

chivalrous spirit breathes in "Palamon and Arcite!" What a soft yet

purple, pure yet gorgeous, light of love hovers over the "Flower and the

Leaf!"--the only poem of Dryden's in which--thanks perhaps to his

master, Chaucer--the poet discovers the slightest perception of that

"Love which spirits feel

In climes where all is equable and pure."

What gay and gallant badinage, exquisite irony, and interesting

narrative, in the story of "The Cock and Fox!" And what knowledge of

human nature and skilful construction in "The Wife of Bath's Tale!" We

are half inclined, with George Ellis, to call these fables the "noblest

specimen of versification to be found in any modern language." We

gather, too, from them a notion about Dryden's capabilities, which we

may state. It is, that had Dryden lived in a novel and romance-writing

age, and turned his great powers in that direction, he might have easily

become the best fictionist--next to Cervantes and Scott--that ever

lived, possessing, as he did, most of the qualities of a good

novelist--vigorous and facile diction; dramatic skill; an eye for

character; the power of graphic description, and rapid changeful

narrative; the command of the grave and the gay, the severe and the

lively; and a sympathy both with the bustling activities and the wild

romance of human life, if not with its more solemn aspects, its

transcendental references, and its aerial heights and giddy abysses of

imagination and poetry.

[We have followed the judicious example of Warton and Mitford in

excluding several Prologues which appear in some editions, but which

reflect no honour on their author.

Dryden's Translations will be published in the separate series of

"Translations," which it is the intention of the Publisher to issue,

independent of the "Poetical Works" of the various authors.]

CONTENTS.

EPISTLES.

I. To my honoured friend, Sir Robert Howard, on his excellent

Poems

II. To my honoured friend, Dr Charleton, on his learned and

useful Works; but more particularly his Treatise of Stonehenge,

by him restored to the true founder

III. To the Lady Castlemain, upon her encouraging his first play

IV. To Mr Lee, on his "Alexander"

V. To the Earl of Roscommon, on his excellent Essay on Translated

Verse

VI. To the Duchess of York, on her return from Scotland in the

year 1682

VII. A Letter to Sir George Etherege

VIII. To Mr Southerne, on his Comedy called "The Wives' Excuse"

IX. To Henry Higden, Esq., on his translation of the Tenth

Satire of Juvenal

X. To my dear friend, Mr Congreve, on his Comedy called "The

Double-dealer"

XI. To Mr Granville, on his excellent Tragedy called "Heroic

Love"

XII. To my friend, Mr Motteux, on his Tragedy called "Beauty

in Distress"

XIII. To my honoured kinsman, John Dryden of Chesterton, in

the county of Huntingdon, Esq.

XIV. To Sir Godfrey Kneller, principal painter to his Majesty

XV. To his friend the author, John Hoddesdon, on his Divine

Epigrams

XVI. To my friend, Mr J. Northleigh, author of "The Parallel"

on his "Triumph of the British Monarchy"

ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

I. To the Memory of Mr Oldham

II. To the pious memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs

Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy

and Painting: an Ode

III. Upon the death of the Earl of Dundee

IV. Eleonora: a Panegyrical Poem, dedicated to the memory of

the late Countess of Abingdon

V. On the Death of Amyntas: a Pastoral Elegy

VI. On the Death of a very Young Gentleman

VII. Upon young Mr Rogers of Gloucestershire

VIII. On the Death of Mr Purcell

IX. Epitaph on the Lady Whitmore

X. Epitaph on Sir Palmes Fairbone's tomb in Westminster Abbey

XI. Under Mr Milton's picture, before his "Paradise Lost"

XII. On the monument of a fair Maiden Lady, who died at Bath,

and is there interred

XIII. Epitaph on Mrs Margaret Paston of Burningham, in Norfolk

XIV. On the monument of the Marquis of Winchester

SONGS, ODES, AND A MASQUE.

I. The Fair Stranger

II. On the Young Statesmen

III. A Song for St Cecilia's Day, 1687

IV. The Tears of Amynta for the death of Damon

V. The Lady's Song

VI. A Song

VII. A Song

VIII. Roundelay

IX. A Song

X. A Song to a fair Young Lady going out of town in Spring

XI. Song in the "Indian Emperor"

XII. Song in "The Maiden Queen"

XIII. Songs in "The Conquest of Granada"

XIV. Song of the Sea-fight in "Amboyna"

XV. Incantation in "Oedipus"

XVI. Songs in "Albion and Albanius"

XVII. Songs in "King Arthur"

XVIII. Song of Jealousy in "Love Triumphant"

XIX. Song--Farewell, fair Armida

XX. Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music: an Ode in

honour of St Cecilia's Day

XXI. The Secular Masque

XXII. Song of a Scholar and his Mistress

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

I. Prologue to "The Rival Ladies"

II. Prologue to "The Indian Queen"

III. Epilogue to "The Indian Queen"

IV. Epilogue to "The Indian Emperor"

V. Prologue to "Sir Martin Marr-all"

VI. Prologue to "The Tempest"

VII. Prologue to "Tyrannic Love"

VIII. Epilogue to "The Wild Gallant"

IX. Prologue, spoken the first day of the King's House acting

after the fire of London

X. Epilogue to the Second Part of the "Conquest of Granada"

XI. Prologue to "Aboyna"

XII. Epilogue to "Aboyna"

XIII. Prologue, spoken at the Opening of the New House,

March 26, 1674

XIV. Prologue to the University of Oxford, 1674

XV. Prologue to "Circe," a Tragic Opera

XVI. Epilogue, intended to have been spoken by the Lady

Hen. Mar. Wentworth, when "Calista" was acted at

Court

XVII. Prologue to "Aurenzebe"

XVIII. Epilogue to "The Man of Mode; or, Sir Fopling Flutter"

XIX. Epilogue to "All for Love"

XX. Prologue to "Limberham"

XXI. Epilogue to "Mithridates, King of Pontus"

XXII. Prologue to "Oedipus"

XXIII. Epilogue to "Oedipus"

XXIV. Prologue to "Troilus and Cressida"

XXV. Prologue to "Cæsar Borgia"

XXVI. Prologue to "Sophonisba"

XXVII. Prologue to "The Royal General"

XXVIII. Prologue to "The University of Oxford," 1681

XXIX. Prologue to his Royal Highness, upon his first appearance

at the Duke's Theatre, after his return from

Scotland, 1682

XXX. Prologue to "The Earl of Essex; or, the Unhappy

Favourite"

XXXI. Epilogue for "The King's House"

XXXII. Prologue to "The Loyal Brother; or, the Persian

Prince".

XXXIII. Prologue to "The King and Queen"

XXXIV. Prologue to the University of Oxford

XXXV. Epilogue

XXXVI. Epilogue spoken at Oxford by Mrs Marshall

XXXVII. Prologue to the University of Oxford

XXXVIII. Prologue to the University of Oxford

XXXIX. Prologue to "Albion and Albanins"

XL. Epilogue to "Albion and Albanius"

XLI. Prologue to "Aviragus and Philicia Revived"

XLII. Prologue to "Don Sebastian"

XLIII. Prologue to "The Prophetess"

XLIV. Prologue to "The Mistakes"

XLV. Prologue to "King Arthur"

XLVI. Prologue to "Albumazar"

XLVII. An Epilogue

XLVIII. Prologue to "The Husband his own Cuckold"

XLIX. Prologue to "The Pilgrim"

L. Epilogue to "The Pilgrim"

TALES FROM CHAUCER.

To her Grace the Duchess of Ormond

Palamon and Arcite; or, the Knight's Tale

The Cock and the Fox; or, the Tale of the Nun's Priest

The Flower and the Leaf; or, the Lady in the Arbour: a Vision

The Wife of Bath, her Tale

The Character of a good Parson

DRYDEN'S POEMS.

EPISTLES.

EPISTLE I.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND SIR ROBERT HOWARD,[1] ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS.

As there is music uninform'd by art

In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,

The birds in unfrequented shades express,

Who, better taught at home, yet please us less:

So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,

Which shames composure, and its art excels.

Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,

Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.

Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,

Their even calmness does suppose them deep; 10

Such is your muse: no metaphor swell'd high

With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:

Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,

Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.

So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,

Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.

'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,

And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as Stoics feign

Then least to feel when most they suffer pain; 20

And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see

What hidden springs within the engine be:

Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues

Each act and motion of your graceful muse.

Or is it fortune's work, that in your head

The curious net,[2] that is for fancies spread,

Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,

While rich ideas there are only caught?

Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair

To be the child of chance, and not of care. 30

No atoms casually together hurl'd

Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.

Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,

As would destroy the providence of wit.

'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel

Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel.

To carry weight, and run so lightly too,

Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,

Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore. 40

Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,

Yet our instruction make their second end:

We're both enrich'd and pleased, like them that woo

At once a beauty and a fortune too.

Of moral knowledge poesy was queen,

And still she might, had wanton wits not been;

Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large,

And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge.

Like some brave captain, your successful pen

Restores the exiled to her crown again: 50

And gives us hope, that having seen the days

When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,

All will at length in this opinion rest,--

"A sober prince's government is best."

This is not all: your art the way has found

To make the improvement of the richest ground;

That soil which those immortal laurels bore,

That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.

Eliza's griefs are so express'd by you,

They are too eloquent to have been true. 60

Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd

What Dido, rather than what Jove had said.

If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,

Your Muse so justly has discharged those;

Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,

And claim a title to the fields of peace.

But if Æneas be obliged, no less

Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;

Who, dress'd by Statius[3] in too bold a look,

Did ill become those virgin robes he took. 70

To understand how much we owe to you,

We must your numbers, with your author's, view:

Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,

Each figure stiff, as if design'd in buff:

His colours laid so thick on every place,

As only show'd the paint, but hid the face.

But as in perspective we beauties see,

Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;

So here our sight obligingly mistakes

That wealth, which his your bounty only makes. 80

Thus vulgar dishes are by cooks disguised,

More for their dressing than their substance prized.

Your curious notes so search into that age,

When all was fable but the sacred page,

That, since in that dark night we needs must stray,

We are at least misled in pleasant way.

But what we most admire, your verse no less

The prophet than the poet doth confess.

Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak

Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break. 90

So skilful seamen ken the land from far,

Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.

To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous love,

As still the ancients did begin from Jove;

With Monk you end,[4] whose name preserved shall be,

As Rome recorded Rufus' [5] memory,

Who thought it greater honour to obey

His country's interest, than the world to sway.

But to write worthy things of worthy men,

Is the peculiar talent of your pen: 100

Yet let me take your mantle up, and I

Will venture in your right to prophesy--

"This work, by merit first of fame secure,

Is likewise happy in its geniture:

For, since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne,

It shares at once his fortune and its own."

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: 'Sir Robert Howard:' brother to Dryden's wife.]

[Footnote 2: 'The curious net,' &c.: a compliment to a poem of Sir

Robert's, called 'Rete Mirabile.']

[Footnote 3: 'Statius:' author of 'Thebaid' and the 'Achilleid;' the

latter translated by Sir Robert Howard.]

[Footnote 4: 'With Monk you end,' &c.: alluding to a poem of this

gentleman's on General Monk.]

[Footnote 5: 'Rufus:' a Roman consul, banished to Smyrna through

intrigues, but greatly respected.]LE II.

* * * * *

EPISTLE II

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND DR CHARLETON, ON HIS LEARNED AND USEFUL WORKS; BUT

MORE PARTICULARLY HIS TREATISE OF STONEHENGE,[6] BY HIM RESTORED TO THE

TRUE FOUNDER.

The longest tyranny that ever sway'd,

Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd

Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite,

And made his torch their universal light.

So truth, while only one supplied the state,

Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.

Still it was bought, like empiric wares, or charms,

Hard words seal'd up with Artistotle's arms.

Columbus was the first that shook his throne,

And found a temperate in a torrid zone, 10

The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze,

The fruitful vales set round with shady trees:

And guiltless men, who danced away their time,

Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime.

Had we still paid that homage to a name,

Which only God and nature justly claim,

The western seas had been our utmost bound,

Where poets still might dream the sun was drown'd:

And all the stars that shine in southern skies,

Had been admired by none but savage eyes. 20

Among the asserters of free reason's claim,

Our nation's not the least in worth or fame.

The world to Bacon does not only owe

Its present knowledge, but its future too.

Gilbert[7] shall live, till loadstones cease to draw,

Our British fleets the boundless ocean awe.

And noble Boyle, not less in nature seen,

Than his great brother read in states and men.

The circling streams, once thought but pools, of blood

(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food) 30

From dark oblivion Harvey's[8] name shall save;

While Ent[9] keeps all the honour that he gave.

Nor are you, learned friend, the least renown'd,

Whose fame, not circumscribed with English ground,

Flies like the nimble journeys of the light;

And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.

Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,

Redeem'd from error, or from ignorance,

Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,

Your works unite, and still discover more. 40

Such is the healing virtue of your pen,

To perfect cures on books, as well as men.

Nor is this work the least: you well may give

To men new vigour, who make stones to live.

Through you, the Danes, their short dominion lost,

A longer conquest than the Saxons boast.

Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found

A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crown'd;

Where by their wondering subjects they were seen,

Joy'd with their stature, and their princely mien. 50

Our sovereign here above the rest might stand,

And here be chose again to rule the land.

These ruins[10] shelter'd once his sacred head,

When he from Worcester's fatal battle fled;

Watch'd by the genius of this royal place,

And mighty visions of the Danish race.

His refuge then was for a temple shown:

But, he restored, 'tis now become a throne.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: 'Treatise of Stonehenge:' Charleton wrote a book proving,

against Inigo Jones, that Stonehenge was built by the Danes.]

[Footnote 7: 'Gilbert:' Dr William Gilbert, a physician both to Queen

Elizabeth and King James, and author of a treatise on the magnet.]

[Footnote 8: 'Harvey:' discoverer of the circulation of the blood.]

[Footnote 9: 'Ent:' a physician of the day.]

[Footnote 10: 'These ruins,' &c.: in the dedication of this book to

Charles II. is the following passage, which gave occasion to the last

six lines of this poem:--'I have had the honour to hear from your

majesty's own mouth, that you were pleased to visit this monument, and

entertain yourself with the delightful view thereof, after the defeat of

your army at Worcester.']

* * * * *

EPISTLE III.

TO THE LADY CASTLEMAIN,[11] UPON HER ENCOURAGING HIS FIRST PLAY.

As seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore,

Discover wealth in lands unknown before;

And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,

By their misfortunes happily obtain:

So my much-envied Muse, by storms long tost,

Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,

And finds more favour by her ill success,

Than she could hope for by her happiness.

Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose;

While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chose: 10

But you have done what Cato could not do,

To choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too.

Let others triumph still, and gain their cause

By their deserts, or by the world's applause;

Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,

But let me happy by your pity live.

True poets empty fame and praise despise;

Fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize.

You sit above, and see vain men below

Contend for what you only can bestow: 20

But those great actions others do by chance,

Are, like your beauty, your inheritance;

So great a soul, such sweetness join'd in one,

Could only spring from noble Grandison.[12]

You, like the stars, not by reflection bright,

Are born to your own heaven, and your own light;

Like them are good, but from a nobler cause,

From your own knowledge, not from nature's laws.

Your power you never use, but for defence,

To guard your own, or other's innocence: 30

Your foes are such as they, not you, have made,

And virtue may repel, though not invade.

Such courage did the ancient heroes show,

Who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow:

With such assurance as they meant to say,

We will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way.

What further fear of danger can there be?

Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free.

Posterity will judge by my success.

I had the Grecian poet's happiness, 40

Who, waving plots, found out a better way;

Some god descended, and preserved the play.

When first the triumphs of your sex were sung

By those old poets, beauty was but young,

And few admired the native red and white,

Till poets dress'd them up to charm the sight;

So beauty took on trust, and did engage

For sums of praises till she came to age.

But this long-growing debt to poetry

You justly, madam, have discharged to me, 50

When your applause and favour did infuse

New life to my condemn'd and dying Muse.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: 'Lady Castlemain' this lady was for many years a favourite

mistress of Charles II., and was afterwards created Duchess of

Cleveland.]

[Footnote 12: 'Grandison:' her father, killed at Edgehill.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE IV.

TO MR LEE, ON HIS "ALEXANDER."

The blast of common censure could I fear,

Before your play my name should not appear;

For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,

I pay the bribe I first received from you;

That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,

And play the game into each other's hand;

And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,

As Bessus[13] and the brothers of the sword.

Such libels private men may well endure,

When states and kings themselves are not secure: 10

For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,

Think the best actions on by-ends are built.

And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;

Then, envy had not suffer'd me to write;

For, since I could not ignorance pretend,

Such merit I must envy or commend.

So many candidates there stand for wit,

A place at court is scarce so hard to get:

In vain they crowd each other at the door;

For even reversions are all begg'd before: 20

Desert, how known soe'er, is long delay'd;

And then, too, fools and knaves are better paid.

Yet, as some actions bear so great a name,

That courts themselves are just, for fear of shame;

So has the mighty merit of your play

Extorted praise, and forced itself away.

'Tis here as 'tis at sea; who farthest goes,

Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.

Yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest,

It shoots too fast and high to be express'd; 30

As his heroic worth struck envy dumb,

Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.

Such praise is yours, while you the passions move,

That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love,

Where nature triumphs over wretched art;

We only warm the head, but you the heart.

Always you warm; and if the rising year,

As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,

'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,

Which in our cooler climates will not grow. 40

They only think you animate your theme

With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.

Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,

Were cripples made the judges of the race.

Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse

The too much vigour of your youthful Muse.

That humble style which they your virtue make,

Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.

Your beauteous images must be allow'd

By all, but some vile poets of the crowd. 50

But how should any sign-post dauber know

The worth of Titian or of Angelo?

Hard features every bungler can command;

To draw true beauty shows a master's hand.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: 'Bessus:' a cowardly character in Beaumont and Fletcher's

comedy of 'A King and no King.']

* * * * *

EPISTLE V.

TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ON HIS EXCELLENT ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

Whether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,

The seeds of arts and infant science bore,

'Tis sure the noble plant, translated first,

Advanced its head in Grecian gardens nursed.

The Grecians added verse: their tuneful tongue

Made Nature first, and Nature's God their song.

Nor stopp'd translation here: for conquering Rome,

With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home;

Enrich'd by those Athenian Muses more,

Than all the vanquish'd world could yield before. 10

Till barbarous nations, and more barbarous times,

Debased the majesty of verse to rhymes:

Those rude at first; a kind of hobbling prose,

That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close.

But Italy, reviving from the trance

Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,

With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words,

And all the graces a good ear affords,

Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polish'd page

Restored a silver, not a golden age. 20

Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see

What rhyme improved in all its height can be:

At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity.

The French pursued their steps; and Britain, last,

In manly sweetness all the rest surpass'd.

The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,

Appear exalted in the British loom:

The Muses' empire is restored again,

In Charles' reign, and by Roscommon's pen.

Yet modestly he does his work survey, 30

And calls a finish'd Poem an Essay;

For all the needful rules are scatter'd here;

Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe;

So well is art disguised, for nature to appear.

Nor need those rules to give translation light:

His own example is a flame so bright,

That he who but arrives to copy well

Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.

Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain,

Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain. 40

How much in him may rising Ireland boast--

How much in gaining him has Britain lost!

Their island in revenge has ours reclaim'd;

The more instructed we, the more we still are shamed.

'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow,

Derived from British channels long ago,

That here his conquering ancestors were nursed;

And Ireland but translated England first:

By this reprisal we regain our right,

Else must the two contending nations fight; 50

A nobler quarrel for his native earth,

Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth.

To what perfection will our tongue arrive,

How will invention and translation thrive,

When authors nobly born will bear their part,

And not disdain the inglorious praise of art!

Great generals thus, descending from command,

With their own toil provoke the soldier's hand.

How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear

His fame augmented by an English peer;[14] 60

How he embellishes his Helen's loves,

Outdoes his softness, and his sense improves;

When these translate, and teach translators too,

Nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow,

Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand.

Roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand,

Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand.

Roscommon, whom both court and camps commend,

True to his prince, and faithful to his friend;

Roscommon first in fields of honour known, 70

First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown;

Who both Minervas justly makes his own.

Now let the few beloved by Jove, and they

Whom infused Titan form'd of better clay,

On equal terms with ancient wit engage,

Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page:

Our English palace opens wide in state;

And without stooping they may pass the gate.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: 'An English peer:' the Earl of Mulgrave.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE VI.

TO THE DUCHESS OF YORK, ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND IN THE YEAR 1682.

When factious rage to cruel exile drove

The queen of beauty,[15] and the court of love,

The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts,

And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:

Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd

Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd,

Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,

The great supporter of his awful throne.

Love could no longer after beauty stay,

But wander'd northward to the verge of day, 10

As if the sun and he had lost their way.

But now the illustrious nymph, return'd again,

Brings every grace triumphant in her train.

The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,

Foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form:

Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis, pass'd;

But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.

Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;

And Envy did but look on her, and died.

Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate, 20

Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.

Three gloomy years against this day were set,

But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt:

Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,

The famine past, the plenty still to come.

For her the weeping heavens become serene;

For her the ground is clad in cheerful green:

For her the nightingales are taught to sing,

And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.

The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays; 30

And Love, restored his ancient realm surveys,

Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays;

His waste dominions peoples once again,

And from her presence dates his second reign.

But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,

Dispensing what she never will admit:

Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,

The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.

Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,

No more shall vex the Church, and tear the State: 40

No more shall Faction civil discords move,

Or only discords of too tender love:

Discord, like that of music's various parts;

Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;

Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,

Who best should love the Duke, and serve the King.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: 'Queen of beauty:' Mary D'Este, the beautiful second wife

of the Duke of York; she had been banished to Scotland.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE VII.

A LETTER TO SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.[16]

To you who live in chill degree,

As map informs, of fifty-three,

And do not much for cold atone,

By bringing thither fifty-one,

Methinks all climes should be alike,

From tropic e'en to pole arctique;

Since you have such a constitution

As nowhere suffers diminution.

You can be old in grave debate,

And young in love-affairs of state; 10

And both to wives and husbands show

The vigour of a plenipo.

Like mighty missioner you come

"Ad Partes Infidelium."

A work of wondrous merit sure,

So far to go, so much t' endure;

And all to preach to German dame,

Where sound of Cupid never came.

Less had you done, had you been sent

As far as Drake or Pinto went, 20

For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,

Or even for oranges to China.

That had indeed been charity;

Where love-sick ladies helpless lie,

Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.

But you have made your zeal appear

Within the circle of the Bear.

What region of the earth's so dull

That is not of your labours full?

Triptolemus (so sung the Nine) 30

Strew'd plenty from his cart divine,

But spite of all these fable-makers,

He never sow'd on Almain acres:

No; that was left by Fate's decree,

To be perform'd and sung by thee.

Thou break'st through forms with as much ease

As the French king through articles.

In grand affairs thy days are spent,

In waging weighty compliment,

With such as monarchs represent. 40

They, whom such vast fatigues attend,

Want some soft minutes to unbend,

To show the world that now and then

Great ministers are mortal men.

Then Rhenish rammers walk the round;

In bumpers every king is crown'd;

Besides three holy mitred Hectors,

And the whole college of Electors,

No health of potentate is sunk,

That pays to make his envoy drunk. 50

These Dutch delights I mention'd last

Suit not, I know, your English taste:

For wine to leave a whore or play

Was ne'er your Excellency's way.

Nor need this title give offence,

For here you were your Excellence,

For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,

His Excellence for all but sleeping.

Now if you tope in form, and treat,

'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat, 60

The fine you pay for being great.

Nay, here's a harder imposition,

Which is indeed the court's petition,

That setting worldly pomp aside,

Which poet has at font denied,

You would be pleased in humble way

To write a trifle call'd a play.

This truly is a degradation,

But would oblige the crown and nation

Next to your wise negotiation. 70

If you pretend, as well you may,

Your high degree, your friends will say,

The Duke St Aignon made a play.

If Gallic wit convince you scarce,

His Grace of Bucks has made a farce,

And you, whose comic wit is terse all,

Can hardly fall below rehearsal.

Then finish what you have began;

But scribble faster, if you can:

For yet no George, to our discerning, 80

Has writ without a ten years' warning.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: Written to Etherege, then at Ratisbon, in reply to one

from Sir George to the Earl of Middleton, at the Earl's request.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE VIII.

TO MR SOUTHERNE, ON HIS COMEDY CALLED "THE WIVES' EXCUSE."

Sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain

To write, while these malignant planets reign.

Some very foolish influence rules the pit,

Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:

And whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed

To make us laugh; for never was more need.

Farce, in itself, is of a nasty scent;

But the gain smells not of the excrement.

The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,

With all her charms, bore but a single show: 10

But let a monster Muscovite appear,

He draws a crowded audience round the year.

May be thou hast not pleased the box and pit;

Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:

So Terence plotted, but so Terence writ.

Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean

Even lewdness is made moral in thy scene.

The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;

But rest secure, the readers will be thine.

Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd, 20

But with a kind civility dismiss'd;

With such good manners, as the Wife[17] did use,

Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.

There was a glance at parting; such a look,

As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.

But if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read,

Copy one living author, and one dead:

The standard of thy style let Etherege be;

For wit, the immortal spring of Wycherly:

Learn, after both, to draw some just design, 30

And the next age will learn to copy thine.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 17: 'Wife:' the wife in the play, Mrs Friendall.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE IX.

TO HENRY HIGDEN,[18] ESQ., ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF

JUVENAL.

The Grecian wits, who Satire first began,

Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man;

At mighty villains, who the state oppress'd,

They durst not rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least,

And turn'd them out of office with a jest.

No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand

The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand.

Wise legislators never yet could draw

A fop within the reach of common law;

For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation, 10

Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.

Our last redress is dint of verse to try,

And Satire is our Court of Chancery.

This way took Horace to reform an age,

Not bad enough to need an author's rage:

But yours,[19] who lived in more degenerate times,

Was forced to fasten deep, and worry crimes.

Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him so well,

You make him smile in spite of all his zeal:

An art peculiar to yourself alone, 20

To join the virtues of two styles in one.

Oh! were your author's principle received,

Half of the labouring world would be relieved:

For not to wish is not to be deceived.

Revenge would into charity be changed,

Because it costs too dear to be revenged:

It costs our quiet and content of mind,

And when 'tis compass'd leaves a sting behind.

Suppose I had the better end o' the staff,

Why should I help the ill-natured world to laugh? 30

'Tis all alike to them, who get the day;

They love the spite and mischief of the fray.

No; I have cured myself of that disease;

Nor will I be provoked, but when I please:

But let me half that cure to you restore;

You gave the salve, I laid it to the sore.

Our kind relief against a rainy day,

Beyond a tavern, or a tedious play,

We take your book, and laugh our spleen away.

If all your tribe, too studious of debate, 40

Would cease false hopes and titles to create,

Led by the rare example you begun,

Clients would fail, and lawyers be undone.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18: 'Higden:' author of a bad comedy, which was condemned.]

[Footnote 19: 'Yours:' Juvenal, the tenth satire of whom Higden had

translated.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE X.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND MR CONGREVE, ON HIS COMEDY CALLED "THE DOUBLE-DEALER."

Well, then, the promised hour is come at last,

The present age of wit obscures the past:

Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ,

Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit:

Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;

And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.

Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured,

With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;

Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude;

And boisterous English wit with art endued. 10

Our age was cultivated thus at length;

But what we gain'd in skill we lost in strength.

Our builders were with want of genius cursed;

The second temple was not like the first:

Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length;

Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.

Firm Doric pillars found your solid base:

The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space:

Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.

In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise; 20

He moved the mind, but had not power to raise.

Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please;

Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.

In differing talents both adorn'd their age;

One for the study, the other for the stage.

But both to Congreve justly shall submit--

One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit.

In him all beauties of this age we see,

Etherege's courtship, Southerne's purity,

The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly. 30

All this in blooming youth you have achieved:

Nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved.

So much the sweetness of your manners move,

We cannot envy you, because we love.

Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw

A beardless consul made against the law,

And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome;

Though he with Hannibal was overcome.

Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,

And scholar to the youth he taught became. 40

O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd!

Well had I been deposed, if you had reign'd:

The father had descended for the son;

For only you are lineal to the throne.

Thus, when the state one Edward did depose,

A greater Edward in his room arose:

But now, not I, but poetry is cursed;

For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.

But let them not mistake my patron's part,

Nor call his charity their own desert. 50

Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen

(Though with some short parenthesis between)

High on the throne of wit, and, seated there,

Not mine, that's little, but thy laurel wear.

Thy first attempt an early promise made;

That early promise this has more than paid.

So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,

That your least praise is to be regular.

Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought;

But genius must be born, and never can be taught, 60

This is your portion; this your native store;

Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,

To Shakspeare gave as much; she could not give him more.

Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;

For 'tis impossible you should proceed.

Already I am worn with cares and age,

And just abandoning the ungrateful stage:

Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,

I live a rent-charge on his providence:

But you, whom every muse and grace adorn, 70

Whom I foresee to better fortune born,

Be kind to my remains; and O defend,

Against your judgment, your departed friend!

Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,

But shade those laurels which descend to you:

And take for tribute what these lines express:

You merit more; nor could my love do less.

* * * * *

EPISTLE XI.

TO MR GRANVILLE,[20] ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY CALLED "HEROIC LOVE."

Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,

How could I envy, what I must commend!

But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,

That youth should reign, and withering age submit,

With less regret those laurels I resign,

Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.

With better grace an ancient chief may yield

The long-contended honours of the field,

Than venture all his fortune at a cast,

And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. 10

Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,

Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:

Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,

Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.

Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age

Can best, if any can, support the stage;

Which so declines, that shortly we may see

Players and plays reduced to second infancy.

Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,

They plot not on the stage, but on the town, 20

And, in despair, their empty pit to fill,

Set up some foreign monster in a bill.

Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving,

And murdering plays, which they miscall reviving.

Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes convey'd:

Scarce can a poet know the play he made;

'Tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he

That suffers in the mangled tragedy.

Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after dress'd

For his own sire, the chief invited guest. 30

I say not this of thy successful scenes,

Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains.

With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,

Not ill they acted, what they could not spoil.

Their setting sun[21] still shoots a glimmering ray,

Like ancient Rome majestic in decay:

And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,

Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.[22]

This difference yet the judging world will see;

Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee. 40

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: 'Mr Granville:' Lord Lansdowne.]

[Footnote 21: 'Setting sun,' &c.: Betterton, who had mustered up a

company, and played in Lincoln's-Inn Fields.]

[Footnote 22: 'Neighbouring coast:' Drury Lane play-house.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XII.

TO MY FRIEND MR MOTTEUX,[23] ON HIS TRAGEDY CALLED "BEAUTY IN DISTRESS."

'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,

As damns, not only poets, but the stage.

That sacred art, by Heaven itself infused,

Which Moses, David, Solomon have used,

Is now to be no more: the Muses' foes

Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.

Were they content to prune the lavish vine

Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,

Who but a madman would his thoughts defend?

All would submit; for all but fools will mend. 10

But when to common sense they give the lie,

And turn distorted words to blasphemy,

They give the scandal; and the wise discern,

Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.

What I have loosely, or profanely, writ,

Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:

Nor, when accused by me, let them complain:

Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.

Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued;

The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people rued. 20

The stage was silenced; for the saints would see

In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy.

But let us first reform, and then so live,

That we may teach our teachers to forgive:

Our desk be placed below their lofty chairs;

Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs.

The moral part, at least, we may divide,

Humility reward, and punish pride;

Ambition, interest, avarice, accuse:

These are the province of a tragic Muse. 30

These hast thou chosen; and the public voice

Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice.

Time, action, place, are so preserved by thee,

That even Cornëille might with envy see

The alliance of his tripled Unity.

Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown;

But too much plenty is thy fault alone.

At least but two can that good crime commit,

Thou in design, and Wycherly in wit.

Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare; 40

Contented to be thinly regular:

Born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil

With more increase rewards thy happy toil.

Their tongue, enfeebled, is refined too much;

And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch:

Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,

More fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd with allay.

But whence art thou inspired, and thou alone,

To flourish in an idiom not thy own?

It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest 50

Should over-match the most, and match the best.

In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong;

Here find the first deficience of our tongue:

Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend

So great a poet, and so good a friend.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: 'Motteux:' an exiled Frenchman, translator of 'Don

Quixote,' and a play-wright. Dryden alludes here to Collier's attacks on

himself.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XIII.

TO MY HONOURED KINSMAN, JOHN DRYDEN,[24] OF CHESTERTON, IN THE COUNTY OF

HUNTINGDON, ESQ.

How bless'd is he who leads a country life,

Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!

Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,

Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:

All who deserve his love, he makes his own;

And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.

Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,

From your award to wait their final doom;

And, foes before, return in friendship home.

Without their cost, you terminate the cause; 10

And save the expense of long litigious laws:

Where suits are traversed; and so little won,

That he who conquers, is but last undone:

Such are not your decrees; but so design'd,

The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;

Like your own soul, serene; a pattern of your mind.

Promoting concord, and composing strife,

Lord of yourself, uncumber'd with a wife;

Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night,

Long penitence succeeds a short delight: 20

Minds are so hardly match'd, that even the first,

Though pair'd by Heaven, in Paradise were cursed.

For man and woman, though in one they grow,

Yet, first or last, return again to two.

He to God's image, she to his was made;

So farther from the fount the stream at random stray'd.

How could he stand, when, put to double pain,

He must a weaker than himself sustain!

Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone;

Two wrestlers help to pull each other down. 30

Not that my verse would blemish all the fair;

But yet, if some be bad, 'tis wisdom to beware;

And better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare.

Thus have you shunn'd, and shun the married state,

Trusting as little as you can to fate.

No porter guards the passage of your door,

To admit the wealthy, and exclude the poor;

For God, who gave the riches, gave the heart,

To sanctify the whole, by giving part;

Heaven, who foresaw the will, the means has wrought, 40

And to the second son a blessing brought;

The first-begotten had his father's share:

But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca's heir.[25]

So may your stores and fruitful fields increase;

And ever be you bless'd, who live to bless.

As Ceres sow'd, where'er her chariot flew;

As Heaven in deserts rain'd the bread of dew;

So free to many, to relations most,

You feed with manna your own Israel host.

With crowds attended of your ancient race, 50

You seek the champion sports, or sylvan chase:

With well-breath'd beagles you surround the wood,

Even then, industrious of the common good:

And often have you brought the wily fox

To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks;

Chased even amid the folds; and made to bleed,

Like felons, where they did the murderous deed.

This fiery game your active youth maintain'd;

Not yet by years extinguish'd, though restrain'd:

You season still with sports your serious hours: 60

For age but tastes of pleasures youth devours.

The hare in pastures or in plains is found,

Emblem of human life, who runs the round;

And, after all his wandering ways are done,

His circle fills, and ends where he begun--

Just as the setting meets the rising sun.

Thus princes ease their cares; but happier he,

Who seeks not pleasure through necessity,

Than such as once on slippery thrones were placed;

And chasing, sigh to think themselves are chased. 70

So lived our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill,

And multiplied with theirs the weekly bill.

The first physicians by debauch were made:

Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade,

Pity the generous kind their cares bestow

To search forbidden truths (a sin to know),

To which, if human science could attain,

The doom of death, pronounced by God, were vain.

In vain the leech would interpose delay;

Fate fastens first, and vindicates the prey. 80

What help from art's endeavours can we have?

Gibbons[26] but guesses, nor is sure to save:

But Maurus[27] sweeps whole parishes, and peoples every grave;

And no more mercy to mankind will use,

Than when he robb'd and murder'd Maro's Muse.

Wouldst thou be soon despatch'd, and perish whole,

Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourn[28] with thy soul.

By chase our long-lived fathers earn'd their food;

Toil strung the nerves, and purified the blood:

But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men, 90

Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.

Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,

Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.

The wise, for cure, on exercise depend;

God never made his work for man to mend.

The tree of knowledge, once in Eden placed,

Was easy found, but was forbid the taste:

Oh, had our grandsire walk'd without his wife,

He first had sought the better plant of life!

Now both are lost: yet, wandering in the dark, 100

Physicians, for the tree, have found the bark:

They, labouring for relief of human kind,

With sharpen'd sight some remedies may find;

The apothecary-train is wholly blind,

From files a random recipe they take,

And many deaths of one prescription make.

Garth,[29] generous as his Muse, prescribes and gives;

The shopman sells; and by destruction lives:

Ungrateful tribe! who, like the viper's brood,

From medicine issuing, suck their mother's blood! 110

Let these obey; and let the learn'd prescribe;

That men may die, without a double bribe:

Let them, but under their superiors, kill;

When doctors first have sign'd the bloody bill;

He 'scapes the best, who, nature to repair,

Draws physic from the fields, in draughts of vital air.

You hoard not health, for your own private use;

But on the public spend the rich produce.

When, often urged, unwilling to be great,

Your country calls you from your loved retreat, 120

And sends to senates, charged with common care,

Which none more shuns, and none can better bear;

Where could they find another form'd so fit,

To poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit?

Were these both wanting, as they both abound,

Where could so firm integrity be found?

Well born, and wealthy, wanting no support,

You steer betwixt the country and the court:

Nor gratify whate'er the great desire,

Nor grudging give what public needs require. 130

Part must be left, a fund when foes invade;

And part employ'd to roll the watery trade:

Even Canaan's happy land, when worn with toil,

Required a sabbath-year to mend the meagre soil.

Good senators (and such as you) so give,

That kings may be supplied, the people thrive.

And he, when want requires, is truly wise,

Who slights not foreign aids, nor over-buys;

But on our native strength, in time of need, relies.

Munster was bought, we boast not the success; 140

Who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace.

Our foes, compell'd by need, have peace embraced:

The peace both parties want, is like to last:

Which, if secure, securely we may trade;

Or, not secure, should never have been made.

Safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand,

The sea is ours, and that defends the land.

Be then the naval stores the nation's care,

New ships to build, and batter'd to repair.

Observe the war, in every annual course; 150

What has been done, was done with British force:

Namur subdued,[30] is England's palm alone;

The rest besieged, but we constrain'd the town;

We saw the event that follow'd our success;

France, though pretending arms, pursued the peace;

Obliged, by one sole treaty,[31] to restore

What twenty years of war had won before.

Enough for Europe has our Albion fought:

Let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought.

When once the Persian king was put to flight, 160

The weary Macedons refused to fight:

Themselves their own mortality confess'd:

And left the son of Jove to quarrel for the rest.

Even victors are by victories undone;

Thus Hannibal, with foreign laurels won,

To Carthage was recall'd, too late to keep his own.

While sore of battle, while our wounds are green,

Why should we tempt the doubtful die again?

In wars renew'd, uncertain of success;

Sure of a share, as umpires of the peace. 170

A patriot both the king and country serves:

Prerogative and privilege preserves:

Of each our laws the certain limit show;

One must not ebb, nor the other overflow:

Betwixt the prince and parliament we stand;

The barriers of the state on either hand:

May neither overflow, for then they drown the land.

When both are full, they feed our bless'd abode;

Like those that water'd once the paradise of God.

Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share; 180

In peace the people, and the prince in war:

Consuls of moderate power in calms were made;

When the Gauls came, one sole dictator sway'd.

Patriots, in peace, assert the people's right;

With noble stubbornness resisting might:

No lawless mandates from the court receive,

Nor lend by force, but in a body give.

Such was your generous grandsire; free to grant

In parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want:

But so tenacious of the common cause, 190

As not to lend the king against his laws;

And, in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie,

In bonds retain'd his birthright liberty,

And shamed oppression, till it set him free.

O true descendant of a patriot line,

Who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them thine!

Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see;

'Tis so far good, as it resembles thee:

The beauties to the original I owe;

Which when I miss, my own defects I show: 200

Nor think the kindred Muses thy disgrace:

A poet is not born in every race.

Two of a house few ages can afford;

One to perform, another to record.

Praiseworthy actions are by thee embraced;

And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last.

For even when death dissolves our human frame,

The soul returns to heaven from whence it came;

Earth keeps the body--verse preserves the fame.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 24: 'John Dryden:' this poem was written in 1699; the person

to whom it is addressed was cousin-german to the poet, and a younger

brother of the baronet. He repaid this poem by a 'noble present' to his

kinsman.]

[Footnote 25: 'Rebecca's heir:' he inherited his mother's fortune.]

[Footnote 26: 'Gibbons:' Dr Gibbons, physician.]

[Footnote 27: 'Maurus:' Sir Richard Blackmore.]

[Footnote 28: 'Milbourn:' the foe of Dryden's 'Virgil,' and a

clergyman.]

[Footnote 29: 'Garth:' author of 'The Dispensary.']

[Footnote 30: 'Namur subdued:' in 1695, King William took Namur, after a

siege of one month.]

[Footnote 31: 'Treaty:' the treaty of Ryswick, concluded in September

1697.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XIV.[32]

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, PRINCIPAL PAINTER TO HIS MAJESTY.

Once I beheld the fairest of her kind,

And still the sweet idea charms my mind:

True, she was dumb; for Nature gazed so long,

Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue;

But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the prize;

I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.

Such are thy pictures, Kneller: such thy skill,

That Nature seems obedient to thy will;

Comes out and meets thy pencil in the draught;

Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. 10

At least thy pictures look a voice; and we

Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree,

We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.

Shadows are but privations of the light;

Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;

With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;

Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.

Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almost conquer in the strife;

And from their animated canvas came, 20

Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.

Prometheus, were he here, would cast away

His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;

And either would thy noble work inspire,

Or think it warm enough, without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;

This is the least attendant on thy praise:

From hence the rudiments of art began;

A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:

Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall, 30

Gave outlines to the rude original;

Ere canvas yet was strain'd, before the grace

Of blended colours found their use and place,

Or cypress tablets first received a face.

By slow degrees the godlike art advanced;

As man grew polish'd, picture was enhanced:

Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;

And then the mimic piece began to live.

Yet pérspective was lame, no distance true,

But all came forward in one common view: 40

No point of light was known, no bounds of art;

When light was there, it knew not to depart,

But glaring on remoter objects play'd;

Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive,

And with old Greece unequally did strive:

Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race,

Did all the matchless monuments deface.

Then all the Muses in one ruin be,

And rhyme began to enervate poetry. 50

Thus, in a stupid military state,

The pen and pencil find an equal fate.

Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen,

Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,

Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight

Of brutal nations only born to fight.

Long time, the sister arts, in iron sleep,

A heavy sabbath did supinely keep:

At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,

Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes. 60

Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line:

One colour'd best, and one did best design.

Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,

But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.

Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,

Postures unforced, and lively colours join.

Likeness is ever there; but still the best,

Like proper thoughts in lofty language dress'd:

Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives,

Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. 70

Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:

Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;

With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write;

With reverence look on his majestic face;

Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.

His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,

And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast

Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. 80

Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost:

When most they rail, know then, they envy most.

In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,

Like women's anger, impotent and loud.

While they their barren industry deplore,

Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.

Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,

Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.

Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth;

For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth: 90

But oh! the painter Muse, though last in place,

Has seized the blessing first, like Jacob's race.

Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;

But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.

Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;

But pass we that unpleasing image by.

Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine,

All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.

A graceful truth thy pencil can command; 100

The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.

Likeness appears in every lineament;

But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though nature there her true resemblance bears,

A nobler beauty in thy peace appears.

So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,

Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.

Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,

When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;

But not creating beauties at our will. 110

But poets are confined in narrower space,

To speak the language of their native place:

The painter widely stretches his command;

Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.

From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,

Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.

All nations all immunities will give

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;

And not seven cities, but the world would strive.

Sure some propitious planet, then, did smile, 120

When first you were conducted to this isle:

Our genius brought you here to enlarge our fame;

For your good stars are everywhere the same.

Thy matchless hand, of every region free,

Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart

To thee the examples of their wondrous art.

Those masters then, but seen, not understood,

With generous emulation fired thy blood:

For what in nature's dawn the child admired, 130

The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquired.

If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,

'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.

Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,

Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design

A more exalted work, and more divine.

For what a song, or senseless opera

Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,

Such is a single piece to history. 140

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live:

Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;

And they who pay the taxes, bear the rule:

Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool:

But so his follies in thy posture sink,

The senseless idiot seems at last to think.

Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain,

To wish their vile resemblance may remain!

And stand recorded, at their own request,

To future days, a libel or a jest! 150

Else should we see your noble pencil trace

Our unities of action, time, and place:

A whole composed of parts, and those the best,

With every various character express'd;

Heroes at large, and at a nearer view,

Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew.

While all the figures in one action join,

As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art express'd;

But venerable age shall add the rest: 160

For time shall with his ready pencil stand;

Retouch your fingers with his ripening hand;

Mellow your colours, and embrown the tint;

Add every grace, which time alone can grant;

To future ages shall your fame convey,

And give more beauties than he takes away.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 32: Supposed to be an acknowledgment of a copy of the Chandos

portrait of Shakspeare given to Dryden by Kneller.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XV.

TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR, JOHN HODDESDON, ON HIS DIVINE EPIGRAMS.

Thou hast inspired me with thy soul, and I

Who ne'er before could ken of poetry,

Am grown so good proficient, I can lend

A line in commendation of my friend.

Yet 'tis but of the second hand; if ought

There be in this, 'tis from thy fancy brought.

Good thief, who dar'st, Prometheus-like, aspire,

And fill thy poems with celestial fire:

Enliven'd by these sparks divine, their rays

Add a bright lustre to thy crown of bays. 10

Young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon forsook,

So lofty and divine a course hast took

As all admire, before the down begin

To peep, as yet, upon thy smoother chin;

And, making heaven thy aim, hast had the grace

To look the Sun of righteousness i' the face.

What may we hope, if thou go'st on thus fast,

Scriptures at first; enthusiasms at last!

Thou hast commenced, betimes, a saint; go on,

Mingling diviner streams with Helicon; 20

That they who view what epigrams here be,

May learn to make like, in just praise of thee.

Reader, I've done, nor longer will withhold

Thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold

Thou'lt know adulterate copper, which, like this,

Will only serve to be a foil to his.

* * * * *

EPISTLE XVI.

TO MY FRIEND MR J. NORTHLEIGH, AUTHOR OF "THE

PARALLEL," ON HIS "TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH

MONARCHY."

So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well

The boding dream, and did the event foretell;

Judged by the past, and drew the Parallel.

Thus early Solomon the truth explored,

The right awarded, and the babe restored.

Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew,

The perjured Presbyters did first subdue,

And freed Susanna from the canting crew.

Well may our monarchy triumphant stand,

While warlike James protects both sea and land; 10

And, under covert of his sevenfold shield,

Thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field.

By law thy powerful pen has set us free;

Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.

* * * * *

ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

I.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR OLDHAM.[33]

Farewell, too little, and too lately known,

Whom I began to think, and call my own:

For sure our souls were near allied, and thine

Cast in the same poetic mould with mine!

One common note on either lyre did strike,

And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.

To the same goal did both our studies drive;

The last set out, the soonest did arrive.

Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. 10

O early ripe! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more?

It might (what nature never gives the young)

Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.

But satire needs not those, and wit will shine

Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.

A noble error, and but seldom made,

When poets are by too much force betray'd.

Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,

Still show'd a quickness; and maturing time 20

But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme.

Once more, hail! and farewell, farewell, thou young,

But, ah! too short, Marcellus of our tongue!

Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;

But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 33: 'Mr Oldham:' John Oldham, the satirist, died of the

small-pox in his 30th year, 1683.]

* * * * *

II.

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY MRS ANNE

KILLIGREW,[34] EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING.

AN ODE. 1685.

I.

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,

Made in the last promotion of the blest;

Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,

In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest:

Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,

Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,

Or, in procession fix'd and regular,

Mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace;

Or, call'd to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:

Whatever happy region is thy place,

Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,

Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,

In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,

When thy first fruits of Poesy were given;

To make thyself a welcome inmate there:

While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.

II.

If by traduction came thy mind,

Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;

Thy father was transfused into thy blood:

So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,

An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul

Was form'd, at first, with myriads more,

It did through all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:

Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,

New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth?

For sure the milder planets did combine

On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,

And even the most malicious were in trine.

Thy brother angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,

That all the people of the sky

Might know a poetess was born on earth.

And then, if ever, mortal ears

Had heard the music of the spheres,

And if no clustering swarm of bees

On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,

'Twas that such vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leisure to renew:

For all thy blest fraternity of love

Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

IV.

O gracious God! how far have we

Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy!

Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,

Debased to each obscene and impious use,

Whose harmony was first ordain'd above

For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love!

O wretched we! why were we hurried down

This lubrique and adulterate age,

(Nay added fat pollutions of our own,)

To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?

What can we say to excuse our second fall?

Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all:

Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd,

Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiled:

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

V.

Art she had none, yet wanted none;

For nature did that want supply:

So rich in treasures of her own,

She might our boasted stores defy:

Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,

That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born.

Her morals too were in her bosom bred.

By great examples daily fed,

What in the best of books, her father's life, she read:

And to be read herself she need not fear;

Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,

Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.

Even love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd)

Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast:

Light as the vapours of a morning dream,

So cold herself, whilst she such warmth express'd,

'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,

One would have thought she should have been content

To manage well that mighty government;

But what can young ambitious souls confine?

To the next realm she stretch'd her sway,

For Painture near adjoining lay,

A plenteous province, and alluring prey.

A Chamber of Dependencies was framed,

(As conquerors will never want pretence,

When arm'd, to justify the offence)

And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd.

The country open lay without defence:

For poets frequent inroads there had made,

And perfectly could represent

The shape, the face, with every lineament,

And all the large domains which the Dumb Sister sway'd;

All bow'd beneath her government,

Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.

Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd,

And oft the happy draft surpass'd the image in her mind.

The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,

And fruitful plains and barren rocks,

Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear,

The bottom did the top appear:

Of deeper, too, and ampler floods,

Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods;

Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,

And pérspectives of pleasant glades,

Where nymphs of brightest form appear,

And shaggy satyrs standing near,

Which them at once admire and fear.

The ruins, too, of some majestic piece,

Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,

Whose statues, friezes, columns broken lie,

And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;

What nature, art, bold fiction e'er durst frame,

Her forming hand gave feature to the name.

So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,

But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.

VII.

The scene then changed: with bold erected look

Our martial king the sight with reverence strook:

For not content to express his outward part,

Her hand call'd out the image of his heart:

His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,

His high-designing thoughts were figured there,

As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.

Our phoenix queen was portray'd too so bright,

Beauty alone could beauty take so right;

Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,

Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.

With such a peerless majesty she stands,

As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands:

Before a train of heroines was seen,

In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen.

Thus nothing to her genius was denied,

But like a ball of fire the further thrown,

Still with a greater blaze she shone,

And her bright soul broke out on every side.

What next she had design'd Heaven only knows:

To such immoderate growth her conquest rose,

That fate alone its progress could oppose.

VIII.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,

The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face,

Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;

In earth the much lamented virgin lies.

Not wit, nor piety could Fate prevent;

Nor was the cruel destiny content

To finish all the murder at a blow,

To sweep at once her life, and beauty too;

But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride

To work more mischievously slow,

And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.

Oh, double sacrilege on things divine,

To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda[35] died:

Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate:

As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

IX.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas

His waving streamers to the wind displays,

And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.

Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,

The winds too soon will waft thee here:

Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,

Alas, thou know'st not thou art wreck'd at home!

No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,

Thou hast already had her last embrace.

But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far

Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star,

If any sparkles than the rest more bright,

'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

X.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,

To raise the nations under ground:

When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat,

The judging God shall close the book of fate:

And there the last assizes keep,

For those who wake, and those who sleep;

When rattling bones together fly,

From the four corners of the sky;

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,

Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;

The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,

And foremost from the tomb shall bound,

For they are cover'd with the lightest ground;

And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,

Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.

There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go,

As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,

The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 34: 'Killigrew:' a lady of remarkable promise alike in

painting and poetry; maid of honour to the Duchess of York; died at the

age of 25, in 1685; her father an eminent clergyman, her brother a wit.]

[Footnote 35: 'Orinda:' Mrs Catherine Philips, author of a book of

poems, died, like Mrs Killigrew, of the small-pox, in 1664, being only

thirty-two years of age.]

* * * * *

III.

UPON THE DEATH OF

THE EARL OF DUNDEE.[36]

Oh, last and best of Scots! who didst maintain

Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;

New people fill the land now thou art gone,

New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.

Scotland and thee did each in other live;

Nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee survive.

Farewell! who dying didst support the state,

And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 36: This is translated from a Latin elegy by Dr Pitcairn.]

* * * * *

IV.

ELEONORA:

A PANEGYRICAL POEM, DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE COUNTESS OF

ABINGDON.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF ABINGDON, &c.

MY LORD,--The commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are

now performed: they had been sooner; but betwixt ill health, some

business, and many troubles, I was forced to defer them till this time.

Ovid, going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his

friends, excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told

them, that good verses never flow but from a serene and composed spirit.

Wit, which is a kind of Mercury, with wings fastened to his head and

heels, can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to

obey you late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing anything, at

any time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. I cannot say

that I have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by

hard swimming, where I may pant a while and gather breath: for the

doctors give me a sad assurance, that my disease never took its leave of

any man, but with a purpose to return. However, my lord, I have laid

hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left

me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to

my lady's memory. We, who are priests of Apollo, have not the

inspiration when we please; but must wait until the god comes rushing on

us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist: which

gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us

languishing and spent at its departure. Let me not seem to boast, my

lord, for I have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond

my natural power. Let me add, and hope to be believed, that the

excellency of the subject contributed much to the happiness of the

execution; and that the weight of thirty years was taken off me while I

was writing. I swam with the tide, and the water under me was buoyant.

The reader will easily observe that I was transported by the multitude

and variety of my similitudes; which are generally the product of a

luxuriant fancy, and the wantonness of wit. Had I called in my judgment

to my assistance, I had certainly retrenched many of them. But I defend

them not; let them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of

critics: for the whole poem, though written in that which they call

Heroic verse, is of the Pindaric nature, as well in the thought as the

expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it.

It was intended, as your lordship sees in the title, not for an elegy,

but a panegyric: a kind of apotheosis, indeed, if a heathen word may be

applied to a Christian use. And on all occasions of praise, if we take

the ancients for our patterns, we are bound by prescription to employ

the magnificence of words, and the force of figures, to adorn the

sublimity of thoughts. Isocrates amongst the Grecian orators, and

Cicero, and the younger Pliny, amongst the Romans, have left us their

precedents for our security; for I think I need not mention the

inimitable Pindar, who stretches on these pinions out of sight, and is

carried upward, as it were, into another world.

This, at least, my lord, I may justly plead, that if I have not

performed so well as I think I have, yet I have used my best endeavours

to excel myself. One disadvantage I have had; which is, never to have

known or seen my lady: and to draw the lineaments of her mind, from the

description which I have received from others, is for a painter to set

himself at work without the living original before him: which, the more

beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive,

when he has only a relation given him of such and such features by an

acquaintance or a friend, without the nice touches, which give the best

resemblance, and make the graces of the picture. Every artist is apt

enough to flatter himself (and I amongst the rest) that their own ocular

observations would have discovered more perfections, at least others,

than have been delivered to them: though I have received mine from the

best hands, that is, from persons who neither want a just understanding

of my lady's worth, nor a due veneration for her memory.

Dr Donne, the greatest wit, though not the greatest poet of our nation,

acknowledges, that he had never seen Mrs Drury, whom he has made

immortal in his admirable "Anniversaries." I have had the same fortune,

though I have not succeeded to the same genius. However, I have followed

his footsteps in the design of his panegyric; which was to raise an

emulation in the living, to copy out the example of the dead. And

therefore it was, that I once intended to have called this poem "The

Pattern:" and though, on a second consideration, I changed the title

into the name of the illustrious person, yet the design continues, and

Eleonora is still the pattern of charity, devotion, and humility; of the

best wife, the best mother, and the best of friends.

And now, my lord, though I have endeavoured to answer your commands; yet

I could not answer it to the world, nor to my conscience, if I gave not

your lordship my testimony of being the best husband now living: I say

my testimony only; for the praise of it is given you by yourself. They

who despise the rules of virtue both in their practice and their morals,

will think this a very trivial commendation. But I think it the peculiar

happiness of the Countess of Abingdon to have been so truly loved by you

while she was living, and so gratefully honoured after she was dead. Few

there are who have either had, or could have, such a loss; and yet fewer

who carried their love and constancy beyond the grave. The exteriors of

mourning, a decent funeral, and black habits, are the usual stints of

common husbands: and perhaps their wives deserve no better than to be

mourned with hypocrisy, and forgot with ease. But you have distinguished

yourself from ordinary lovers, by a real and lasting grief for the

deceased; and by endeavouring to raise for her the most durable

monument, which is that of verse. And so it would have proved, if the

workman had been equal to the work, and your choice of the artificer as

happy as your design. Yet, as Phidias, when he had made the statue of

Minerva, could not forbear to engrave his own name, as author of the

piece: so give me leave to hope, that, by subscribing mine to this poem,

I may live by the goddess, and transmit my name to posterity by the

memory of hers. It is no flattery to assure your lordship, that she is

remembered, in the present age, by all who have had the honour of her

conversation and acquaintance; and that I have never been in any company

since the news of her death was first brought me, where they have not

extolled her virtues, and even spoken the same things of her in prose,

which I have done in verse.

I therefore think myself obliged to thank your lordship for the

commission which you have given me: how I have acquitted myself of it,

must be left to the opinion of the world, in spite of any protestation

which I can enter against the present age, as incompetent or corrupt

judges. For my comfort, they are but Englishmen, and, as such, if they

think ill of me to-day, they are inconstant enough to think well of me

to-morrow. And after all, I have not much to thank my fortune that I was

born amongst them. The good of both sexes are so few, in England, that

they stand like exceptions against general rules: and though one of them

has deserved a greater commendation than I could give her, they have

taken care that I should not tire my pen with frequent exercise on the

like subjects; that praises, like taxes, should be appropriated, and

left almost as individual as the person. They say, my talent is satire:

if it be so, it is a fruitful age, and there is an extraordinary crop to

gather. But a single hand is insufficient for such a harvest: they have

sown the dragons' teeth themselves, and it is but just they should reap

each other in lampoons. You, my lord, who have the character of honour,

though it is not my happiness to know you, may stand aside, with the

small remainders of the English nobility, truly such, and, unhurt

yourselves, behold the mad combat. If I have pleased you and some few

others, I have obtained my end. You see I have disabled myself, like an

elected speaker of the house: yet like him I have undertaken the charge,

and find the burden sufficiently recompensed by the honour. Be pleased

to accept of these my unworthy labours, this paper-monument; and let her

pious memory, which I am sure is sacred to you, not only plead the

pardon of my many faults, but gain me your protection, which is

ambitiously sought by, my lord, your lordship's most obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

* * * * *

As when some great and gracious monarch dies,

Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise

Among the sad attendants; then the sound

Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around,

Through town and country, till the dreadful blast

Is blown to distant colonies at last;

Who then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain,

For his long life, and for his happy reign:

So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame

Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, 10

Till public as the loss the news became.

The nation felt it in the extremest parts,

With eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts;

But most the poor, whom daily she supplied,

Beginning to be such, but when she died.

For, while she lived, they slept in peace by night,

Secure of bread, as of returning light;

And with such firm dependence on the day,

That need grew pamper'd, and forgot to pray:

So sure the doll, so ready at their call, 20

They stood prepared to see the manna fall.

Such multitudes she fed, she clothed, she nursed,

That she herself might fear her wanting first.

Of her five talents, other five she made;

Heaven, that had largely given, was largely paid:

And in few lives, in wondrous few, we find

A fortune better fitted to the mind.

Nor did her alms from ostentation fall,

Or proud desire of praise; the soul gave all:

Unbribed it gave; or, if a bribe appear, 30

No less than heaven--to heap huge treasures there.

Want pass'd for merit at her open door;

Heaven saw, He safely might increase His poor,

And trust their sustenance with her so well,

As not to be at charge of miracle.

None could be needy, whom she saw, or knew;

All in the compass of her sphere she drew:

He, who could touch her garment, was as sure,

As the first Christians of the apostles' cure.

The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds, 40

And laid her up for their extremest needs;

A future cordial for a fainting mind;

For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped to find,

Each in his turn; the rich might freely come,

As to a friend; but to the poor 'twas home.

As to some holy house the afflicted came,

The hunger-starved, the naked and the lame;

Want and diseases fled before her name.

For zeal like her's her servants were too slow;

She was the first, where need required, to go; 50

Herself the foundress and attendant too.

Sure she had guests sometimes to entertain,

Guests in disguise, of her great Master's train:

Her Lord himself might come, for aught we know;

Since in a servant's form He lived below:

Beneath her roof He might be pleased to stay;

Or some benighted angel, in his way,

Might ease his wings, and, seeing heaven appear

In its best work of mercy, think it there:

Where all the deeds of charity and love 60

Were, in as constant method as above,

All carried on; all of a piece with theirs;

As free her alms, as diligent her cares;

As loud her praises, and as warm her prayers.

Yet was she not profuse; but feared to waste,

And wisely managed, that the stock might last;

That all might be supplied, and she not grieve,

When crowds appear'd, she had not to relieve:

Which to prevent, she still increased her store;

Laid up, and spared, that she might give the more. 70

So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he,

Provided for the seventh necessity:

Taught from above his magazines to frame,

That famine was prevented ere it came.

Thus Heaven, though all-sufficient, shows a thrift

In His economy, and bounds His gift:

Creating, for our day, one single light;

And his reflection, too, supplies the night.

Perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie

Remote from us, and latent in the sky, 80

Are lighten'd by his beams, and kindly nursed;

Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst.

Now, as all virtues keep the middle line,

Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline,

Such was her soul; abhorring avarice,

Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice:

Had she given more, it had profusion been,

And turn'd the excess of goodness into sin.

These virtues raised her fabric to the sky;

For that, which is next heaven, is Charity. 90

But, as high turrets, for their airy steep,

Require foundations in proportion deep;

And lofty cedars as far upward shoot,

As to the nether heavens they drive the root:

So low did her secure foundation lie,

She was not humble, but Humility.

Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair,

Or wise, beyond what other women are;

Or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare:

For to be conscious of what all admire, 100

And not be vain, advances virtue higher.

But still she found, or rather thought she found,

Her own worth wanting, others' to abound;

Ascribed above their due to every one--

Unjust and scanty to herself alone.

Such her devotion was, as might give rules

Of speculation to disputing schools,

And teach us equally the scales to hold

Betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold;

That pious heat may moderately prevail, 110

And we be warm'd, but not be scorch'd with zeal:

Business might shorten, not disturb, her prayer;

Heaven had the best, if not the greater share.

An active life long orisons forbids;

Yet still she pray'd, for still she pray'd by deeds.

Her every day was Sabbath; only free

From hours of prayer, for hours of charity:

Such as the Jews from servile toil released;

Where works of mercy were a part of rest;

Such as blest angels exercise above, 120

Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love:

Such Sabbaths as that one she now enjoys,

Even that perpetual one, which she employs

(For such vicissitudes in heaven there are)

In praise alternate, and alternate prayer.

All this she practised here; that when she sprung

Amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung:

Sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays;

For, praising her, they did her Maker praise.

All offices of heaven so well she knew, 130

Before she came, that nothing there was new:

And she was so familiarly received,

As one returning, not as one arrived.

Muse, down again precipitate thy flight!

For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light?

But as the sun in water we can bear--

Yet not the sun, but his reflection there,

So let us view her, here, in what she was,

And take her image in this watery glass:

Yet look not every lineament to see; 140

Some will be cast in shades, and some will be

So lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 'tis she.

For where such various virtues we recite,

'Tis like the milky-way, all over bright,

But sown so thick with stars,'tis undistinguish'd light.

Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call;

For one heroic comprehends them all:

One, as a constellation is but one,

Though 'tis a train of stars, that, rolling on,

Rise in their turn, and in the zodiac run: 150

Ever in motion; now 'tis faith ascends,

Now hope, now charity, that upward tends,

And downwards with diffusive good descends.

As in perfumes composed with art and cost,

'Tis hard to say what scent is uppermost;

Nor this part musk or civet can we call,

Or amber, but a rich result of all;

So she was all a sweet, whose every part,

In due proportion mix'd, proclaim'd the Maker's art.

No single virtue we could most commend, 160

Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend;

For she was all, in that supreme degree,

That as no one prevail'd, so all was she.

The several parts lay hidden in the piece;

The occasion but exerted that, or this.

A wife as tender, and as true withal,

As the first woman was before her fall:

Made for the man, of whom she was a part;

Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart.

A second Eve, but by no crime accursed; 170

As beauteous, not as brittle, as the first:

Had she been first, still Paradise had been,

And Death had found no entrance by her sin:

So she not only had preserved from ill

Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still.

Love and obedience to her lord she bore;

She much obey'd him, but she loved him more:

Not awed to duty by superior sway,

But taught by his indulgence to obey.

Thus we love God, as author of our good; 180

So subjects love just kings, or so they should.

Nor was it with ingratitude return'd;

In equal fires the blissful couple burn'd;

One joy possess'd them both, and in one grief they mourn'd.

His passion still improved; he loved so fast

As if he fear'd each day would be her last.

Too true a prophet to foresee the fate

That should so soon divide their happy state;

When he to heaven entirely must restore

That love, that heart, where he went halves before. 190

Yet as the soul is all in every part,

So God and he might each have all her heart.

So had her children too; for charity

Was not more fruitful, or more kind than she:

Each under other by degrees they grew;

A goodly perspective of distant view.

Anchises look'd not with so pleased a face,

In numbering o'er his future Roman race,

And marshalling the heroes of his name,

As, in their order, next to light they came. 200

Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,

Survey'd her sons and daughters of the sky;

Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?

As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit.

Her pious love excell'd to all she bore;

New objects only multiplied it more.

And as the chosen found the pearly grain

As much as every vessel could contain;

As in the blissful vision each shall share

As much of glory as his soul can bear; 210

So did she love, and so dispense her care.

Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,

As longer cultivated than the rest.

The babe had all that infant care beguiles,

And early knew his mother in her smiles:

But when dilated organs let in day

To the young soul, and gave it room to play,

At his first aptness, the maternal love

Those rudiments of reason did improve:

The tender age was pliant to command; 220

Like wax it yielded to the forming hand:

True to the artificer, the labour'd mind

With ease was pious, generous, just, and kind;

Soft for impression, from the first prepared,

Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:

With every act confirm'd, and made at last

So durable as not to be effaced,

It turn'd to habit; and, from vices free,

Goodness resolved into necessity.

Thus fix'd she virtue's image, that's her own, 230

Till the whole mother in the children shone;

For that was their perfection: she was such,

They never could express her mind too much.

So unexhausted her perfections were,

That, for more children, she had more to spare;

For souls unborn, whom her untimely death

Deprived of bodies, and of mortal breath;

And (could they take the impressions of her mind)

Enough still left to sanctify her kind.

Then wonder not to see this soul extend 240

The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend:

As swelling seas to gentle rivers glide,

To seek repose, and empty out the tide;

So this full soul, in narrow limits pent,

Unable to contain her, sought a vent

To issue out, and in some friendly breast

Discharge her treasures, and securely rest:

To unbosom all the secrets of her heart,

Take good advice, but better to impart:

For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state, 250

To mix their minds, and to communicate;

Though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate.

Fix'd to her choice, inviolably true,

And wisely choosing, for she chose but few.

Some she must have; but in no one could find

A tally fitted for so large a mind.

The souls of friends, like kings in progress, are

Still in their own, though from the palace far:

Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was

A sweet retirement to a coarser place; 260

Where pomp and ceremonies enter'd not,

Where greatness was shut out, and business well forgot.

This is the imperfect draught; but short as far

As the true height and bigness of a star

Exceeds the measures of the astronomer.

She shines above, we know; but in what place,

How near the throne, and Heaven's imperial face,

By our weak optics is but vainly guess'd;

Distance and altitude conceal the rest.

Though all these rare endowments of the mind 270

Were in a narrow space of life confined,

The figure was with full perfection crown'd;

Though not so large an orb, as truly round.

As when in glory, through the public place,

The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass,

And but one day for triumph was allow'd,

The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd;

And so the swift procession hurried on,

That all, though not distinctly, might be shown:

So in the straiten'd bounds of life confined, 280

She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind:

And multitudes of virtues pass'd along;

Bach pressing foremost in the mighty throng,

Ambitious to be seen, and then make room

For greater multitudes that were to come.

Yet unemploy'd no minute slipp'd away;

Moments were precious in so short a stay.

The haste of heaven to have her was so great,

That some were single acts, though each complete;

But every act stood ready to repeat. 290

Her fellow-saints with busy care will look

For her bless'd name in Fate's eternal book;

And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see

Numberless virtues, endless charity:

But more will wonder at so short an age,

To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page;

And with a pious fear begin to doubt

The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.

But 'twas her Saviour's time; and, could there be

A copy near the Original, 'twas she. 300

As precious gums are not for lasting fire,

They but perfume the temple, and expire:

So was she soon exhaled, and vanish'd hence;

A short sweet odour, of a vast expense.

She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she died;

For but a now did heaven and earth divide:

She pass'd serenely with a single breath;

This moment perfect health, the next was death:

One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;

So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. 310

As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;

Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new;

So close they follow, such wild order keep,

We think ourselves awake, and are asleep:

So softly death succeeded life in her,

She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

No pains she suffer'd, nor expired with noise;

Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice;

As an old friend is beckon'd to a feast,

And treated like a long-familiar guest. 320

He took her as He found, but found her so,

As one in hourly readiness to go:

Even on that day, in all her trim prepared;

As early notice she from heaven had heard,

And some descending courier from above

Had given her timely warning to remove;

Or counsell'd her to dress the nuptial room,

For on that night the Bridegroom was to come.

He kept His hour, and found her where she lay

Clothed all in white, the livery of the day. 330

Scarce had she sinn'd in thought, or word, or act;

Unless omissions were to pass for fact:

That hardly death a consequence could draw,

To make her liable to nature's law:

And, that she died, we only have to show

The mortal part of her she left below:

The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went,

Look'd like translation through the firmament;

Or, like the fiery car, on the third errand[37] sent.

O happy soul! if thou canst view from high, 340

Where thou art all intelligence, all eye;

If, looking up to God, or down to us,

Thou find'st that any way be pervious,

Survey the ruins of thy house, and see

Thy widow'd, and thy orphan family:

Look on thy tender pledges left behind;

And, if thou canst a vacant minute find

From heavenly joys, that interval afford

To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.

See how they grieve, mistaken in their love, 350

And shed a beam of comfort from above;

Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,

A transient view of thy full glories there;

That they with moderate sorrow may sustain

And mollify their losses in thy gain:

Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,

That should not all relations bear a part,

It were enough to break a single heart.

Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse

This humble tribute of no vulgar Muse: 360

Who, not by cares, or wants, or age depress'd,

Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast;

And dares to sing thy praises in a clime

Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime;

Where even to draw the picture of thy mind,

Is satire on the most of human kind:

Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage,

Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age;

So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence

From vice, but barely by departing hence. 370

Be what, and where thou art: to wish thy place,

Were, in the best, presumption more than grace.

Thy relics (such thy works of mercy are)

Have, in this poem, been my holy care.

As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky,

So shall this verse preserve thy memory;

For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 37: 'Third errand:' Enoch and Elias were the first two.]

* * * * *

V.

ON THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,

Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn;

When Damon, who design'd to pass the day

With hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey,

Rose early from his bed; but soon he found

The welkin pitch'd with sullen clouds around,

An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground.

Thus while he stood, and, sighing, did survey

The fields, and cursed the ill omens of the day,

He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace; 10

Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:

He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,

And sent his voice before him from afar.

Return, he cried, return, unhappy swain!

The spungy clouds are fill'd with gathering rain:

The promise of the day not only cross'd,

But even the spring, the spring itself is lost.

Amyntas--oh!--he could not speak the rest,

Nor needed, for presaging Damon guess'd.

Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy, 20

The boast of nature, both his parents' joy,

His graceful form revolving in his mind;

So great a genius, and a soul so kind,

Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;

Too well the envy of the gods he knew:

For when their gifts too lavishly are placed,

Soon they repent, and will not make them last.

For sure it was too bountiful a dole,

The mother's features, and the father's soul.

Then thus he cried; the morn bespoke the news: 30

The morning did her cheerful light diffuse:

But see how suddenly she changed her face,

And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace!

Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race:

What charms adorn'd thy youth, where nature smiled,

And more than man was given us in a child!

His infancy was ripe: a soul sublime

In years so tender that prevented time:

Heaven gave him all at once; then snatch'd away,

Ere mortals all his beauties could survey: 40

Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day.

MENALCAS.

The mother, lovely, though with grief oppress'd,

Reclined his dying head upon her breast.

The mournful family stood all around;

One groan was heard, one universal sound:

All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drown'd.

So dire a sadness sat on every look,

Even Death repented he had given the stroke.

He grieved his fatal work had been ordain'd

But promised length of life to those who yet remain'd. 50

The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,

It seems, had bribed him to prolong their space.

The father bore it with undaunted soul,

Like one who durst his destiny control:

Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,

Resign'd his son, but not resign'd his heart:

Patient as Job; and may he live to see,

Like him, a new increasing family!

DAMON.

Such is my wish, and such my prophecy.

For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains; 60

Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!

But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race

More lasting, and endued with equal grace!

Equal she may, but further none can go:

For he was all that was exact below.

MENALCAS.

Damon! behold yon breaking purple cloud;

Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?

There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play

About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way!

He cleaves the liquid air, behold he flies, 70

And every moment gains upon the skies!

The new-come guest admires the ethereal state,

The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;

And now admitted in the shining throng,

He shows the passport which he brought along:

His passport is his innocence and grace,

Well known to all the natives of the place.

Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire

Your brother's voice that conies to mend your quire

Sing you,--while endless tears our eyes bestow: 80

For like Amyntas none is left below.

* * * * *

VI.

ON THE DEATH OF A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

He who could view the book of destiny,

And read whatever there was writ of thee,

O charming youth, in the first opening page,

So many graces in so green an age,

Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,

A soul at once so manly and so kind;

Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,

And after some few leaves should find no more,

Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,

A step of life that promised such a race. 10

We must not, dare not think, that Heaven began

A child, and could not finish him a man;

Reflecting what a mighty store was laid

Of rich materials, and a model made:

The cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd,

As more was never to one soul allow'd:

Yet after this profusion spent in vain,

Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,

I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,

Yet durst I guess, Heaven kept it for himself; 20

And giving us the use, did soon recall,

Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappeared, was rarified;

For 'tis improper speech to say he died:

He was exhaled; his great Creator drew

His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.

'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,

But the taint Adam left on every son.

He added not, he was so pure, so good,

'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood: 30

And that so little, that the river ran

More clear than the corrupted fount began.

Nothing remain'd of the first muddy clay;

The length of course had wash'd it in the way:

So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold

The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As such we loved, admired, almost adored,

Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.

Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above

Grew angry at our superstitious love: 40

For when we more than human homage pay,

The charming cause is justly snatch'd away.

Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone:

And yet we murmur that he went so soon;

Though miracles are short and rarely shown.

Learn, then, ye mournful parents, and divide

That love in many, which in one was tied.

That individual blessing is no more,

But multiplied in your remaining store.

The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire; 50

The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.

Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,

And from those parts form one collected grace:

Then, when you have refined to that degree,

Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.

* * * * *

VII.

UPON YOUNG MR ROGERS OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,

Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure,

Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,

A large provision for so short a race;

More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date,

Too early fitted for a better state;

But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,

He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

* * * * *

VIII.

ON THE DEATH OF MR PURCELL.

SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW.

1 Mark how the lark and linnet sing;

With rival notes

They strain their warbling throats,

To welcome in the spring.

But in the close of night,

When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,

They cease their mutual spite,

Drink in her music with delight,

And, listening, silently obey.

2 So ceased the rival crew, when Purcell came;

They sung no more, or only sung his fame:

Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man:

The godlike man,

Alas! too soon retired,

As he too late began.

We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore:

Had he been there,

Their sovereign's fear

Had sent him back before.

The power of harmony too well they knew:

He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere,

And left no hell below.

3 The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high,

Let down the scale of music from the sky:

They handed him along,

And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung

Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,

Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice:

Now live secure, and linger out your days;

The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays,

Nor know to mend their choice.

* * * * *

IX.

EPITAPH ON THE LADY WHITMORE.

Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,

A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one,

Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,

Here sadly summing what he had, and lost.

Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,

Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine;

Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,

Compound for all the rest, with longer life;

And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd,

So loved when living, and when dead so mourn'd.

* * * * *

X.

EPITAPH ON SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

SACRED TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF SIR PALMES FAIRBONE, KNIGHT, GOVERNOR

OF TANGIER; IN EXECUTION OF WHICH COMMAND, HE WAS MORTALLY WOUNDED BY A

SHOT FROM THE MOORS, THEN BESIEGING THE TOWN, IN THE FORTY-SIXTH YEAR OF

HIS AGE. OCTOBER 24, 1680.

Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,

Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep:

Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,

Pairbone's undaunted soul did undergo,

And be the town's Palladium from the foe.

Alive and dead these walls he will defend:

Great actions great examples must attend.

The Candian siege his early valour knew,

Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.

From thence returning with deserved applause, 10

Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;

The same the courage, and the same the cause.

His youth and age, his life and death, combine,

As in some great and regular design,

All of a piece throughout, and all divine.

Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright,

Like rising flames expanding in their height;

The martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.

More bravely British general never fell,

Nor general's death was e'er revenged so well; 20

Which his pleased eyes beheld before their close,

Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.

To his lamented loss for time to come

His pious widow consecrates this tomb.

* * * * *

XI.

UNDER MR MILTON'S PICTURE, BEFORE HIS

PARADISE LOST.[38]

Three Poets, in three distant ages born,

Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.

The first, in loftiness of thought surpass'd;

The next, in majesty; in both the last.

The force of nature could no further go;

To make a third, she join'd the former two.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 38: In Tonson's folio edition.]

* * * * *

XII

ON THE MONUMENT OF A FAIR MAIDEN LADY[39], WHO DIED AT BATH, AND IS

THERE INTERRED.

Below this marble monument is laid

All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.

Preserve, O sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd;

The mould was made on purpose for the mind:

And she would lose, if, at the latter day,

One atom could be mix'd of other clay.

Such were the features of her heavenly face,

Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace:

So faultless was the frame, as if the whole

Had been an emanation of the soul: 10

Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd

And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd.

Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light:

Too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight.

Each thought was visible that roll'd within:

As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.

And Heaven did this transparent veil provide,

Because she had no guilty thought to hide.

All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies:

For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes. 20

High though her wit, yet humble was her mind:

As if she could not, or she would not find

How much her worth transcended all her kind.

Yet she had learn'd so much of heaven below,

That, when arrived, she scarce had more to know:

But only to refresh the former hint,

And read her Maker in a fairer print.

So pious, as she had no time to spare

For human thoughts, but was confined to prayer.

Yet in such charities she pass'd the day, 30

'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray.

A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,

Which passion could but curl, not discompose.

A female softness, with a manly mind:

A daughter duteous, and a sister kind:

In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 39: This Lady is interred in the Abbey-church. Her name was

Mary Frampton. She died in 1698.]

* * * * *

XIII.

EPITAPH ON MRS MARGARET PASTON, OF BURNINGHAM IN NORFOLK.

So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,

So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,

Require at least an age in one to meet.

In her they met; but long they could not stay,

'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.

Heaven's image was in her so well express'd,

Her very sight upbraided all the rest;

Too justly ravish'd from an age like this,

Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.

* * * * *

XIV.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.[40]

He who in impious times undaunted stood,

And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;

Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more

Confirm'd the cause for which he sought before,

Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,

For what his earthly could not recompense.

Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:

Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.

Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,

Which, to preserve them, Heaven confined in thee.

Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;

And fewer such a king so well could serve.

Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state

By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!

Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given

To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 40: Winchester, a staunch royalist, besieged two years in his

castle of Basing, died in 1674.]

* * * * *

SONGS, ODES, AND A MASQUE

I.

THE FAIR STRANGER.[41]

A SONG.

1 Happy and free, securely blest,

No beauty could disturb my rest;

My amorous heart was in despair,

To find a new victorious fair.

2 Till you descending on our plains,

With foreign force renew my chains:

Where now you rule without control

The mighty sovereign of my soul.

3 Your smiles have more of conquering charms,

Than all your native country arms;

Their troops we can expel with ease,

Who vanquish only when we please.

4 But in your eyes, oh! there's the spell,

Who can see them, and not rebel?

You make us captives by your stay,

Yet kill us if you go away.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 41: This song is a compliment to the Duchess of Portsmouth,

Charles's mistress, on her first coming to England.]

* * * * *

II

ON THE YOUNG STATESMEN.

WRITTEN IN 1680.

1 CLARENDON had law and sense,

Clifford was fierce and brave;

Bennet's grave look was a pretence,

And Danby's matchless impudence

Help'd to support the knave.

2 But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory[42],

These will appear such chits in story,

'Twill turn all politics to jests,

To be repeated like John Dory,

When fiddlers sing at feasts.

3 Protect us, mighty Providence!

What would these madmen have?

First, they would bribe us without pence,

Deceive us without common sense,

And without power enslave.

4 Shall free-torn men, in humble awe,

Submit to servile shame;

Who from consent and custom draw

The same right to be ruled by law,

Which kings pretend to reign?

5 The duke shall wield his conquering sword,

The chancellor make a speech,

The king shall pass his honest word,

The pawn'd revenue sums afford,

And then, come kiss my breech.

6 So have I seen a king on chess

(His rooks and knights withdrawn,

His queen and bishops in distress)

Shifting about, grow less and less,

With here and there a pawn.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: 'Laurence Hyde,' afterwards Earl of Rochester, is the

person here called Lory.]

* * * * *

III.

A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,[43]1687.

1 FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:

When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead.

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,

In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it rail,

The diapason closing full in Man.

2 What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

3 The trumpet's loud clangour

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge!'tis too late to retreat.

4 The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

5 Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

6 But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

7 Orpheus could lead the savage race;

And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:

When to her organ vocal breath was given,

An angel heard, and straight appear'd,

Mistaking earth for heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd above;

So when the last and dreadful hour

This crumbling pageant shall devour,

The trumpet shall be heard on high,

The dead shall live, the living die,

And Music shall untune the sky.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 43: 'St Cecilia's Day': 22d November-birthday of St Cecilia,

the patron saint of music-a Roman lady martyred in the third century,

said to have been taught music by an angel.]

* * * * *

IV.

THE TEARS OF AMYNTA, FOR THE DEATH OF DAMON.

A SONG.

1 On a bank, beside a willow,

Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,

Sad Amynta sigh'd alone:

From the cheerless dawn of morning

Till the dews of night returning,

Singing thus she made her moan:

Hope is banish'd,

Joys are vanish'd,

Damon, my beloved, is gone!

2 Time, I dare thee to discover

Such a youth and such a lover;

Oh, so true, so kind was he!

Damon was the pride of nature,

Charming in his every feature;

Damon lived alone for me;

Melting kisses,

Murmuring blisses:

Who so lived and loved as we?

3 Never shall we curse the morning.

Never bless the night returning,

Sweet embraces to restore:

Never shall we both lie dying,

Nature failing, Love supplying

All the joys he drain'd before:

Death come end me,

To befriend me:

Love and Damon are no more.

* * * * *

V.

THE LADY'S SONG.[44]

1 A Choir of bright beauties in spring did appear,

To choose a May-lady to govern the year;

All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green;

The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen:

But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say,

I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.

2 While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,

The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:

The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires,

Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires;

And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,

Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.

3 Forbear your addresses, and court us no more;

For we will perform what the Deity swore:

But if you dare think of deserving our charms,

Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms;

Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,

When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx return.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: Intended to apply to the banishment of King James and his

wife, Mary of Este.]

* * * * *

VI.

A SONG.

1 Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize

Reserved for your victorious eyes:

From crowds, whom at your feet you see,

O pity, and distinguish me!

As I from thousand beauties more

Distinguish you, and only you adore.

2 Your face for conquest was design'd,

Your every motion charms my mind;

Angels, when you your silence break,

Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;

But when at once they hear and view,

Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

3 No graces can your form improve,

But all are lost, unless you love;

While that sweet passion you disdain,

Your veil and beauty are in vain:

In pity then prevent my fate,

For after dying all reprieve's too late.

* * * * *

VII.

A SONG.

High state and honours to others impart,

But give me your heart:

That treasure, that treasure alone,

I beg for my own.

So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,

My soul does inspire;

That treasure, that treasure alone,

I beg for my own.

Your love let me crave;

Give me in possessing

So matchless a blessing;

That empire is all I would have.

Love's my petition,

All my ambition;

If e'er you discover

So faithful a lover,

So real a flame,

I'll die, I'll die,

So give up my game.

* * * * *

VIII.

RONDELAY.

1 Chloe found Amyntas lying,

All in tears upon the plain;

Sighing to himself, and crying,

Wretched I, to love in vain!

Kiss me, dear, before my dying;

Kiss me once, and ease my pain!

2 Sighing to himself, and crying,

Wretched I, to love in vain!

Ever scorning and denying

To reward your faithful swain:

Kiss me, dear, before my dying;

Kiss me once, and ease my pain:

3 Ever scorning, and denying

To reward your faithful swain:

Chloe, laughing at his crying,

Told him, that he loved in vain:

Kiss me, dear, before my dying;

Kiss me once, and ease my pain!

4 Chloe, laughing at his crying,

Told him, that he loved in vain:

But repenting, and complying,

When he kiss'd, she kiss'd again:

Kiss'd him up before his dying;

Kiss'd him up, and eased his pain.

* * * * *

IX.

A SONG.

1 Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,

I would not die, nor dare complain:

Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,

Thy words will more prevail than mine.

To souls oppress'd and dumb with grief,

The gods ordain this kind relief;

That music should in sounds convey,

What dying lovers dare not say.

2 A sigh or tear perhaps she'll give,

But love on pity cannot live.

Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,

And love with love is only paid.

Tell her my pains so fast increase,

That soon they will be past redress;

But ah! the wretch that speechless lies,

Attends but death to close his eyes.

* * * * *

X.

A SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN IN THE SPRING.

1 Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring

So long delays her flowers to bear;

Why warbling birds forget to sing,

And winter storms invert the year:

Chloris is gone, and fate provides

To make it Spring, where she resides.

2 Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;

She cast not back a pitying eye;

But left her lover in despair,

To sigh, to languish, and to die:

Ah, how can those fair eyes endure

To give the wounds they will not cure?

3 Great God of love, why hast thou made

A face that can all hearts command,

That all religions can evade,

And change the laws of every land?

Where thou hadst placed such power before,

Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

4 When Chloris to the temple comes,

Adoring crowds before her fall;

She can restore the dead from tombs,

And every life but mine recall.

I only am by Love design'd

To be the victim for mankind.

* * * * *

XI.

SONGS IN THE "INDIAN EMPEROR."

I.

Ah, fading joy! how quickly art thou past!

Yet we thy ruin haste.

As if the cares of human life were few,

We seek out new:

And follow Fate, which would too fast pursue.

See how on every bough the birds express,

In their sweet notes, their happiness.

They all enjoy, and nothing spare;

But on their mother Nature lay their care:

Why then should man, the lord of all below,

Such troubles choose to know,

As none of all his subjects undergo?

Hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall,

And with a murmuring sound

Dash, dash upon the ground,

To gentle slumbers call.

II.

I look'd, and saw within the book of fate,

When many days did lour,

When lo! one happy hour

Leap'd up, and smiled to save the sinking state;

A day shall come when in thy power

Thy cruel foes shall be;

Then shall thy land be free:

And then in peace shall reign;

But take, O take that opportunity,

Which, once refused, will never come again.

* * * * *

XII.

SONG IN THE "MAIDEN QUEEN."

I feed a flame within, which so torments me,

That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:

'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,

That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it:

My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.

Not a sigh, not a tear, my pain discloses,

But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel,

My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel:

And while I suffer this to give him quiet,

My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;

Where I conceal my love no frown can fright me:

To be more happy, I dare not aspire;

Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

* * * * *

XIII.

SONGS IN "THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA."

I.

Wherever I am, and whatever I do,

My Phyllis is still in my mind;

When angry, I mean not to Phyllis to go,

My feet, of themselves, the way find:

Unknown to myself I am just at her door,

And when I would rail, I can bring out no more,

Than, Phyllis too fair and unkind!

When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my breast,

And the love I would stifle is shown;

But asleep or awake I am never at rest,

When from my eyes Phyllis is gone.

Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind;

But, alas! when I wake, and no Phyllis I find,

How I sigh to myself all alone!

Should a king be my rival in her I adore,

He should offer his treasure in vain:

Oh, let me alone to be happy and poor,

And give me my Phyllis again!

Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind,

I could to a desert with her be confined,

And envy no monarch his reign.

Alas! I discover too much of my love,

And she too well knows her own power!

She makes me each day a new martyrdom prove,

And makes me grow jealous each hour:

But let her each minute torment my poor mind,

I had rather love Phyllis, both false and unkind,

Than ever be freed from her power.

II.

HE. How unhappy a lover am I,

While I sigh for my Phyllis in vain:

All my hopes of delight

Are another man's right,

Who is happy, while I am in pain!

SHE. Since her honour allows no relief,

But to pity the pains which you bear,

'Tis the best of your fate,

In a hopeless estate,

To give o'er, and betimes to despair.

HE. I have tried the false medicine in vain;

For I wish what I hope not to win:

From without, my desire

Has no food to its fire;

But it burns and consumes me within.

SHE. Yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know

That you are not unhappy alone:

For the nymph you adore

Is as wretched, and more;

And counts all your sufferings her own.

HE. O ye gods, let me suffer for both;

At the feet of my Phyllis I'll lie:

I'll resign up my breath,

And take pleasure in death,

To be pitied by her when I die.

SHE. What her honour denied you in life,

In her death she will give to your love.

Such a flame as is true

After fate will renew,

For the souls to meet closer above.

* * * * *

XIV.

SONG OF THE SEA-FIGHT, IN AMBOYNA.

Who ever saw a noble sight,

That never view'd a brave sea-fight!

Hang up your bloody colours in the air,

Up with your fights, and your nettings prepare;

Your merry mates cheer, with a lusty bold spright.

Now each man his brindace, and then to the fight.

St George, St George, we cry,

The shouting Turks reply.

Oh, now it begins, and the gun-room grows hot,

Ply it with culverin and with small shot;

Hark, does it not thunder? no, 'tis the guns' roar,

The neighbouring billows are turn'd into gore;

Now each man must resolve to die,

For here the coward cannot fly.

Drums and trumpets toll the knell,

And culverins the passing bell.

Now, now they grapple, and now board amain;

Blow up the hatches, they're off all again:

Give them a broadside, the dice run at all,

Down comes the mast and yard, and tacklings fall;

She grows giddy now, like blind Fortune's wheel,

She sinks there, she sinks, she turns up her keel.

Who ever beheld so noble a sight,

As this so brave, so bloody sea-fight!

* * * * *

XV.

INCANTATION IN OEDIPUS.

TIR. Choose the darkest part o' th' grove,

Such as ghosts at noonday love.

Dig a trench, and dig it nigh

Where the bones of Laius lie;

Altars raised, of turf or stone,

Will th' infernal powers have none,

Answer me, if this be done?

ALL PR. 'Tis done.

TIR. Is the sacrifice made fit?

Draw her backward to the pit:

Draw the barren heifer back;

Barren let her be, and black.

Cut the curl'd hair that grows

Full betwixt her horns and brows:

And turn your faces from the sun,

Answer me, if this be done?

ALL PR. 'Tis done.

TIR. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,

To Mother Earth and Proserpine:

Mingle milk into the stream;

Feast the ghosts that love the steam:

Snatch a brand from funeral pile:

Toss it in to make them boil;

And turn your faces from the sun,

Answer me, if this be done?

ALL PR. 'Tis done.

* * * * *

XVI.

SONGS IN ALBION AND ALBANIUS.

I.

Cease, Augusta! cease thy mourning,

Happy days appear,

Godlike Albion is returning,

Loyal hearts to cheer!

Every grace his youth adorning,

Glorious as the star of morning,

Or the planet of the year.

II.

Albion, by the nymph attended,

Was to Neptune recommended,

Peace and plenty spread the sails:

Venus, in her shell before him,

From the sands in safety bore him,

And supplied Etesian gales.

Archon on the shore commanding,

Lowly met him at his landing,

Crowds of people swarm'd around;

Welcome, rang like peals of thunder,

Welcome, rent the skies asunder,

Welcome, heaven and earth resound.

III.

Infernal offspring of the Night,

Debarr'd of heaven your native right,

And from the glorious fields of light,

Condemn'd in shades to drag the chain,

And fill with groans the gloomy plain;

Since pleasures here are none below,

Be ill our good, our joy be woe;

Our work t' embroil the worlds above,

Disturb their union, disunite their love,

And blast the beauteous frame of our victorious foe.

IV.

See the god of seas attends thee,

Nymphs divine, a beauteous train:

All the calmer gales befriend thee

In thy passage o'er the main:

Every maid her locks is binding,

Every Triton's horn is winding,

Welcome to the watery plain.

V.

Albion, loved of gods and men,

Prince of Peace too mildly reigning,

Cease thy sorrow and complaining,

Thou shalt be restored again:

Albion, loved of gods and men.

Still thou art the care of heaven,

In thy youth to exile driven:

Heaven thy ruin then prevented,

Till the guilty land repented:

In thy age, when none could aid thee,

Foes conspired, and friends betray'd thee.

To the brink of danger driven,

Still thou art the care of heaven.

* * * * *

XVII.

SONGS IN KING ARTHUR.

Where a battle is supposed to be given behind the scenes, with drums,

trumpets, and military shouts and excursions; after which, the Britons,

expressing their joy for the victory, sing this song of triumph.

I.

Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound;

Come, if you dare, the foes rebound:

We come, we come, we come, we come,

Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum.

Now they charge on amain,

Now they rally again:

The gods from above the mad labour behold,

And pity mankind, that will perish for gold.

The fainting Saxons quit their ground,

Their trumpets languish in the sound:

They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly;

Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory's won,

To the plunder we run:

We return to our lasses like fortunate traders,

Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'd invaders.

II.

MAN SINGS.

O sight, the mother of desires,

What charming objects dost thou yield!

'Tis sweet, when tedious night expires,

To see the rosy morning gild

The mountain-tops, and paint the field!

But when Clarinda comes in sight,

She makes the summer's day more bright;

And when she goes away, 'tis night.

CHORUS.

When fair Clarinda comes in sight, &c.

WOMAN SINGS.

'Tis sweet the blushing morn to view;

And plains adorn'd with pearly dew:

But such cheap delights to see,

Heaven and nature

Give each creature;

They have eyes, as well as we;

This is the joy, all joys above,

To see, to see,

That only she,

That only she we love!

CHORUS.

This is the joy, all joys above, &c.

III.

Two daughters of this aged stream are we;

And both our sea-green locks have comb'd for thee;

Come bathe with us an hour or two,

Come naked in, for we are so:

What danger from a naked foe?

Come bathe with us, come bathe, and share

What pleasures in the floods appear;

We'll beat the waters till they bound,

And circle round, around, around,

And circle round, around.

IV.

Ye blustering brethren of the skies,

Whose breath has ruffled all the watery plain,

Retire, and let Britannia rise,

In triumph o'er the main.

Serene and calm, and void of fear,

The Queen of Islands must appear:

Serene and calm, as when the Spring

The new-created world began,

And birds on boughs did softly sing

Their peaceful homage paid to man;

While Eurus did his blasts forbear,

In favour of the tender year.

Retreat, rude winds, retreat

To hollow rocks, your stormy seat;

There swell your lungs, and vainly, vainly threat.

V.

Foe folded flocks, on fruitful plains,

The shepherd's and the farmer's gains,

Fair Britain all the world outvies;

And Pan, as in Arcadia, reigns,

Where pleasure mix'd with profit lies.

Though Jason's fleece was famed of old,

The British wool is growing gold;

No mines can more of wealth supply;

It keeps the peasant from the cold,

And takes for kings the Tyrian dye.

VI.

Fairest isle, all isles excelling,

Seat of pleasures and of loves;

Venus here will choose her dwelling,

And forsake her Cyprian groves.

Cupid from his favourite nation

Care and envy will remove;

Jealousy, that poisons passion,

And despair, that dies for love,

Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining,

Sighs, that blow the fire of love;

Soft repulses, kind disdaining,

Shall be all the pains you prove.

Every swain shall pay his duty,

Grateful every nymph shall prove;

And as these excel in beauty,

Those shall be renown'd for love.

* * * * *

XVIII.

SONG OF JEALOUSY, IN LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

What state of life can be so blest

As love, that warms a lover's breast?

Two souls in one, the same desire

To grant the bliss, and to require!

But if in heaven a hell we find,

'Tis all from thee,

O Jealousy!

'Tis all from thee,

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind!

All other ills, though sharp they prove,

Serve to refine, and perfect love:

In absence, or unkind disdain,

Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain.

But, ah! no cure but death we find,

To set us free

From Jealousy:

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind!

False in thy glass all objects are,

Some set too near, and some too far;

Thou art the fire of endless night,

The fire that burns, and gives no light.

All torments of the damn'd we find

In only thee,

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind!

* * * * *

XIX.

SONG. FAREWELL, FAIR ARMIDA.

Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief,

In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;

Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,

Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair;

Now call'd by my honour, I seek with content

The fate which in pity you would not prevent:

To languish in love, were to find by delay

A death that's more welcome the speediest way.

On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,

The danger is less than in hopeless desire; 10

My death's-wound you give, though far off I bear

My fall from your sight--not to cost you a tear:

But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,

And under your window my body should lay,

The wound on my breast when you happen to see,

You'll say with a sigh--it was given by me.

* * * * *

XX.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.

AN ODE, IN HONOUR OF ST CECILIA'S DAY.

1 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were placed around;

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound

(So should desert in arms be crown'd).

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride

In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

CHORUS.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

2 Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:

The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,

Who left his blissful seats above

(Such is the power of mighty love).

A dragon's fiery form belied the god:

Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

When he to fair Olympia press'd:

And while he sought her snowy breast:

Then, round her slender waist he curl'd,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,

A present deity, they shout around,

A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:

With ravish'd ears

The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

CHORUS.

With ravish'd ears

The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

3 The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung;

Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:

The jolly god in triumph comes;

Sound the trumpets; beat the drums;

Flush'd with a purple grace

He shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain;

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

CHORUS.

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

4 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain.

The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;

And while he heaven and earth defied,

Changed his hand, and check'd his pride.

He chose a mournful muse

Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius great and good,

By too severe a fate,

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood;

Deserted, at his utmost need,

By those his former bounty fed;

On the bare earth exposed he lies,

With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,

Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;

And now and then a sigh he stole;

And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.

Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;

And now and then a sigh he stole;

And tears began to flow.

5 The mighty master smiled, to see

That love was in the next degree:

'Twas but a kindred sound to move,

For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;

Honour, but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,

Fighting still, and still destroying:

If the world be worth thy winning,

Think, O think it worth enjoying:

Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.

The many rend the skies with loud applause;

So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,

The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

CHORUS.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,

The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

6 Now strike the golden lyre again:

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Has raised up his head:

As awaked from the dead,

And amazed, he stares around.

Revenge, Revenge, Timotheus cries,

See the Furies arise:

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

And unburied remain

Inglorious on the plain:

Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods.

The princes applaud, with a furious joy;

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

CHORUS.

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,

While organs yet were mute;

Timotheus, to his breathing flute,

And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS.

At last, divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down.

* * * * *

XXI

THE SECULAR MASQUE.[45]

_Enter_ JANUS.

_Janus_. Chronos, Chronos, mend thy pace;

An hundred times the rolling sun

Around the radiant belt has run

In his revolving race.

Behold, behold the goal in sight,

Spread thy fans, and wing thy flight.

_Enter_ CHRONOS, _with a scythe in his hand, and a globe

on his back; which he sets down at his entrance_.

_Chronos_. Weary, weary of my weight,

Let me, let me drop my freight,

And leave the world behind.

I could not bear, 10

Another year,

The load of human kind.

_Enter_ MOMUS, _laughing_.

_Momus_. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! well hast thou done

To lay down thy pack,

And lighten thy back.

The world was a fool, ere since it begun,

And since neither Janus nor Chronos, nor I,

Can hinder the crimes,

Or mend the bad times,

'Tis better to laugh than to cry. 20

_Chorus of all three_. 'Tis better to laugh than to cry.

_Janus_. Since Momus comes to laugh below,

Old time begin the show,

That he may see, in every scene,

What changes in this age have been.

_Chronos_. Then goddess of the silver bow begin.

[_Horns, or hunting-music within._]

_Enter_ DIANA.

_Diana_. With horns and with hounds, I waken the day,

And hie to the woodland walks away;

I tuck up my robe, and am buskin'd soon,

And tie to my forehead a waxing moon; 30

I course the fleet stag, unkennel the fox,

And chase the wild goats o'er summits of rocks;

With shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky,

And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry.

_Chorus of all_. With shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky,

And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry.

_Janus_. Then our age was in its prime:

_Chronos_. Free from rage:

_Diana_.--And free from crime.

_Momus_. A very merry, dancing, drinking, 40

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.

_Chorus of all_. Then our age was in its prime,

Free from rage, and free from crime,

A very merry, dancing, drinking,

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.

[_Dance of Diana's attendants_.]

_Enter_ MARS.

_Mars_. Inspire the vocal brass, inspire;

The world is past its infant age:

Arms and honour,

Arms and honour,

Set the martial mind on fire, 50

And kindle manly rage.

Mars has look'd the sky to red;

And Peace, the lazy god, is fled.

Plenty, peace, and pleasure fly;

The sprightly green,

In woodland walks, no more is seen;

The sprightly green has drunk the Tyrian dye.

_Chorus of all._ Plenty, peace, &c.

_Mars._ Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;

Through all the world around, 60

Sound a reveillie, sound, sound,

The warrior god is come.

_Chorus of all._ Sound the trumpet, &c.

_Momus._ Thy sword within the scabbard keep,

And let mankind agree;

Better the world were fast asleep,

Than kept awake by thee.

The fools are only thinner,

With all our cost and care:

But neither side a winner, 70

For things are as they were.

_Chorus of all_. The fools are only, &c.

_Enter_ VENUS.

_Venus_. Calms appear when storms are past;

Love will have his hour at last:

Nature is my kindly care;

Mars destroys, and I repair;

Take me, take me, while you may,

Venus comes not every day.

_Chorus of all_. Take her, take her, &c.

_Chronos_. The world was then so light, 80

I scarcely felt the weight;

Joy ruled the day, and Love the night.

But, since the queen of pleasure left the ground,

I faint, I lag,

And feebly drag

The ponderous orb around.

_Momus_. All, all of a piece throughout;

[_Pointing to Diana_.] Thy chase had a beast in view;

[_To Mars_.] Thy wars brought nothing about;

[_To Venus_.] Thy lovers were all untrue. 90

_Janus_. 'Tis well an old age is out.

_Chronos_. And time to begin a new.

_Cho. of all_. All, all of a piece throughout;

Thy chase had a beast in view:

Thy wars brought nothing about;

Thy lovers were all untrue.

'Tis well an old age is out,

And time to begin a new.

_Dance of huntsmen, nymphs, warriors, and lovers_.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 45: This Masque, with the song of a scholar and his mistress,

was performed in 1700, for the author's benefit, with the play of the

Pilgrim, altered by Sir John Vanbrugh, his fortune and health being at

that time in a declining state.]

* * * * *

XXII.

SONG OF A SCHOLAR AND HIS MISTRESS,

WHO, BEING CROSSED BY THEIR FRIENDS, FELL MAD FOR ONE ANOTHER; AND NOW

FIRST MEET IN BEDLAM.

[Music within.]

_The Lovers enter at opposite doors, each held by a keeper._

_Phillis_. Look, look I see--I see my love appear!

'Tis he--'Tis he alone;

For, like him, there is none:

'Tis the dear, dear man, 'tis thee, dear.

_Amyntas_. Hark! the winds war;

The foamy waves roar;

I see a ship afar:

Tossing and tossing, and making to the shore:

But what's that I view,

So radiant of hue,

St Hermo, St Hermo, that sits upon the sails?

Ah! No, no, no.

St Hermo never, never shone so bright;

'Tis Phillis, only Phillis, can shoot so fair a light;

'Tis Phillis, 'tis Phillis, that saves the ship alone,

For all the winds are hush'd, and the storm is overblown.

_Phillis_. Let me go, let me run, let me fly to his arms.

_Amyntas_. If all the fates combine,

And all the furies join,

I'll force my way to Phillis, and break through the charm.

[_Here they break from their keepers, run to each other,

and embrace_.]

_Phillis_. Shall I marry the man I love?

And shall I conclude my pains?

Now bless'd be the powers above,

I feel the blood bound in my veins;

With a lively leap it began to move,

And the vapours leave my brains.

_Amyntas_. Body join'd to body, and heart join'd to heart,

To make sure of the cure,

Go call the man in black, to mumble o'er his part.

_Phillis_. But suppose he should stay--

_Amyntas_. At worst if he delay,

'Tis a work must be done,

We'll borrow but a day,

And the better, the sooner begun.

_Cho. of both_. At worst if he delay, &c.

[_They run out together hand in hand._]

* * * * *

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

I.

PROLOGUE TO THE RIVAL LADIES.

'Tis much desired, you judges of the town

Would pass a vote to put all prologues down:

For who can show me, since they first were writ,

They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?

Yet the world's mended well; in former days

Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.

For the reforming poets of our age,

In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:

Expect no more when once the prologue's done:

The wit is ended ere the play's begun. 10

You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;

High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.

As for a clear contrivance, doubt it now;

They blow out candles to give light to the plot.

And for surprise, two bloody-minded men

Fight till they die, then rise and dance again,

Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day:

But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play;

Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,

Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired: 20

He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows

There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;

Therefore, kind judges....

A SECOND PROLOGUE ENTERS.

2. Hold; would you admit

For judges all you see within the pit?

1. Whom would he then except, or on what score?

2. All who (like him) have writ ill plays before;

For they, like thieves condemn'd, are hangmen made,

To execute the members of their trade.

All that are writing now he would disown,

But then he must except--even all the town;

All choleric, losing gamesters, who, in spite,

Will damn to-day, because they lost last night;

All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids;

All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;

All who are out of humour, all severe;

All that want wit, or hope to find it here.

* * * * *

II.

PROLOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

As the music plays a soft air, the curtain rises slowly and discovers an

Indian boy and girl sleeping under two plantain-trees; and, when the

curtain is almost up, the music turns into a tune expressing an alarm,

at which the boy awakes, and speaks:

BOY. Wake, wake, Quevira! our soft rest must cease,

And fly together with our country's peace!

No more must we sleep under plantain shade,

Which neither heat could pierce, nor cold invade;

Where bounteous nature never feels decay,

And opening buds drive falling fruits away.

QUE. Why should men quarrel here, where all possess

As much as they can hope for by success?--

None can have most, where nature is so kind,

As to exceed man's use, though not his mind. 10

BOY. By ancient prophecies we have been told,

Our world shall be subdued by one more old;--

And, see, that world already's hither come.

QUE. If these be they, we welcome then our doom!

Their loots are such, that mercy flows from thence,

More gentle than our native innocence.

BOY. Why should we then fear these, our enemies,

That rather seem to us like deities?

QUE. By their protection, let us beg to live;

They came not here to conquer, but forgive. 20

If so, your goodness may your power express,

And we shall judge both best by our success.

* * * * *

III.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.

You see what shifts we are enforced to try,

To help out wit with some variety;

Shows may be found that never yet were seen,

'Tis hard to find such wit as ne'er has been:

You have seen all that this old world can do,

We therefore try the fortune of the new,

And hope it is below your aim to hit

At untaught nature with your practised wit:

Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear,

Would as soon choose to have the Spaniards here. 10

'Tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show,

The poet's scenes, nay, more, the painter's too;

If all this fail, considering the cost,

'Tis a true voyage to the Indies lost:

But if you smile on all, then these designs,

Like the imperfect treasure of our minds,

Will pass for current wheresoe'er they go,

When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.

* * * * *

IV.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN EMPEROR,

BY A MERCURY.

To all and singular in this full meeting,

Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends ye greeting.

To all his sons, by whate'er title known,

Whether of court, or coffee-house, or town;

From his most mighty sons, whose confidence

Is placed in lofty sound, and humble sense,

Even to his little infants of the time,

Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme

Be 't known, that Phoebus (being daily grieved

To see good plays condemn'd, and bad received) 10

Ordains your judgment upon every cause,

Henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws.

He first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance

His censure farther than the song or dance,

Your wit burlesque may one step higher climb,

And in his sphere may judge all doggrel rhyme;

All proves, and moves, and loves, and honours too;

All that appears high sense, and scarce is low.

As for the coffee wits, he says not much;

Their proper business is to damn the Dutch: 20

For the great dons of wit--

Phoebus gives them full privilege alone,

To damn all others, and cry up their own.

Last, for the ladies, 'tis Apollo's will,

They should have power to save, but not to kill:

For love and he long since have thought it fit,

Wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit.

* * * * *

V.

PROLOGUE TO SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL.

Fools, which each man meets in his dish each day,

Are yet the great regalios of a play;

In which to poets you but just appear,

To prize that highest, which cost them so dear:

Fops in the town more easily will pass;

One story makes a statutable ass:

But such in plays must be much thicker sown,

Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.

Observing poets all their walks invade,

As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade:

And when they have enough for comedy,

They stow their several bodies in a pie:

The poet's but the cook to fashion it,

For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit.

To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong;

None welcome those who bring their cheer along.

* * * * *

VI.

PROLOGUE TO THE TEMPEST.

As when a tree's cut down, the secret root

Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;

So from old Shakspeare's honour'd dust, this day

Springs up and buds a new reviving play:

Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart

To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.

He, monarch like, gave those, his subjects, law;

And is that nature which they paint and draw.

Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow,

While Jonson crept, and gather'd all below. 10

This did his love, and this his mirth digest:

One imitates him most, the other best.

If they have since outwrit all other men,

'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare's pen.

The storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring shore,

Was taught by Shakspeare's Tempest first to roar.

That innocence and beauty, which did smile

In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle.

But Shakspeare's magic could not copied be;

Within that circle none durst walk but he. 20

I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now

That liberty to vulgar wits allow,

Which works by magic supernatural things:

But Shakspeare's power is sacred as a king's.

Those legends from old priesthood were received,

And he then writ, as people then believed.

But if for Shakspeare we your grace implore,

We for our theatre shall want it more:

Who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ

One of our women to present a boy; 30

And that's a transformation, you will say,

Exceeding all the magic in the play.

Let none expect in the last act to find,

Her sex transform'd from man to womankind.

Whate'er she was before the play began,

All you shall see of her is perfect man.

Or, if your fancy will be further led

To find her woman--it must be a-bed.

* * * * *

VII.

PROLOGUE TO TYRANNIC LOVE.

Self-love, which, never rightly understood,

Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,

And malice in all critics reigns so high,

That for small errors, they whole plays decry;

So that to see this fondness, and that spite,

You'd think that none but madmen judge or write,

Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit

To impose upon you what he writes for wit;

So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free,

You equal judges of the whole will be: 10

They judge but half, who only faults will see.

Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare,

They spoil their business with an over care;

And he, who servilely creeps after sense,

Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.

Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,

Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing.

But when a tyrant for his theme he had,

He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad:

And though he stumbles in a full career, 20

Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.

He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,

To choose the ground might be to lose the race.

They, then, who of each trip the advantage take,

Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

* * * * *

VIII.

EPILOGUE TO THE WILD GALLANT,

WHEN REVIVED.

Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,

As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit,

For it lies all in level to the eye,

Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.

Humour is that which every day we meet,

And therefore known as every public street;

In which, if e'er the poet go astray,

You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.

But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,

Is more than any wit can always do. 10

For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;

To make regalios out of common meat.

But, in your diet, you grow savages:

Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;

And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began,

So you, at each new play, must have a man.

Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;

If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is nought.

But fools grow wary now: and, when they see

A poet eyeing round the company, 20

Straight each man for himself begins to doubt;

They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.

Few of them will be found for public use,

Except you charge an oaf upon each house,

Like the train bands, and every man engage

For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage,

And when, with much ado, you get him there,

Where he in all his glory should appear.

Your poets make him such rare things to say,

That he's more wit than any man i' th' play: 30

But of so ill a mingle with the rest,

As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.

Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,

As tawdry squires in country churches do.

Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make

A comedy, which should the knowing take,

That our dull poet, in despair to please,

Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.

'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;

You therefore must some other impost lay. 40

Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,

This motley garniture of fool and farce,

Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,

Which does, like vests, our gravity become,

Our poet yields you should this play refuse:

As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,

With some content, their fripperies of France,

In hope it may their staple trade advance.

* * * * *

IX.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN THE FIRST DAY OF THE KING'S HOUSE ACTING AFTER THE FIRE OF

LONDON.

So shipwreck'd passengers escape to land,

So look they, when on the bare beach they stand,

Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,

Expecting famine on a desert shore.

From that hard climate we must wait for bread,

Whence even the natives, forced by hunger, fled.

Our stage does human chance present to view,

But ne'er before was seen so sadly true:

You are changed too, and your pretence to see

Is but a nobler name for charity. 10

Your own provisions furnish out our feasts,

While you the founders make yourselves the guests.

Of all mankind beside fate had some care,

But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,

'Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair.

You cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn,

Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their scorn,

Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,

Which spared not temples in its furious rage.

But as our new-built city rises higher, 20

So from old theatres may new aspire,

Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.

Our great metropolis does far surpass

Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:

Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,

And, like a king, should in a palace dwell.

But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,

Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:

Your presence here, for which we humbly sue,

Will grace old theatres, and build up new. 30

* * * * *

X.

EPILOGUE TO THE SECOND PART OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA.

They who have best succeeded on the stage,

Have still conform'd their genius to their age.

Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show,

When men were dull, and conversation low.

Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse:

Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse.

And, as their comedy, their love was mean;

Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene,

Which must atone for an ill-written play.

They rose, but at their height could seldom stay. 10

Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;

And they have kept it since, by being dead.

But, were they now to write, when critics weigh

Each line, and every word, throughout a play,

None of them, no not Jonson in his height,

Could pass, without allowing grains for weight.

Think it not envy, that these truths are told:

Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold.

'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown,

But, by their errors, to excuse his own. 20

If love and honour now are higher raised,

'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.

Wit's now arrived to a more high degree:

Our native language more refined and free.

Our ladies and our men now speak more wit

In conversation, than those poets writ.

Then, one of these is, consequently, true:

That what this poet writes comes short of you,

And imitates you ill (which most he fears),

Or else his writing is not worse than theirs. 30

Yet though you judge (as sure the critics will),

That some before him writ with greater skill,

In this one praise he has their fame surpass'd,

To please an age more gallant than the last.

* * * * *

XI.

PROLOGUE TO AMBOYNA.[46]

As needy gallants in the scrivener's hands,

Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands,

The first fat buck of all the season's sent,

And keeper takes no fee in compliment:

The dotage of some Englishmen is such,

To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.

They shall have all, rather than make a war

With those who of the same religion are.

The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,

Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. 10

Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,

But, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat:

What injuries soe'er upon us fall,

Yet, still the same religion answers all:

Religion wheedled you to civil war,

Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare:

Be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true,

They have no more religion, faith--than you;

Interest's the god they worship in their state;

And you, I take it, have not much of that. 20

Well, monarchies may own religion's name,

But states are atheists in their very frame.

They share a sin, and such proportions fall,

That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.

How they love England, you shall see this day;

No map shows Holland truer than our play:

Their pictures and inscriptions well we know;

We may be bold one medal sure to show.

View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty;

And think what once they were, they still would he: 30

But hope not either language, plot, or art;

'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart:

And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be

As much improper, as would honesty.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 46: 'Amboyna:' a play written against the Dutch.]

* * * * *

XII.

EPILOGUE TO AMBOYNA.

A Poet once the Spartans led to fight,

And made them conquer in the muse's right;

So would our poet lead you on this day,

Showing your tortured fathers in his play.

To one well born the affront is worse, and more,

When he's abused and baffled by a boor:

With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,

They've both ill nature and ill manners too.

Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,

For they were bred ere manners were in fashion,

And their new commonwealth has set them free,

Only from honour and civility.

Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,

Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;

Their sway became them with as ill a mien,

As their own paunches swell above their chin:

Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour,

And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.

As Cato did his Afric fruits display,

So we before your eyes their Indies lay:

All loyal English will, like him, conclude,

Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued!

* * * * *

XIII.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE, MARCH 26, 1674.

A plain-built[47] house, after so long a stay,

Will send you half unsatisfied away;

When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find

A bare convenience only is design'd.

You, who each day can theatres behold,

Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,

Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,

And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.

Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,

And a plain suit, since we can make but one, 10

Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.

They, who are by your favours wealthy made,

With mighty sums may carry on the trade:

We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,

With our small stock to humble roofs retire:

Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.

For fame and honour we no longer strive,

We yield in both, and only beg to live:

Unable to support their vast expense,

Who build and treat with such magnificence; 20

That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age,

They give the law to our provincial stage.

Great neighbours enviously promote excess,

While they impose their splendour on the less.

But only fools, and they of vast estate,

The extremity of modes will imitate,

The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.

Yet if some pride with want may be allow'd,

We in our plainness may be justly proud:

Our royal master will'd it should be so; 30

Whate'er he's pleased to own, can need no show:

That sacred name gives ornament and grace,

And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass.

'Twere folly now a stately[48] pile to raise,

To build a playhouse, while you throw down plays;

While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,

And for the pencil you the pen disdain:

While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,

And laugh at those upon whose alms they live:

Old English authors vanish, and give place 40

To these new conquerors of the Norman race.

More tamely than your fathers you submit;

You're now grown vassals to them in your wit.

Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance

The mighty merits of their men of France,

Keep time, cry _Bon_, and humour the cadence.

Well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood,

That French machines have ne'er done England good.

I would not prophesy our house's fate:

But while vain shows and scenes you over-rate, 50

Tis to be fear'd--

That as a fire the former house o'erthrew,

Machines and tempests will destroy the new.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 47: This Prologue was written for the King's company, who had

just opened their house in Drury-lane.]

[Footnote 48: The reflection on the taste of the town in these four

lines is levelled at the Duke's company, who had exhibited the siege of

Rhodes, and other expensive operas, and were now getting up the operas

of Psyche, Circe, &c.]

* * * * *

XIV.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1674.

SPOKEN BY MR HART.

Poets, your subjects have their parts assign'd

To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind:

When tired with following nature, you think fit

To seek repose in the cool shades of wit,

And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey

What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.

Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife

You view the various turns of human life:

Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,

And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know. 10

Your theories are here to practice brought,

As in mechanic operations wrought;

And man, the little world, before you set,

As once the sphere[49] of crystal show'd the great.

Blest, sure, are you above all mortal kind,

If to your fortunes you can suit your mind:

Content to see, and shun, those ills we show,

And crimes on theatres alone to know.

With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,

And beg from you the value of their wit: 20

That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim,

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.

None of our living poets dare appear;

For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here,

That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,

And, as profane, from sacred places fly,

Rather than see the offended God, and die.

We bring no imperfections but our own;

Such faults as made are by the makers shown:

And you have been so kind, that we may boast, 30

The greatest judges still can pardon most.

Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,

Debased even to the level of their wit;

Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,

Hating themselves what their applause must make.

But when to praise from you they would aspire,

Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.

So far your knowledge all their power transcends,

As what _should be_ beyond what _is_ extends.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 49: 'Sphere,' &c.: referring to the macrocosm--the universe;

and the microcosm--man]

* * * * *

XV.

PROLOGUE TO "CIRCE," A TRAGIC OPERA;

BY DR DAVENANT,[50] 1675.

Were you but half so wise as you're severe,

Our youthful poet should not need to fear:

To his green years your censures you would suit,

Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.

The sex, the best does pleasure understand,

Will always choose to err on the other hand.

They check not him that's awkward in delight,

But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.

Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey,

The youth may prove a man another day. 10

Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,

Did no Volpone, nor Arbaces write;

But hopp'd about, and short excursions made

From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,

And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid.

Shakspeare's own muse her Pericles first bore;

The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:

'Tis miracle to see a first good play;

All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.

A slender poet must have time to grow, 20

And spread and burnish, as his brothers do.

Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is cursed:

But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.

Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays;

Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,

That he may get more bulk before he dies:

He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice.

Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,

He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 50: Son of Sir William Davenant, and author of several

political pieces, much esteemed.]

* * * * *

XVI.

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE LADY HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, WHEN

"CALISTO"[51] WAS ACTED AT COURT.

As Jupiter I made my court in vain;

I'll now assume my native shape again.

I'm weary to be so unkindly used,

And would not be a god to be refused.

State grows uneasy when it hinders love;

A glorious burden, which the wise remove.

Now, as a nymph I need not sue, nor try

The force of any lightning but the eye.

Beauty and youth more than a god command;

No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand. 10

'Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;

Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.

Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,

Even while they frown, and dictate laws, obey.

You, mighty sir,[52] our bonds more easy make,

And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:

Above those forms the grave affect to wear;

For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.

True wisdom may some gallantry admit,

And soften business with the charms of wit. 20

These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,

And from the midst of fighting nations brought.

You only hear it thunder from afar,

And sit in peace the arbiter of war:

Peace, the loathed manna, which hot brains despise.

You knew its worth, and made it early prize:

And in its happy leisure sit and see

The promises of more felicity:

Two glorious nymphs,[53] of your own godlike line,

Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine: 30

Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,

To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 51: 'Calisto:' a Masque, written by Crowne, Dryden's rival and

Rochester's protégé; this Epilogue was through Rochester's influence

rejected.]

[Footnote 52: This part of the Epilogue is addressed to the King.]

* * * * *

XVII.

PROLOGUE TO "AURENGZEBE."

Our author, by experience, finds it true,

'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;

And out of no feign'd modesty, this day

Damns his laborious trifle of a play;

Not that it's worse than what before he writ,

But he has now another taste of wit;

And, to confess a truth, though out of time,

Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.

Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,

And nature flies him like enchanted ground: 10

What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,

Which he presumes the most correct of his;

But spite of all his pride, a secret shame

Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name:

Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,

He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;

And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,

Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.

As with the greater dead he dares not strive,

He would not match his verse with those who live: 20

Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,

The first of this, and hindmost of the last.

A losing gamester, let him sneak away;

He bears no ready money from the play.

The fate which governs poets, thought it fit

He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.

The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;

Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:

All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here;

But wit's a luxury you think too dear. 30

When you to cultivate the plant are loth,

'Tis a shrewd sign, 'twas never of your growth;

And wit in northern climates will not blow,

Except, like orange trees, 'tis housed with snow.

There needs no care to put a playhouse down,

'Tis the most desert place of all the town:

We, and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,

Like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war;

While, likewise English, unconcern'd you sit,

And see us play the tragedy of wit. 40

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 53: The Duke of York's two daughters, Mary and Ann.]

* * * * *

XVIII.

EPILOGUE TO "THE MAN OF MODE; OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER;"

BY SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.

Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,

They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.

Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;

But there goes more to a substantial ass:

Something of man must be exposed to view,

That, gallants, they may more resemble you.

Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,

The ladies would mistake him for a wit;

And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,

I vow, methinks, he's pretty company: 10

So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined,

As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

True fops help nature's work, and go to school

To file and finish God Almighty's fool.

Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;

He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all.

From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;

Legion's his name, a people in a man.

His bulky folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows. 20

His various modes from various fathers follow;

One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:

His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;

And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind.

From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,

Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.

Another's diving bow he did adore,

Which with a shog casts all the hair before,

Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,

And rises with a water-spaniel shake. 30

As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,

These sure he took from most of you who write.

Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;

For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

* * * * *

XIX.

EPILOGUE TO "ALL FOR LOVE."

Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail,

Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail.

Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;

And this is all their equipage of wit.

We wonder how the devil this difference grows,

Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:

For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,

'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.

The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;

And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: 10

For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,

He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can;

Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,

If pink and purple best become his face.

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;

Nor likes your wit, just as you like his plays;

He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.

He does his best; and if he cannot please,

Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.

Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, 20

By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall.

Let Cæsar's power the men's ambition move,

But grace you him who lost the world for love!

Yet if some antiquated lady say,

The last age is not copied in his play;

Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge,

Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.

Let not the young and beauteous join with those;

For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,

Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 30

'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

* * * * *

XX.

PROLOGUE TO "LIMBERHAM."

True wit has seen its best days long ago;

It ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show:

When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost,

And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost.

Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done,

Satire and humour the same fate have run,

And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.

Now our machining lumber will not sell,

And you no longer care for heaven or hell;

What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell. 10

Let them, who the rebellion first began

To wit restore the monarch, if they can;

Our author dares not be the first bold man.

He, like the prudent citizen, takes care

To keep for better marts his staple ware;

His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.

Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,

'Tis time enough at Easter to invent;

No man will make up a new suit for Lent.

If now and then he takes a small pretence, 20

To forage for a little wit and sense,

Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.

Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,

That all the critics shall be shipp'd away,

And not enow be left to damn a play.

To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind:

But drive away that swarm with such a wind,

That not one locust may be left behind!

* * * * *

XXI.

EPILOGUE TO "MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS;"

BY NATHAN LEE, 1678.

You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die:

And much you care; for most of you will cry,

'Twas a just judgment on their constancy.

For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,

When no man dies for love, but on the stage:

And even those martyrs are but rare in plays;

A cursed sign how much true faith decays.

Love is no more a violent desire;

'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.

In all our sex, the name examined well, 10

Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.

In woman, 'tis of subtle interest made:

Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!

She first did wit's prerogative remove,

And made a fool presume to prate of love.

Let honour and preferment go for gold;

But glorious beauty is not to be sold:

Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,

That nothing but adoring it should buy.

Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare; 20

They purchase but sophisticated ware.

'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,

Where both the giver and the taker cheat.

Men but refine on the old half-crown way;

And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.

* * * * *

XXII.

PROLOGUE TO "OEDIPUS."

When Athens all the Grecian state did guide,

And Greece gave laws to all the world beside;

Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,

Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit:

And wit from wisdom differ'd not in those,

But as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose.

Then, Oedipus, on crowded theatres,

Drew all admiring eyes and listening ears:

The pleased spectator shouted every line,

The noblest, manliest, and the best design! 10

And every critic of each learned age,

By this just model has reform'd the stage.

Now, should it fail (as Heaven avert our fear),

Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear.

For were it known this poem did not please,

You might set up for perfect savages:

Your neighbours would not look on you as men,

But think the nation all turn'd Picts again.

Faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit

You should suspect yourselves of too much wit: 20

Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece;

And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece.

See twice: do not pellmell to damning fall,

Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all:

Pray be advised; and though at Mons you won,

On pointed cannon do not always run.

With some respect to ancient wit proceed;

You take the four first councils for your creed.

But, when you lay tradition wholly by,

And on the private spirit alone rely, 30

You turn fanatics in your poetry.

If, notwithstanding all that we can say,

You needs will have your penn'orths of the play,

And come resolved to damn, because you pay,

Record it, in memorial of the fact,

The first play buried since the woollen act.

* * * * *

XXIII.

EPILOGUE TO "OEDIPUS."

What Sophocles could undertake alone,

Our poets found a work for more than one;

And therefore two lay tugging at the piece,

With all their force, to draw the ponderous mass from Greece;

A weight that bent e'en Seneca's strong Muse,

And which Corneille's shoulders did refuse:

So hard it is the Athenian harp to string!

So much two consuls yield to one just king!

Terror and pity this whole poem sway;

The mightiest machines that can mount a play. 10

How heavy will those vulgar souls be found,

Whom two such engines cannot move from ground!

When Greece and Rome have smiled upon this birth,

You can but damn for one poor spot of earth:

And when your children find your judgment such,

They'll scorn their sires, and wish themselves born Dutch;

Each haughty poet will infer, with ease,

How much his wit must underwrite to please.

As some strong churl would, brandishing, advance

The monumental sword that conquer'd France; 20

So you, by judging this, your judgment teach,

Thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach.

Since, then, the vote of full two thousand years

Has crown'd this plot, and all the dead are theirs,

Think it a debt you pay, not alms you give,

And, in your own defence, let this play live.

Think them not vain, when Sophocles is shown,

To praise his worth they humbly doubt their own.

Yet as weak states each other's power assure,

Weak poets by conjunction are secure. 30

Their treat is what your palates relish most,

Charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost!

We know not what you can desire or hope

To please you more, but burning of a Pope.

* * * * *

XXIV.

PROLOGUE TO "TROILUS AND CRESSIDA."

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE GHOST OF SHAKSPEARE.

See, my loved Britons, see your Shakspeare rise,

An awful ghost, confess'd, to human eyes!

Unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd I had been

From other shades, by this eternal green,

About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,

And with a touch their wither'd bays revive.

Untaught, unpractised in a barbarous age,

I found not, but created first the stage.

And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store,

'Twas that my own abundance gave me more. 10

On foreign trade I needed not rely,

Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.

In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold

Some master strokes, so manly and so bold,

That he who meant to alter, found 'em such,

He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch.

Now, where are the successors to my name?

What bring they to fill out a poet's fame?

Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age;

Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage! 20

For humour, farce--for love they rhyme dispense,

That tolls the knell for their departed sense.

Dulness might thrive in any trade, but this

'Twould recommend to some fat benefice:

Dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace,

Might meet with reverence in its proper place.

The fulsome clench, that nauseates the town,

Would from a judge or alderman go down;

Such virtue is there in a robe and gown!

And that insipid stuff, which here you hate, 30

Might somewhere else be call'd a grave debate:

Dulness is decent in the church and state.

But I forget that still 'tis understood,

Bad plays are best decried by showing good.

Sit silent, then, that my pleased soul may see

A judging audience once, and worthy me;

My faithful scene from true records shall tell,

How Trojan valour did the Greek excel;

Your great forefathers shall their fame regain,

And Homer's angry ghost repine in vain. 40

* * * * *

XXV.

PROLOGUE TO "CÆSAR BORGIA;"[54]

BY NATHAN LEE, 1680.

The unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen,

Lives not to please himself, but other men;

Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,

Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.

What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,

Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.

That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,

Because he thinks himself or whore is meant:

Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms;

From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms: 10

Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,

In the bless'd time poor poets live by chance.

Either you come not here, or, as you grace

Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,

Careless and qualmish, with a yawning face:

You sleep o'er wit, and, by my troth, you may;

Most of your talents lie another way.

You love to hear of some prodigious tale,

The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.

News is your food, and you enough provide, 20

Both for yourselves, and all the world beside;

One theatre there is of vast resort,

Which whilome of Requests was called the Court;

But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,

And full of hum and buzz from noon till night.

Up stairs and down you run, as for a race,

And each man wears three nations in his face.

So big you look, though claret you retrench,

That, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the French.

But all your entertainment still is fed 30

By villains in your own dull island bred.

Would you return to us, we dare engage

To show you better rogues upon the stage.

You know no poison but plain ratsbane here;

Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere.

They have a civil way in Italy,

By smelling a perfume to make you die:

A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by.

Murder's a trade, so known and practised there,

That 'tis infallible as is the Chair. 40

But mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks;

The Pope says grace, but 'tis the Devil gives thanks.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 54: 'Cæsar Borgia:' a play produced about the time of the

Popish Plot.]

* * * * *

XXVI.

PROLOGUE TO "SOPHONISBA,"

ACTED AT OXFORD, 1680.

WRITTEN BY NATHAN LEE.

Thespis,[55] the first professor of our art,

At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.

To prove this true, if Latin be no trespass,

"Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis."

But Æschylus, says Horace in some page,

Was the first mountebank that trod the stage:

Yet Athens never knew your learned sport

Of tossing poets in a tennis-court.

But 'tis the talent of our English nation,

Still to be plotting some new reformation: 10

And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,

Jack Presbyter shall here erect his throne,

Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,

And every prayer be longer than a play.

Then all your heathen wits shall go to pot,

For disbelieving of a Popish plot:

Your poets shall be used like infidels,

And worst, the author of the Oxford bells:

Nor should we 'scape the sentence, to depart,

Even in our first original, a cart. 20

No zealous brother there would want a stone

To maul us cardinals, and pelt Pope Joan:

Religion, learning, wit, would be suppress'd--

Rags of the whore, and trappings of the beast:

Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,

As chief supporters of the triple crown;

And Aristotle's for destruction ripe;

Some say he call'd the soul an organ-pipe,

Which by some little help of derivation,

Shall then be proved a pipe of inspiration. 30

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 55: 'Thespis:' the inventor of tragedy.]

* * * * *

XXVII.

PROLOGUE TO "THE LOYAL GENERAL;"

BY MR TATE, 1680.

If yet there be a few that take delight

In that which reasonable men should write;

To them alone we dedicate this night.

The rest may satisfy their curious itch

With city-gazettes, or some factious speech,

Or whate'er libel, for the public good,

Stirs up the shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.

Remove your benches, you apostate pit,

And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;

Go back to your dear dancing on the rope, 10

Or see, what's worse, the Devil and the Pope.

The plays that take on our corrupted stage,

Methinks, resemble the distracted age;

Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,

That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.

The style of forty-one our poets write,

And you are grown to judge like forty-eight,[56]

Such censures our mistaking audience make,

That 'tis almost grown scandalous to take.

They talk of fevers that infect the brains; 20

But nonsense is the new disease that reigns.

Weak stomachs, with a long disease oppress'd,

Cannot the cordials of strong wit digest.

Therefore thin nourishment of farce ye choose,

Decoctions of a barley-water Muse:

A meal of tragedy would make ye sick,

Unless it were a very tender chick.

Some scenes in sippets would be worth our time;

Those would go down; some love that's poach'd in rhyme:

If these should fail-- 30

We must lie down, and, after all our cost,

Keep holiday, like watermen in frost;

While you turn players on the world's great stage,

And act yourselves the farce of your own age.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 56: 'Forty-one, forty-eight:' referring to the Puritan era,

which some were then seeking to revive.]

* * * * *

XXVIII.

PROLOGUE[57] TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,

1681.

The famed Italian Muse, whose rhymes advance

Orlando and the Paladins of France,

Records, that, when our wit and sense is flown,

'Tis lodged within the circle of the moon,

In earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd,

Set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restored.

Whate'er the story be, the moral's true;

The wit we lost in town, we find in you.

Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,

And fill their windy heads with sober sense. 10

When London votes with Southwark's disagree,

Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.

Here busy senates, to the old cause inclined,

May snuff the votes their fellows left behind:

Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear,

May come, and find their last provision here:

Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,

Who neither carried back, nor brought one cross.

We look'd what representatives would bring;

But they help'd us, just as they did the king. 20

Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth

The Sibyl's books to those who know their worth;

And though the first was sacrificed before,

These volumes doubly will the price restore.

Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,

To whom by long prescription you are kind.

He whose undaunted Muse, with loyal rage,

Has never spared the vices of the age,

Here finding nothing that his spleen can raise,

Is forced to turn his satire into praise. 30

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 57: 'Prologue:' spoken during the sitting of Parliament there.

See Macaulay's History.]

* * * * *

XXIX.

PROLOGUE[58] TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS,

UPON HIS FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE DUKE'S THEATRE, AFTER HIS RETURN FROM

SCOTLAND, 1682.

In those cold regions which no summers cheer,

Where brooding darkness covers half the year,

To hollow caves the shivering natives go;

Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow:

But when the tedious twilight wears away,

And stars grow paler at the approach of day,

The longing crowds to frozen mountains run;

Happy who first can see the glimmering sun:

The surly savage offspring disappear,

And curse the bright successor of the year. 10

Yet, though rough bears in covert seek defence,

White foxes stay, with seeming innocence:

That crafty kind with daylight can dispense.

Still we are throng'd so full with Reynard's race,

That loyal subjects scarce can find a place:

Thus modest truth is cast behind the crowd:

Truth speaks too low: hypocrisy too loud.

Let them be first to flatter in success;

Duty can stay, but guilt has need to press.

Once, when true zeal the sons of God did call, 20

To make their solemn show at heaven's Whitehall,

The fawning Devil appear'd among the rest,

And made as good a courtier as the best.

The friends of Job, who rail'd at him before,

Came, cap in hand, when he had three times more.

Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;

Kings can forgive, if rebels can but sue:

A tyrant's power in rigour is express'd;

The father yearns in the true prince's breast.

We grant, an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend; 30

But most are babes, that know not they offend.

The crowd, to restless motion still inclined,

Are clouds, that tack according to the wind.

Driven by their chiefs, they storms of hailstones pour;

Then mourn, and soften to a silent shower.

O welcome to this much-offending land,

The prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!

Thus angels on glad messages appear:

Their first salute commands us not to fear.

Thus Heaven, that could constrain us to obey, 40

(With reverence if we might presume to say)

Seems to relax the rights of sovereign sway:

Permits to man the choice of good and ill,

And makes us happy by our own free will.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 58: 'Prologue:' spoken when the Duke of York returned from

Scotland in triumph. He went to the theatre in Dorset Gardens, when this

was uttered as the Prologue to "Venice Preserved."]

* * * * *

XXX.

PROLOGUE TO "THE EARL OF ESSEX; OR, THE UNHAPPY FAVOURITE;"

BY MR J. BANKS, 1682.

SPOKEN TO THE KING AND QUEEN AT THEIR COMING TO THE HOUSE.

When first the ark was landed on the shore,

And Heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more;

When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,

And the new scene of earth began to draw;

The dove was sent to view the waves' decrease,

And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.

'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,

Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.

We have before our eyes the royal dove,

Still innocent, as harbinger of love: 10

The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,

And people with a better race the plain.

Tell me, ye Powers! why should vain man pursue,

With endless toil, each object that is new,

And for the seeming substance leave the true?

Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,

And loathe the manna of his daily food?

Must England still the scene of changes be,

Tost and tempestuous, like our ambient sea?

Must still our weather and our wills agree? 20

Without our blood our liberties we have:

Who that is free would fight to be a slave?

Or, what can wars to after-times assure,

Of which our present age is not secure?

All that our monarch would for us ordain,

Is but to enjoy the blessings of his reign.

Our land's an Eden, and the main's our fence,

While we preserve our state of innocence:

That lost, then beasts their brutal force employ,

And first their lord, and then themselves destroy. 30

What civil broils have cost, we know too well;

Oh! let it be enough that once we fell!

And every heart conspire, and every tongue,

Still to have such a king, and this king long.

* * * * *

XXXI.

EPILOGUE FOR "THE KING'S HOUSE."[59]

We act by fits and starts, like drowning men,

But just peep up, and then pop down again.

Let those who call us wicked change their sense;

For never men lived more on Providence.

Not lottery cavaliers are half so poor,

Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore;

Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents

Of the three last ungiving parliaments:

So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,

He might have spared his dream of seven lean kine, 10

And changed his vision for the Muses Nine.

The comet that, they say, portends a dearth,

Was but a vapour drawn from play-house earth:

Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,

Foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days.

'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor;

For then the printer's press would suffer more.

Their pamphleteers each day their venom spit;

They thrive by treason, and we starve by wit.

Confess the truth, which of you has not laid 20

Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield maid?

Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,

Democritus his wars with Heraclitus?

Such are the authors who have run us down,

And exercised you critics of the town.

Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes,

Ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times.

Scandal, the glory of the English nation,

Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion.

Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise, 30

They had agreed their play before their prize.

Faith! they may hang their harps upon the willows;

'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.

Then put an end to civil wars for shame;

Let each knight-errant, who has wrong'd a dame,

Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,

The satisfaction of a gentleman.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 59: Epilogue spoken in 1682; and full of temporary allusions

now of no earthly interest.]

* * * * *

XXXII.

PROLOGUE TO "THE LOYAL BROTHER; OR, THE PERSIAN PRINCE;"[60]

BY MR SOUTHERN, 1682.

POETS, like lawful monarchs, ruled the stage,

Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our age.

Mark how they jump: critics would regulate

Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state:

Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!) hate.

The critic humbly seems advice to bring;

The fawning Whig petitions to the king:

But one's advice into a satire slides;

The other's petition a remonstrance hides.

These will no taxes give, and those no pence; 10

Critics would starve the poet, Whigs the prince.

The critic all our troops of friends discards;

Just so the Whig would fain pull down the guards.

Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,

As watchful shepherds, that fright beasts of prey.

Kings, who disband such needless aids as these,

Are safe--as long as e'er their subjects please:

And that would be till next Queen Bess's night: [61]

Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.

Sir Edmondbury first, in woful wise, 20

Leads up the show, and milks their maudlin eyes.

There's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part,

And pities the poor pageant from her heart;

Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,

And, with a civil congé, does retire:

But guiltless blood to ground must never fall;

There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.

The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,

A lewd old gentleman of seventy years:

Whose age in vain our mercy would implore; 30

For few take pity on an old cast whore.

The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;

Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;

Like thief and parson in a Tyburn-cart.

The word is given, and with a loud huzza

The mitred puppet from his chair they draw:

On the slain corpse contending nations fall:

Alas! what's one poor Pope among them all!

He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:

And, next, for fashion, cry, God save the king! 40

A needful cry in midst of such alarms,

When forty thousand men are up in arms.

But after he's once saved, to make amends,

In each succeeding health they damn his friends:

So God begins, but still the Devil ends.

What if some one, inspired with zeal, should call,

Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall?

His best friends would not like this over-care,

Or think him ere the safer for this prayer.

Five praying saints are by an act allow'd;[62] 50

But not the whole church-militant in crowd.

Yet, should Heaven all the true petitions drain

Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,

Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 60: 'The Loyal Brother; or, the Persian Prince,' Mr Southern's

first play, acted at Drury-Lane in 1682. The Loyal Brother was intended

for the Duke of York.]

[Footnote 61: 'Queen Bess's night:' alluding to a procession of the

Whigs, carrying party effigies, and a representation of the dead body of

Sir E. Godfrey, on the 17th of November, the birthday of Queen

Elizabeth.]

[Footnote 62: By the Bartholomew Act not more than five Dissenters were

allowed to commune together at one time.]

* * * * *

XXXIII.

PROLOGUE TO "THE KING AND QUEEN."[63]

UPON THE UNION OF THE TWO COMPANIES IN 1686.

1 Since faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,

Their penny scribes take care to inform the nation,

How well men thrive in this or that plantation:

2 How Pennsylvania's air agrees with Quakers,

And Carolina's with Associators:

Both even too good for madmen and for traitors.

3 Truth is, our land with saints is so run o'er,

And every age produces such a store,

That now there's need of two New-Englands more.

4 What's this, you'll say, to us and our vocation?

Only thus much, that we have left our station,

And made this theatre our new plantation.

5 The factious natives never could agree;

But aiming, as they call'd it, to be free,

Those playhouse Whigs set up for property.

6 Some say, they no obedience paid of late;

But would new fears and jealousies create;

Till topsy-turvy they had turn'd the state.

7 Plain sense, without the talent of foretelling,

Might guess 'twould end in downright knocks and quelling:

For seldom comes there better of rebelling.

8 When men will, needlessly, their freedom barter

For lawless power, sometimes they catch a Tartar;

There's a damn'd word that rhymes to this call'd Charter.

9 But, since the victory with us remains,

You shall be call'd to twelve in all our gains;

If you'll not think us saucy for our pains.

10 Old men shall have good old plays to delight them

And you, fair ladies and gallants, that slight them,

We'll treat with good new plays; if our new wits can write them.

11 We'll take no blundering verse, no fustian tumour,

No dribbling love, from this or that presumer;

No dull fat fool shamm'd on the stage for humour.

12 For, faith, some of them such vile stuff have made,

As none but fools or fairies ever play'd;

But 'twas, as shopmen say, to force a trade.

13 We've given you tragedies, all sense defying,

And singing men, in woful metre dying;

This 'tis when heavy lubbers will be flying.

14 All these disasters we well hope to weather;

We bring you none of our old lumber hither;

Whig poets and Whig sheriffs may hang together.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 63: Two theatrical companies: the Duke's and the King's

Houses--both full of every species of abomination--at last united in

1686, and the most profligate poet of the age was fitly chosen to

proclaim the banns.]

* * * * *

XXXIV.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,

SPOKEN BY MR HART, AT THE ACTING OF "THE SILENT WOMAN."

What Greece, when learning flourish'd, only knew,

Athenian judges, you this day renew;

Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,

And here poetic prizes lost or won.

Methinks I see you, crown'd with olives, sit,

And strike a sacred horror from the pit.

A day of doom is this of your decree,

Where even the best are but by mercy free:

A day, which none but Jonson durst have wish'd to see.

Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 10

Come to be taught themselves to teach the age.

As your commissioners our poets go,

To cultivate the virtue which you sow;

In your Lycaeum first themselves refined,

And delegated thence to human-kind.

But as ambassadors, when long from home,

For new instructions to their princes come;

So poets, who your precepts have forgot,

Return, and beg they may be better taught:

Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, 20

But by your manners they correct their own.

The illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies

To minds diseased unsafe, chance remedies:

The learn'd in schools, where knowledge first began,

Studies with care the anatomy of man;

Sees virtue, vice, and passions in their cause,

And fame from science, not from fortune, draws.

So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

An art, in London only is a trade.

There haughty dunces, whose unlearned pen 30

Could ne'er spell grammar, would be reading men.

Such build their poems the Lucretian way;

So many huddled atoms make a play;

And if they hit in order, by some chance,

They call that nature, which is ignorance.

To such a fame let mere town wits aspire,

And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.

Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,

Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.

He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands, 40

But knows that right is in the senate's hands;

Not impudent enough to hope your praise,

Low at the Muses' feet his wreath he lays,

And, where he took it up, resigns his bays.

Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,

But 'tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.

* * * * *

XXXV.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THE SAME.

No poor Dutch peasant, wing'd with all his fear,

Flies with more haste, when the French arms draw near,

Than we with our poetic train come down,

For refuge hither, from the infected town:

Heaven, for our sins, this summer has thought fit

To visit us with all the plagues of wit.

A French troop first swept all things in its way;

But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay:

Yet, to our cost, in that short time, we find

They left their itch of novelty behind. 10

The Italian Merry-Andrews took their place,

And quite debauch'd the stage with lewd grimace:

Instead of wit and humours, your delight

Was there to see two hobby-horses fight;

Stout Scaramoucha with rush-lance rode in,

And ran a tilt at centaur Arlequin.

For love you heard how amorous asses bray'd,

And cats in gutters gave their serenade.

Nature was out of countenance, and each day

Some new-born monster shown you for a play. 20

But when all fail'd, to strike the stage quite dumb,

Those wicked engines call'd machines are come.

Thunder and lightning now for wit are play'd,

And shortly scenes in Lapland will be laid:

Art magic is for poetry profess'd;

And cats and dogs, and each obscener beast,

To which Egyptian dotards once did bow,

Upon our English stage are worshipp'd now.

Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown

Macbeth and Simon Magus of the town, 30

Fletcher's despised, your Jonson's out of fashion,

And wit the only drug in all the nation.

In this low ebb our wares to you are shown;

By you those staple authors' worth is known;

For wit's a manufacture of your own.

When you, who only can, their scenes have praised,

We'll boldly back, and say, their price is raised.

* * * * *

XXXVI.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN AT OXFORD, BY MRS MARSHALL.

Oft has our poet wish'd, this happy seat

Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat:

I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find

He sought for quiet, and content of mind;

Which noiseful towns, and courts can never know,

And only in the shades like laurels grow.

Youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest,

And age returning thence concludes it best.

What wonder if we court that happiness

Yearly to share, which hourly you possess; 10

Teaching even you, while the vex'd world we show,

Your peace to value more, and better know?

'Tis all we can return for favours past,

Whose holy memory shall ever last;

For patronage from him whose care presides

O'er every noble art, and every science guides:

Bathurst,[64] a name the learn'd with reverence know,

And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe;

Whose age enjoys but what his youth deserved,

To rule those Muses whom before he served. 20

His learning, and untainted manners too,

We find, Athenians, are derived to you:

Such ancient hospitality there rests

In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian breasts,

Whose kindness was religion to their guests.

Such modesty did to our sex appear,

As, had there been no laws, we need not fear,

Since each of you was our protector here.

Converse so chaste, and so strict virtue shown,

As might Apollo with the Muses own. 30

Till our return, we must despair to find

Judges so just, so knowing, and so kind.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 64: Dr Ralph Bathurst, President of Trinity College, Oxford.]

* * * * *

XXXVII.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Discord and plots, which have undone our age,

With the same ruin have o'erwhelm'd the stage.

Our house has suffer'd in the common woe,

We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.

Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,

And of our sisters, all the kinder-hearted,

To Edinburgh gone, or coach'd, or carted.

With bonny bluecap there they act all night

For Scotch half-crown, in English three-pence hight.

One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean, 10

There with her single person fills the scene.

Another, with long use and age decay'd,

Dived here old woman, and rose there a maid.

Our trusty doorkeepers of former time

There strut and swagger in heroic rhyme.

Tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit,

And there's a hero made without dispute:

And that, which was a capon's tail before,

Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.

But all his subjects, to express the care 20

Of imitation, go, like Indians, bare:

Laced linen there would be a dangerous thing;

It might perhaps a new rebellion bring;

The Scot, who wore it, would be chosen king.

But why should I these renegades describe,

When you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe?

Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit,

With Irish action slander'd English wit:

You have beheld such barbarous Macs appear,

As merited a second massacre: 30

Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace,

And had their country stamp'd upon their face.

When strollers durst presume to pick your purse,

We humbly thought our broken troop not worse.

How ill soe'er our action may deserve,

Oxford's a place where wit can never starve.

* * * * *

XXXVIII.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Though actors cannot much of learning boast,

Of all who want it, we admire it most:

We love the praises of a learned pit,

As we remotely are allied to wit.

We speak our poet's wit, and trade in ore,

Like those who touch upon the golden shore:

Betwixt our judges can destinction make,

Discern how much, and why, our poems take:

Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice;

Whether the applause be only sound or voice. 10

When our fop gallants, or our city folly,

Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:

We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,

And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.

Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,

Should not be proud of giving you delight.

London likes grossly; but this nicer pit

Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;

The ready finger lays on every blot;

Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20

Nature herself lies open to your view;

You judge by her, what draught of her is true,

Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint,

Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.

But by the sacred genius of this place,

By every Muse, by each domestic grace,

Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,

And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.

Our poets hither for adoption come,

As nations sued to be made free of Rome: 30

Not in the suffragating tribes to stand,

But in your utmost, last, provincial band.

If his ambition may those hopes pursue,

Who with religion loves your arts and you,

Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,

Than his own mother university.

Thebes did his green, unknowing youth engage;

He chooses Athens in his riper age.

* * * * *

XXXIX.

PROLOGUE TO "ALBION AND ALBANIUS."

Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage

Has lost on this incorrigible age:

Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,

Have seem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation:

But still no sign remains; which plainly notes,

You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.

What can we do, when mimicking a fop,

Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?

Faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you,

Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you. 10

Satire was once your physic, wit your food:

One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood:

We now prescribe, like doctors in despair,

The diet your weak appetites can bear.

Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,

Here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and show:

Give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady:

You're come to farce,--that's asses' milk,--already.

Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit,

Who one day may be men, if Heaven think fit: 20

Sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown,

Like leading-strings till they can walk alone.

But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know,

The wise Italians first invented show:

Thence into France the noble pageant pass'd:

'Tis England's credit to be cozen'd last.

Freedom and zeal have choused you o'er and o'er:

Pray give us leave to bubble you once more;

You never were so cheaply fool'd before:

We bring you change, to humour your disease; 30

Change for the worse has ever used to please:

Then, 'tis the mode of France; without whose rules

None must presume to set up here for fools.

In France, the oldest man is always young,

Sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long,

Till foot, hand, head keep time with every song:

Each sings his part, echoing from pit and box,

With his hoarse voice, half harmony, half pox:

_Le plus grand roi du monde_ is always ringing,

They show themselves good subjects by their singing: 40

On that condition, set up every throat:

You Whigs may sing, for you have changed your note.

Cits and citesses raise a joyful strain,

'Tis a good omen to begin a reign:

Voices may help your charter to restoring,

And get by singing what you lost by roaring.

* * * * *

XL.

EPILOGUE TO "ALBION AND ALBANIUS."

After our Æsop's fable shown to-day,

I come to give the moral of the play.

Feign'd Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace:

But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race:

Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known;

But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown.

When Heaven made man, to show the work divine,

Truth was His image stamp'd upon the coin:

And when a king is to a god refined,

On all he says and does he stamps his mind: 10

This proves a soul without alloy, and pure;

Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure.

To dare in fields is valour; but how few

Dare be so thoroughly valiant,--to be true!

The name of great let other kings affect:

He's great indeed, the prince that is direct.

His subjects know him now, and trust him more

Than all their kings, and all their laws before.

What safety could their public acts afford?

Those he can break; but cannot break his word. 20

So great a trust to him alone was due;

Well have they trusted whom so well they knew.

The saint, who walk'd on waves, securely trod,

While he believed the beckoning of his God:

But when his faith no longer bore him out,

Began to sink, as he began to doubt.

Let us our native character maintain;

'Tis of our growth to be sincerely plain.

To excel in truth we loyally may strive,

Set privilege against prerogative: 30

He plights his faith, and we believe him just;

His honour is to promise, ours to trust.

Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid,

As by a word the world itself was made.

* * * * *

XLI.

PROLOGUE TO "ARVIRGUS AND PHILICIA REVIVED."

BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ., 1690.

SPOKEN BY MR HART.

With sickly actors and an old house too,

We're match'd with glorious theatres and new;

And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn,

Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.

If all these ills could not undo us quite,

A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;

Who with broad bloody bills call you each day

To laugh and break your buttons at their play;

Or see some serious piece, which we presume

Is fallen from some incomparable plume; 10

And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,

Send lackeys early to preserve your place.

We dare not on your privilege intrench,

Or ask you why you like them? they are French.

Therefore some go, with courtesy exceeding,

Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding:

Each lady striving to out-laugh the rest;

To make it seem they understood the jest.

Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,

To teach us English where to clap the play: 20

Civil, egad! our hospitable land

Bears all the charge, for them to understand:

Mean time we languish and neglected lie,

Like wives, while you keep better company;

And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,

You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.

* * * * *

XLII.

PROLOGUE TO "DON SEBASTIAN."

SPOKEN BY A WOMAN.

The judge removed, though he's no more my lord,

May plead at bar, or at the council board:

So may cast poets write; there's no pretension

To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.

Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place

I see not one that wears a damning face.

The British nation is too brave to show

Ignoble vengeance on a vanquish'd foe.

At last be civil to the wretch imploring;

And lay your paws upon him without roaring. 10

Suppose our poet was your foe before,

Yet now, the business of the field is o'er;

'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,

When troops are into winter quarters gone.

Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;

And you well know, a play's of no religion.

Take good advice, and please yourselves this day;

No matter from what hands you have the play.

Among good fellows every health will pass,

That serves to carry round another glass: 20

When with full bowls of Burgundy you dine,

Though at the mighty monarch you repine,

You grant him still Most Christian in his wine.

Thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle,

And all the rest is purely from his noddle.

You have seen young ladies at the senate door

Prefer petitions, and your grace implore;

However grave the legislators were,

Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair.

Reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, I bring; 30

But I could bribe you with as good a thing.

I heard him make advances of good nature;

That he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire.

Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again

The sacred names of fops and beaux profane.

Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear,

As times go now, he offers very fair.

Be not too hard on him with statutes neither;

Be kind; and do not set your teeth together,

To stretch the laws, as cobblers do their leather. 40

Horses by Papists are not to be ridden,

But sure the Muses' horse was ne'er forbidden;

For in no rate-book it was ever found

That Pegasus was valued at five pound;

Fine him to daily drudging and inditing:

And let him pay his taxes out in writing.

* * * * *

XLIII.

PROLOGUE TO "THE PROPHETESS."[65]

BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON. 1690.

What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess

The fate of our approaching Prophetess?

A play which, like a pérspective set right,

Presents our vast expenses close to sight;

But turn the tube, and there we sadly view

Our distant gains; and those uncertain too:

A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,

And all, like you, in hopes of better days;

When will our losses warn us to be wise?

Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. 10

Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,

Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops;

We raise new objects to provoke delight,

But you grow sated ere the second sight.

False men, e'en so you serve your mistresses:

They rise three storeys in their towering dress;

And, after all, you love not long enough

To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.

Never content with what you had before,

But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er. 20

Now honour calls you hence; and all your care

Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.

In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,

Your silver goes, that should support our trade.

Go, unkind heroes![66] leave our stage to mourn,

Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;

And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,

His firkin-butter, and his usquebaugh.

Go, conquerors of your male and female foes!

Men without hearts, and women without hose: 30

Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;

Such proper pages will long trains become;

With copper collars, and with brawny backs,

Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.

Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,

And furnish all their laurels for your brows;

Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;

We want not poets fit to sing your flights.

But you, bright beauties! for whose only sake

Those doughty knights such dangers undertake, 40

When they with happy gales are gone away,

With your propitious presence grace our play;

And with a sigh their empty seats survey:

Then think, on that bare bench my servant sat;

I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;

Selling facetious bargains, and propounding

That witty recreation, call'd dumfounding.

Their loss with patience we will try to bear;

And would do more, to see you often here;

That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes, 50

Under a female regency may rise.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 65: This prologue was forbid by the Earl of Dorset, then Lord

Chamberlain, after the first day of its being spoken.]

[Footnote 66: King William was at this time prosecuting the war in

Ireland.]

* * * * *

XLIV.

PROLOGUE TO "THE MISTAKES."

BY JOSEPH HARRIS, COMEDIAN, 1690. (WRITTEN BY SOME OTHER.)

_Enter Mr Bright._

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no Prologue to be had

to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece;

as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left

our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and

cursing somebody that has deceived him.

_Enter Mr Bowen._

Hold your prating to the audience: here is honest Mr Williams,

just come in, half mellow, from the Rose Tavern. He swears he is

inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too,

either with a prologue of his own or something like one. Oh,

here he comes to his trial, at all adventures: for my part I

wish him a good deliverance.

[_Exeunt Mr Bright and Mr Bowen._

_Enter Mr Williams._

Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way.

I should speak something in rhyme, now, for the play:

But the deuce take me, if I know what to say.

I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,

To the last drop of claret in my belly.

So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting:

And, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting.

Our young poet has brought a piece of work,

In which, though much of art there does not lurk,

It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork. 10

But for this play (which till I have done, we show not)

What may be its fortune--by the Lord! I know not.

This I dare swear, no malice here is writ:

'Tis innocent of all things--even of wit.

He's no highflier--he makes no sky-rockets,

His squibs are only levell'd at your pockets.

And if his crackers light among your pelf,

You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.

By this time, I'm something recover'd of my fluster'd madness:

And now, a word or two in sober sadness. 20

Ours is a common play; and you pay down

A common harlot's price--just half-a-crown.

You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score;

But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er:

For many a mother has done that before.

How's this? you cry; an actor write?--we know it;

But Shakspeare was an actor, and a poet.

Has not great Jonson's learning often fail'd?

But Shakspeare's greater genius still prevail'd.

Have not some writing actors, in this age, 30

Deserved and found success upon the stage?

To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,

Not one of us but means to be inspired.

Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer;

Peace and the butt is all our business here:

So much for that;--and the devil take small beer.

* * * * *

XLV.

PROLOGUE TO "KING ARTHUR."

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.

Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,

When silly plays so savourily go down;

As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign

A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.

Happy is he who, in his own defence,

Can write just level to your humble sense;

Who higher than your pitch can never go;

And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.

So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,

A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board; 10

He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,

Secured by weakness not to reach the box.

A feeble poet will his business do,

Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:

For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.

An ape his own dear image will embrace;

An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:

So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature,

Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow-creature.

In fear of which, our house has sent this day, 20

To insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play;

No sooner named, than one cries out, These stagers

Come in good time, to make more work for wagers.

The town divides, if it will take or no:

The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too;

A sign they have but little else to do.

Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,

Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:

But now they're grown a common trade for all,

And actions by the new book rise and fall; 30

Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.

One policy as far as Lyons carries;

Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.

Our bets, at last, would e'en to Rome extend,

But that the pope has proved our trusty friend.

Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,

Could we insure another Ottoboni.

Among the rest there are a sharping set,

That pray for us, and yet against us bet.

Sure Heaven itself is at a loss to know 40

If these would have their prayers be heard, or no:

For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,

Men pray but very faintly they may lose.

Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,

The city needs not your new tricks for breaking:

And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,

You'll want an equipage for volunteering;

While thus, no spark of honour left within ye,

When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.

* * * * *

XLVI.

PROLOGUE TO "ALBUMAZAR."[67]

To say, this comedy pleased long ago,

Is not enough to make it pass you now.

Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;

When few men censured, and when fewer writ.

And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this

As the best model of his masterpiece.

Subtle was got by our Albumazar,

That Alchymist by this Astrologer;

Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose

He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes. 10

But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;

What was another's lead becomes his gold:

Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,

Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains.

By this our age such authors does afford,

As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word:

Who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all,

And what's their plunder, their possession call:

Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,

But rob by sunshine, in the face of day: 20

Nay, scarce the common ceremony use

Of, Stand, sir, and deliver up your Muse;

But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace,

Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.

Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,

'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.

Yet it were modest, could it but be said,

They strip the living, but these rob the dead;

Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,

And make love to them the Egyptian way; 30

Or, as a rhyming author would have said,

Join the dead living to the living dead.

Such men in poetry may claim some part:

They have the licence, though they want the art;

And might, where theft was praised, for Laureates stand,--

Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.

They make the benefits of others' studying,

Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,

Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;

'Tis all his own, when once he has spit in the porridge. 40

But, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this;

You are in fault for what they do amiss:

For they their thefts still undiscover'd think,

And durst not steal unless you please to wink.

Perhaps you may award, by your decree,

They should refund; but that can never be.

For should your letters of reprisal seal,

These men write that which no man else would steal.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 67: An old play written by one Tomkins, four years, however,

after Jonson's "Alchymist," and resuscitated in 1668.]

* * * * *

XLVII.

AN EPILOGUE.

You saw our wife was chaste, yet thoroughly tried,

And, without doubt, ye are hugely edified;

For, like our hero, whom we show'd to-day,

You think no woman true, but in a play.

Love once did make a pretty kind of show:

Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow:

But 'twas Heaven knows how many years ago.

Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,

Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation:

In comedy your little selves you meet; 10

'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges Street.

Smile on our author then, if he has shown

A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.

Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,

Who act those follies, Poets toil to write!

The sweating Muse does almost leave the chase;

She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.

Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly

To some new frisk of contrariety.

You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run, 20

And get seven devils, when dispossess'd of one.

Your Venus once was a Platonic queen;

Nothing of love beside the face was seen;

But every inch of her you now uncase,

And clap a vizard-mask upon the face.

For sins like these, the zealous of the land,

With little hair, and little or no band,

Declare how circulating pestilences

Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.

Saturn, even now, takes doctoral degrees; 30

He'll do your work this summer without fees.

Let all the boxes, Phoebus, find thy grace,

And, ah! preserve the eighteen-penny place!

But for the pit confounders, let 'em go,

And find as little mercy as they show:

The Actors thus, and thus thy Poets pray;

For every critic saved, thou damn'st a play.

* * * * *

XLVIII.

EPILOGUE TO "THE HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD."

BY MR JOHN DRYDEN, JUN., 1696.[68]

Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,

So trembles a young Poet at a full pit.

Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,

And wonders how the devil he durst come there;

Wanting three talents needful for the place--

Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.

Nor is the puny Poet void of care;

For authors, such as our new authors are,

Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare:

And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one 10

But has as little as the very Parson:

Both say, they preach and write for your instruction:

But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.

The difference is, that though you like the play,

The Poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day.

But with the Parson 'tis another case,

He, without holiness, may rise to grace.

The Poet has one disadvantage more,

That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er,

Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. 20

But dulness well becomes the sable garment;

I warrant that ne'er spoil'd a Priest's perferment:

Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,

Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,

For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.

You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,

At what his beauship says, but what he wears;

So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears.

The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,

The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff. 30

The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit

Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.

You cannot from our absent author hope

He should equip the stage with such a fop:

Fools change in England, and new fools arise,

For though the immortal species never dies,

Yet every year new maggots make new flies;

But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find

One fool for millions that he left behind.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 68: 'John Dryden, jun.': second son of the poet, who was at

Rome when this play was brought out.]

* * * * *

XLIX.

PROLOGUE TO "THE PILGRIM."

BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

REVIVED FOR OUR AUTHOR'S BENEFIT, ANNO 1700.

How wretched is the fate of those who write!

Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite.

Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe;

Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau.

Yet worse, their brother poets damn the play,

And roar the loudest, though they never pay.

The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,

At every lewd, low character,--That's I.

He who writes letters to himself would swear,

The world forgot him, if he was not there. 10

What should a poet do? 'Tis hard for one

To pleasure all the fools that would be shown:

And yet not two in ten will pass the town.

Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;

More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.

Quack Maurus,[69] though he never took degrees

In either of our universities,

Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,

Because he play'd the fool, and writ three books.

But, if he would be worth a Poet's pen, 20

He must be more a fool, and write again:

For all the former fustian stuff he wrote

Was dead-born doggerel, or is quite forgot:

His man of Uz, stript of his Hebrew robe,

Is just the proverb, and as poor as Job.

One would have thought he could no longer jog;

But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.

There, though he crept, yet still he kept in sight;

But here, he founders in, and sinks down right,

Had he prepared us, and been dull by rule, 30

Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule:

But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,

O'erleaps at once the whole Apocrypha;

Invades the Psalms with rhymes, and leaves no room

For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.

But when if, after all, this godly gear

Is not so senseless as it would appear;

Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,

His cant, like Merry-Andrew's noble vein,

Cat-calls the sects to draw them in again. 40

At leisure hours, in epic song he deals,

Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels,

Prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule,

But rides triumphant between stool and stool.

Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day,

To get himself a place in farce or play.

We know not by what name we should arraign him,

For no one category can contain him;

A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,

Are load enough to break one ass's back: 50

At last, grown wanton, he presumed to write,

Traduced two kings, their kindness to requite;

One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 69: 'Quack Maurus:' Sir Richard Blackmore.]

* * * * *

L.

EPILOGUE TO "THE PILGRIM."

Perhaps the parson[70] stretch'd a point too far,

When with our Theatres he waged a war.

He tells you, that this very moral age

Received the first infection from the stage.

But sure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught,

The seeds of open vice, returning, brought.

Thus lodged (as vice by great example thrives)

It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.

London, a fruitful soil, yet never bore

So plentiful a crop of horns before. 10

The poets, who must live by courts, or starve,

Were proud so good a government to serve:

And, mixing with buffoons and pimps profane,

Tainted the stage, for some small snip of gain.

For they, like harlots under bawds profess'd,

Took all the ungodly pains, and got the least.

Thus did the thriving malady prevail:

The court, its head, the poets but the tail.

The sin was of our native growth, 'tis true;

The scandal of the sin was wholly new. 20

Misses they were, but modestly conceal'd;

Whitehall the naked Venus first reveal'd,

Who, standing as at Cyprus, in her shrine,

The strumpet was adored with rites divine.

Ere this, if saints had any secret motion,

'Twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion.

I pass the peccadilloes of their time;

Nothing but open lewdness was a crime.

A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,

Compared with one foul act of fornication. 30

Now, they would silence us, and shut the door,

That let in all the barefaced vice before.

As for reforming us, which some pretend,

That work in England is without an end:

Well may we change, but we shall never mend.

Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage,

We hope much better of the coming age.

What would you say, if we should first begin

To stop the trade of love behind the scene,

Where actresses make bold with married men? 40

For while abroad so prodigal the dolt is,

Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.

In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,

Save here and there a woman or a man:

But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,

Can make clean work; there will be some remains,

While you have still your Oates, and we our Haines.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 70: 'Parson:' Jeremy Collier.]

* * * * *

TALES FROM CHAUCER.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND.

_Anno_ 1699.

My Lord,--Some estates are held in England by paying a fine at the

change of every lord: I have enjoyed the patronage of your family, from

the time of your excellent grandfather to this present day. I have

dedicated the translation of the "Lives of Plutarch" to the first Duke;

and have celebrated the memory of your heroic father. Though I am very

short of the age of Nestor, yet I have lived to a third generation of

your house; and by your Grace's favour am admitted still to hold from

you by the same tenure.

I am not vain enough to boast that I have deserved the value of so

illustrious a line; but my fortune is the greater, that for three

descents they have been pleased to distinguish my poems from those of

other men; and have accordingly made me their peculiar care. May it be

permitted me to say, that, as your grandfather and father were cherished

and adorned with honours by two successive monarchs, so I have been

esteemed and patronised by the grandfather, the father, and the son,

descended from one of the most ancient, most conspicuous, and most

deserving families in Europe?

It is true, that by delaying the payment of my last fine, when it was

due by your Grace's accession to the titles and patrimonies of your

house, I may seem, in rigour of law, to have made a forfeiture of my

claim; yet my heart has always been devoted to your service; and since

you have been graciously pleased, by your permission of this address, to

accept the tender of my duty, it is not yet too late to lay these poems

at your feet.

The world is sensible that you worthily succeed, not only to the honours

of your ancestors, but also to their virtues. The long chain of

magnanimity, courage, easiness of access, and desire of doing good even

to the prejudice of your fortune, is so far from being broken in your

Grace, that the precious metal yet runs pure to the newest link of it;

which I will not call the last, because I hope and pray it may descend

to late posterity: and your flourishing youth, and that of your

excellent Duchess, are happy omens of my wish. It is observed by Livy

and by others, that some of the noblest Roman families retained a

resemblance of their ancestry, not only in their shapes and features,

but also in their manners, their qualities, and the distinguishing

characters of their minds. Some lines were noted for a stern, rigid

virtue, savage, haughty, parsimonious, and unpopular: others were more

sweet and affable, made of a more pliant paste, humble, courteous, and

obliging, studious of doing charitable offices, and diffusive of the

goods which they enjoyed. The last of these is the proper and indelible

character of your Grace's family. God Almighty has endued you with a

softness, a beneficence, an attractive behaviour winning on the hearts

of others; and so sensible of their misery, that the wounds of fortune

seem not inflicted on them, but on yourself. You are so ready to

redress, that you almost prevent their wishes, and always exceed their

expectations; as if what was yours, was not your own, and not given you

to possess, but to bestow on wanting merit. But this is a topic which I

must cast in shades, lest I offend your modesty, which is so far from

being ostentatious of the good you do, that it blushes even to have it

known; and therefore I must leave you to the satisfaction and testimony

of your own conscience, which, though it be a silent panegyric, is yet

the best.

You are so easy of access, that Poplicola was not more, whose doors were

opened on the outside to save the people even the common civility of

asking entrance; where all were equally admitted--where nothing that was

reasonable was denied--where misfortune was a powerful recommendation,

and where (I can scarce forbear saying) that want itself was a powerful

mediator, and was next to merit.

The history of Peru assures us, that their Incas, above all their titles

esteemed that the highest which called them Lovers of the Poor--a name

more glorious than the Felix, Pius, and Augustus of the Roman emperors,

which were epithets of flattery, deserved by few of them, and not

running in a blood like the perpetual gentleness and inherent goodness

of the Ormond family.

Gold, as it is the purest, so it is the softest and most ductile of all

metals. Iron, which is the hardest, gathers rust, corrodes itself, and

is therefore subject to corruption; it was never intended for coins and

medals, or to bear the faces and inscriptions of the great. Indeed, it

is fit for armour, to bear off insults, and preserve the wearer in the

day of battle; but the danger once repelled, it is laid aside by the

brave, as a garment too rough for civil conversation; a necessary guard

in war, but too harsh and cumbersome in peace, and which keeps off the

embraces of a more humane life.

For this reason, my Lord, though you have courage in an heroical degree,

yet I ascribe it to you but as your second attribute: mercy,

beneficence, and compassion claim precedence, as they are first in the

Divine nature. An intrepid courage, which is inherent in your Grace, is

at best but a holiday kind of virtue, to be seldom exercised, and never

but in cases of necessity: affability, mildness, tenderness, and a word

which I would fain bring back to its original signification of virtue, I

mean good-nature, are of daily use: they are the bread of mankind, and

staff of life; neither sighs, nor tears, nor groans, nor curses of the

vanquished, follow acts of compassion and of charity, but a sincere

pleasure and serenity of mind, in him who performs an action of mercy,

which cannot suffer the misfortunes of another without redress, lest

they should bring a kind of contagion along with them, and pollute the

happiness which he enjoys.

Yet since the perverse tempers of mankind, since oppression on one side,

and ambition on the other, are sometimes the unavoidable occasions of

war; that courage, that magnanimity, and resolution, which is born with

you, cannot be too much commended. And here it grieves me that I am

scanted in the pleasure of dwelling on many of your actions; but [Greek:

aideomai Troas] is an expression which Tully often uses, when he would

do what he dares not, and fears the censure of the Romans.

I have sometimes been forced to amplify on others; but here, where the

subject is so fruitful that the harvest overcomes the reaper, I am

shortened by my chain, and can only see what is forbidden me to reach,

since it is not permitted me to commend you, according to the extent of

my wishes, and much less is it in my power to make my commendations

equal to your merits. Yet in this frugality of your praises there are

some things which I cannot omit without detracting from your character.

You have so formed your own education, as enables you to pay the debt

you owe your country; or, more properly speaking, both your countries,

because you were born, I may almost say, in purple, at the castle of

Dublin, when your grandfather was Lord-Lieutenant, and have since been

bred in the court of England.

If this address had been in verse, I might have called you, as Claudian

calls Mercury, _Numen commune, gemino faciens commercia mundo_. The

better to satisfy this double obligation, you have early cultivated the

genius you have to arms, that when the service of Britain or Ireland

shall require your courage and your conduct, you may exert them both to

the benefit of either country. You began in the Cabinet what you

afterwards practised in the Camp; and thus both Lucullas and Cæsar (to

omit a crowd of shining Romans) formed themselves to war by the study of

history, and by the examples of the greatest captains, both of Greece

and Italy, before their time. I name those two commanders in particular,

because they were better read in chronicle than any of the Roman

leaders; and that Lucullus, in particular, having only the theory of war

from books, was thought fit, without practice, to be sent into the field

against the most formidable enemy of Rome. Tully, indeed, was called the

learned consul in derision; but then he was not born a soldier--his head

was turned another way; when he read the Tactics, he was thinking on the

bar, which was his field of battle. The knowledge of warfare is thrown

away on a general who dares not make use of what he knows. I commend it

only in a man of courage and resolution: in him it will direct his

martial spirit, and teach him the way to the best victories,--which are

those which are least bloody, and which, though achieved by the hand,

are managed by the head. Science distinguishes a man of honour from one

of those athletic brutes whom undeservedly we call heroes. Cursed be the

poet who first honoured with that name a mere Ajax, a man-killing idiot!

The Ulysses of Ovid upbraids his ignorance, that he understood not the

shield for which he pleaded: there was engraven on it plans of cities

and maps of countries which Ajax could not comprehend, but looked on

them as stupidly as his fellow-beast, the lion. But on the other side,

your Grace has given yourself the education of his rival; you have

studied every spot of ground in Flanders, which for these ten years past

has been the scene of battles and of sieges. No wonder if you performed

your part with such applause on a theatre which you understood so well.

If I designed this for a poetical encomium, it were easy to enlarge on

so copious a subject; but, confining myself to the severity of truth,

and to what is becoming me to say, I must not only pass over many

instances of your military skill, but also those of your assiduous

diligence in the war, and of your personal bravery, attended with an

ardent thirst of honour--a long train of generosity--profuseness of

doing good--a soul unsatisfied with all it has done and an

unextinguished desire of doing more. But all this is matter for your own

historians; I am, as Virgil says, _Spatiis exclusus iniquis_.

Yet not to be wholly silent of all your charities, I must stay a little

on one action, which preferred the relief of others to the consideration

of yourself. When, in the battle of Landen, your heat of courage (a

fault only pardonable to your youth) had transported you so far before

your friends, that they were unable to follow, much less to succour you;

when you were not only dangerously, but in all appearance mortally

wounded; when in that desperate condition you were made prisoner and

carried to Namur, at that time in possession of the French: then it was,

my Lord, that you took a considerable part of what was remitted to you

of your own revenues, and, as a memorable instance of your heroic

charity, put it into the bands of Count Guiscard, who was governor of

the place, to be distributed among your fellow-prisoners. The French

commander, charmed with the greatness of your soul, accordingly

consigned it to the use for which it was intended by the donor; by which

means the lives of so many miserable men were saved, and a comfortable

provision made for their subsistence, who had otherwise perished, had

not you been the companion of their misfortune; or rather sent by

Providence, like another Joseph, to keep out famine from invading those

whom in humility you called your brethren. How happy was it for those

poor creatures that your Grace was made their fellow-sufferer! and how

glorious for you that you chose to want rather than not relieve the

wants of others! The heathen poet, in commending the charity of Dido to

the Trojans, spoke like a Christian: _Non ignara mali, miseris

succurrere disco_. All men, even those of a different interest, and

contrary principles, must praise this action as the most eminent for

piety, not only in this degenerate age, but almost in any of the former;

when men were made _de meliore luto_; when examples of charity were

frequent, and when there were in being, _Teucri pulcherrima proles,

magnanimi heroes nati melioribus annis_. No envy can detract from this:

it will shine in history, and, like swans, grow whiter the longer it

endures, and the name of ORMOND will be more celebrated in his captivity

than in his greatest triumphs.

But all actions of your Grace are of a piece, as waters keep the tenor

of their fountains: your compassion is general, and has the same effect

as well on enemies as friends. It is so much in your nature to do good,

that your life is but one continued act of placing benefits on many, as

the sun is always carrying his light to some part or other of the world;

and were it not that your reason guides you where to give, I might

almost say that you could not help bestowing more than is consisting

with the fortune of a private man or with the will of any but an

Alexander.

What wonder is it, then, that being born for a blessing to mankind, your

supposed death in that engagement was so generally lamented through the

nation! The concernment for it was as universal as the loss; and though

the gratitude might be counterfeit in some, yet the tears of all were

real: where every man deplored his private part in that calamity, and

even those who had not tasted of your favours, yet built so much on the

fame of your beneficence, that they bemoaned the loss of their

expectations.

This brought the untimely death of your great father into fresh

remembrance: as if the same decree had passed on two short successive

generations of the virtuous; and I repeated to myself the same verses

which I had formerly applied to him: _Ostendunt terris hunc tantùm fata,

nec ultrà esse sinunt_. But to the joy, not only of all good men, but of

mankind in general, the unhappy omen took not place. You are still

living to enjoy the blessings and applause of all the good you have

performed, the prayers of multitudes whom you have obliged, for your

long prosperity; and that your power of doing generous and charitable

actions may be as extended as your will; which is by none more zealously

desired than by your Grace's most humble, most obliged, and most

obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

* * * * *

PREFACE.

It is with a poet as with a man who designs to build, and is very exact,

as he supposes, in casting up the cost beforehand; but, generally

speaking, he is mistaken in his account, and reckons short in the

expense he first intended. He alters his mind as the work proceeds, and

will have this or that convenience more, of which he had not thought

when he began. So has it happened to me: I have built a house, where I

intended but a lodge; yet with better success than a certain nobleman,

who, beginning with a dog-kennel, never lived to finish the palace he

had contrived.

From translating the first of Homer's Iliads (which I intended as an

essay to the whole work) I proceeded to the translation of the twelfth

book of Ovid's Metamorphoses, because it contains, among other things,

the causes, the beginning, and ending of the Trojan war. Here I ought in

reason to have stopped; but the speeches of Ajax and Ulysses lying next

in my way, I could not baulk them. When I had compassed them, I was so

taken with the former part of the fifteenth book, which is the

masterpiece of the whole Metamorphoses, that I enjoined myself the

pleasing task of rendering it into English. And now I found, by the

number of my verses, that they began to swell into a little volume;

which gave me an occasion of looking backward on some beauties of my

author, in his former books. There occurred to me the hunting of the

boar, Cinyras and Myrrha, the good-natured story of Baucis and Philemon,

with the rest, which I hope I have translated closely enough, and given

them the same turn of verse which they had in the original; and this, I

may say without vanity, is not the talent of every poet. He who has

arrived the nearest to it, is the ingenious and learned Sandys, the best

versifier of the former age; if I may properly call it by that name,

which was the former part of this concluding century. For Spenser and

Fairfax both flourished in the reign of Queen Elizabeth; great masters

in our language; and who saw much farther into the beauties of our

numbers, than those who immediately followed them. Milton was the

poetical son of Spenser, and Mr Waller of Fairfax; for we have our

lineal descents and clans, as well as other families. Spenser more than

once insinuates, that the soul of Chaucer was transfused into his body;

and that he was begotten by him two hundred years after his decease.

Milton has acknowledged to me, that Spenser was his original; and many

besides myself have heard our famous Waller own, that he derived the

harmony of his numbers from the Godfrey of Bulloigne, which was turned

into English by Mr Fairfax. But to return. Having done with Ovid for

this time, it came into my mind, that our old English poet Chaucer in

many things resembled him, and that with no disadvantage on the side of

the modern author, as I shall endeavour to prove when I compare them.

And as I am, and always have been, studious to promote the honour of my

native country, so I soon resolved to put their merits to the trial, by

turning some of the Canterbury tales into our language, as it is now

refined; for by this means, both the poets being set in the same light,

and dressed in the same English habit, story to be compared with story,

a certain judgment may be made betwixt them, by the reader, without

obtruding my opinion on him. Or if I seem partial to my countryman, and

predecessor in the laurel, the friends of antiquity are not few; and

besides many of the learned, Ovid has almost all the beaux, and the

whole fair sex, his declared patrons. Perhaps I have assumed somewhat

more to myself than they allow me, because I have adventured to sum up

the evidence; but the readers are the jury, and their privilege remains

entire to decide according to the merits of the cause, or, if they

please, to bring it to another hearing, before some other court. In the

meantime, to follow the thread of my discourse (as thoughts, according

to Mr Hobbs, have always some connexion), so from Chaucer I was led to

think on Boccace, who was not only his contemporary, but also pursued

the same studies; wrote novels in prose, and many works in verse:

particularly is said to have invented the octave rhyme, or stanza of

eight lines, which ever since has been maintained by the practice of all

Italian writers, who are, or at least assume the title of, Heroic Poets.

He and Chaucer, among other things, had this in common, that they

refined their mother tongues; but with this difference, that Dante had

begun to file their language, at least in verse, before the time of

Boccace, who likewise received no little help from his master Petrarch.

But the reformation of their prose was wholly owing to Boccace himself,

who is yet the standard of purity in the Italian tongue; though many of

his phrases are become obsolete, as in process of time it must needs

happen. Chaucer, as you have formerly been told by our learned Mr Rymer,

first adorned and amplified our barren tongue from the Provençal, which

was then the most polished of all the modern languages; but this subject

has been copiously treated by that great critic, who deserves no little

commendation from us his countrymen. For these reasons of time, and

resemblance of genius in Chaucer and Boccace, I resolved to join them in

my present work; to which I have added some original papers of my own;

which, whether they are equal or inferior to my other poems, an author

is the most improper judge; and therefore, I leave them wholly to the

mercy of the reader. I will hope the best, that they will not be

condemned; but if they should, I have the excuse of an old gentleman,

who, mounting on horseback before some ladies, when I was present, got

up somewhat heavily, but desired of the fair spectators that they would

count fourscore and eight before they judged him. By the mercy of God, I

am already come within twenty years of his number, a cripple in my

limbs; but what decays are in my mind, the reader must determine. I

think myself as vigorous as ever in the faculties of my soul, excepting

only my memory, which is not impaired to any great degree; and if I lose

not more of it, I have no great reason to complain. What judgment I had,

increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come

crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or to

reject; to run them into verse, or to give them the other harmony of

prose. I have so long studied and practised both, that they are grown

into a habit, and become familiar to me; in short, though I may lawfully

plead some part of the old gentleman's excuse, yet I will reserve it

till I think I have greater need, and ask no grains of allowance for the

faults of this my present work, but those which are given of course to

human frailty. I will not trouble my reader with the shortness of time

in which I writ it, or the several intervals of sickness. They who think

too well of their own performances, are apt to boast in their prefaces

how little time their works have cost them, and what other business of

more importance interfered; but the reader will be as apt to ask the

question, why they allowed not a longer time to make their works more

perfect? and why they had so despicable an opinion of their judges, as

to thrust their indigested stuff upon them, as if they deserved no

better?

With this account of my present undertaking, I conclude the first part

of this discourse; in the second part, as at a second sitting, though I

alter not the draught, I must touch the same features over again, and

change the dead colouring of the whole. In general I will only say, that

I have written nothing which savours of immorality or profaneness; at

least, I am not conscious to myself of any such intention. If there

happen to be found an irreverent expression, or a thought too wanton,

they are crept into my verses through my inadvertency; if the searchers

find any in the cargo, let them be staved or forfeited, like contraband

goods; at least, let their authors be answerable for them, as being but

imported merchandise, and not of my own manufacture. On the other side,

I have endeavoured to choose such fables, both ancient and modern, as

contain in each of them some instructive moral, which I could prove by

induction; but the way is tedious, and they leap foremost into sight,

without the reader's trouble of looking after them. I wish I could

affirm with a safe conscience, that I had taken the same care in all my

former writings; for it must be owned, that supposing verses are never

so beautiful or pleasing, yet if they contain anything which shocks

religion, or good manners, they are at best, what Horace says of good

numbers without good sense, _Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae_.

Thus far, I hope, I am right in court, without renouncing my other right

of self-defence, where I have been wrongfully accused, and my sense

withdrawn into blasphemy or bawdry, as it has often been by a religious

lawyer, in a late pleading against the stage, in which he mixes truth

with falsehood, and has not forgotten the old rule of calumniating

strongly, that something may remain.

I resume the thread of my discourse with the first of my translation,

which was the first Iliad of Homer. If it shall please God to give me

longer life, and moderate health, my intentions are to translate the

whole Ilias; provided still that I meet with those encouragements from

the public which may enable me to proceed in my undertaking with some

cheerfulness. And this I dare assure the world beforehand, that I have

found, by trial, Homer a more pleasing task than Virgil (though I say

not the translation will be less laborious); for the Grecian is more

according to my genius, than the Latin poet. In the works of the two

authors, we may read their manners and natural inclinations, which are

wholly different. Virgil was of a quiet, sedate temper; Homer was

violent, impetuous, and full of fire. The chief talent of Virgil was

propriety of thoughts, and ornament of words; Homer was rapid in his

thoughts, and took all the liberties, both of numbers and of

expressions, which his language, and the age in which he lived, allowed

him: Homer's invention was more copious, Virgil's more confined; so that

if Homer had not led the way, it was not in Virgil to have begun heroic

poetry; for nothing can be more evident, than that the Roman poem is but

the second part of the Ilias; a continuation of the same story, and the

persons already formed: the manners of Æneas are those of Hector

superadded to those which Homer gave him. The adventures of Ulysses in

the Odysseis are imitated in the first six books of Virgil's Æneas, and

though the accidents are not the same (which would have argued him of a

servile copying, and total barrenness of invention), yet the seas were

the same in which both the heroes wandered, and Dido cannot be denied to

be the poetical daughter of Calypso. The six latter books of Virgil's

poem are the four and twenty Iliads contracted; a quarrel occasioned by

a lady, a single combat, battles fought, and a town besieged. I say not

this in derogation to Virgil, neither do I contradict anything which I

have formerly said in his just praise, for his episodes are almost

wholly of his own invention; and the form which he has given to the

telling makes the tale his own, even though the original story had been

the same. But this proves, however, that Homer taught Virgil to design;

and if invention be the first virtue of an epic poet, then the Latin

poem can only be allowed the second place. Mr Hobbs, in the preface to

his own bald translation of the Ilias (studying poetry as he did

mathematics, when it was too late), Mr Hobbs, I say, begins the praise

of Homer where he should have ended it. He tells us, that the first

beauty of an Epic poem consists in diction, that is, in the choice of

words, and harmony of numbers. Now, the words are the colouring of the

work, which in the order of nature is last to be considered: the design,

the disposition, the manners, and the thoughts, are all before it; where

any of those are wanting or imperfect, so much wants or is imperfect in

the imitation of human life, which is in the very definition of a poem.

Words indeed, like glaring colours, are the first beauties that arise,

and strike the sight; but if the draught be false or lame, the figures

ill-disposed, the manners obscure or inconsistent, or the thoughts

unnatural, then the finest colours are but daubing, and the piece is a

beautiful monster at the best. Neither Virgil nor Homer were deficient

in any of the former beauties; but in this last, which is expression,

the Roman poet is at least equal to the Grecian, as I have said

elsewhere, supplying the poverty of his language by his musical ear, and

by his diligence. But to return: our two great poets, being so different

in their tempers, one choleric and sanguine, the other phlegmatic and

melancholic; that which makes them excel in their several ways is, that

each of them has followed his own natural inclination, as well in

forming the design, as in the execution of it. The very heroes show

their authors; Achilles is hot, impatient, revengeful--_impiger,

iracundus, inexorabilis, acer,_ &c.: Æneas patient, considerate, careful

of his people, and merciful to his enemies; ever submissive to the will

of Heaven--_quò fata trahunt, retrahuntque, sequamur_. I could please

myself with enlarging on this subject, but am forced to defer it to a

fitter time. From all I have said, I will only draw this inference, that

the action of Homer being more full of vigour than that of Virgil,

according to the temper of the writer, is of consequence more pleasing

to the reader. One warms you by degrees; the other sets you on fire all

at once, and never intermits his heat. 'Tis the same difference which

Longinus makes betwixt the effects of eloquence in Demosthenes and

Tully--one persuades; the other commands. You never cool while you read

Homer, even not in the second book (a graceful flattery to his

countrymen), but he hastens from the ships, and concludes not that book

till he has made you an amends by the violent playing of a new machine.

From thence he hurries on his action with variety of events, and ends it

in less compass than two months. This vehemence of his, I confess, is

more suitable to my temper; and therefore I have translated his first

book with greater pleasure than any part of Virgil. But it was not a

pleasure without pains; the continual agitations of the spirits must

needs be a weakening of any constitution, especially in age, and many

pauses are required for refreshment betwixt the heats, the Iliad of

itself being a third part longer than all Virgil's works together.

This is what I thought needful in this place to say of Homer. I proceed

to Ovid and Chaucer; considering the former only in relation to the

latter. With Ovid ended the golden age of the Roman tongue: from Chaucer

the purity of the English tongue began. The manners of the poets were

not unlike: both of them were well-bred, well-natured, amorous, and

libertine, at least in their writings--it may be also in their lives.

Their studies were the same--philosophy and philology. Both of them were

known in astronomy, of which Ovid's books of the Roman feasts, and

Chaucer's treatise of the Astrolabe, are sufficient witnesses. But

Chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were Virgil, Horace, Persius, and

Manilius. Both writ with wonderful facility and clearness: neither were

great inventors; for Ovid only copied the Grecian fables, and most of

Chaucer's stories were taken from his Italian contemporaries, or their

predecessors. Boccace's Decameron was first published; and from thence

our Englishman has borrowed many of his Canterbury tales; yet that of

Palamon and Arcite was written in all probability by some Italian wit,

in a former age; as I shall prove hereafter. The tale of Grizzild was

the invention of Petrarch; by him sent to Boccace; from whom it came to

Chaucer. Troilus and Cressida was also written by a Lombard author; but

much amplified by our English translator, as well as beautified; the

genius of our countrymen in general being rather to improve an

invention, than to invent themselves; as is evident not only in our

poetry, but in many of our manufactures. I find I have anticipated

already, and taken up from Boccace before I come to him; but there is so

much less behind; and I am of the temper of most kings, who love to be

in debt, are all for present money, no matter how they pay it

afterwards: besides, the nature of a preface is rambling; never wholly

out of the way, nor in it. This I have learned from the practice of

honest Montaign, and return at my pleasure to Ovid and Chaucer, of whom

I have little more to say. Both of them built on the inventions of other

men; yet since Chancer had something of his own, as the Wife of Bath's

Tale the Cock and the Fox, which I have translated, and some others, I

may justly give our countryman the precedence in that part; since I can

remember nothing of Ovid which was wholly his. Both of them understood

the manners, under which name I comprehend the passions, and, in a

larger sense the descriptions of persons, and their very habits: for an

example, I see Baucis and Philemon as perfectly before me, as if some

ancient painter had drawn them; and all the pilgrims in the Canterbury

tales, their humours, their features, and the very dress, as distinctly

as if I had supped with them at the Tabard in Southwark: yet even there

too the figures in Chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better

light; which though I have not time to prove, yet I appeal to the

reader, and am sure he will clear me from partiality. The thoughts and

words remain to be considered in the comparison of the two poets; and I

have saved myself one half of that labour, by owning that Ovid lived

when the Roman tongue was in its meridian; Chaucer, in the dawning of

our language: therefore that part of the comparison stands not on an

equal foot, any more than the diction of Ennius and Ovid; or of Chaucer

and our present English. The words are given up as a post not to be

defended in our poet, because he wanted the modern art of fortifying.

The thoughts remain to be considered; and they are to be measured only

by their propriety; that is, as they flow more or less naturally from

the persons described, on such and such occasions. The vulgar judges,

which are nine parts in ten of all nations, who call conceits and

jingles wit, who see Ovid full of them, and Chaucer altogether without

them, will think me little less than mad for preferring the Englishman

to the Roman; yet, with their leave, I must presume to say, that the

things they admire are only glittering trifles, and so far from being

witty, that in a serious poem they are nauseous, because they are

unnatural. Would any man, who is ready to die for love, describe his

passion like Narcissus? Would he think of _inopem me copia fecit_, and a

dozen more of such expressions, poured on the neck of one another, and

signifying all the same thing? If this were wit, was this a time to be

witty, when the poor wretch was in the agony of death? This is just John

Littlewit in Bartholomew Fair, who had a conceit (as he tells you) left

him in his misery; a miserable conceit. On these occasions the poet

should endeavour to raise pity; but instead of this, Ovid is tickling

you to laugh. Virgil never made use of such machines, when he was moving

you to commiserate the death of Dido: he would not destroy what he was

building. Chaucer makes Arcite violent in his love, and unjust in the

pursuit of it; yet when he came to die, he made him think more

reasonably: he repents not of his love, for that had altered his

character; but acknowledges the injustice of his proceedings, and

resigns Emilia to Palamon. What would Ovid have done on this occasion?

He would certainly have made Arcite witty on his deathbed. He had

complained he was farther off from possession by being so near, and a

thousand such boyisms, which Chaucer rejected as below the dignity of

the subject. They who think otherwise would, by the same reason, prefer

Lucan and Ovid to Homer and Virgil, and Martial to all four of them. As

for the turn of words, in which Ovid particularly excels all poets, they

are sometimes a fault, and sometimes a beauty, as they are used properly

or improperly; but in strong passions always to be shunned, because

passions are serious, and will admit no playing. The French have a high

value for them; and I confess, they are often what they call delicate,

when they are introduced with judgment; but Chaucer writ with more

simplicity, and followed nature more closely, than to use them. I have

thus far, to the best of my knowledge, been an upright judge betwixt the

parties in competition, not meddling with the design nor the disposition

of it; because the design was not their own, and in the disposing of it

they were eqaal. It remains that I say somewhat of Chaucer in

particular.

In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, so I hold him

in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or the

Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good sense; learned in all

sciences, and therefore speaks properly on all subjects; as he knew what

to say, so he knows also when to leave off--a continence which is

practised by few writers, and scarcely by any of the ancients, excepting

Virgil and Horace. One of our late great poets is sunk in his

reputation, because he could never forgive any conceit which came in his

way; but swept like a drag-net, great and small. There was plenty

enough, but the dishes were ill-sorted; whole pyramids of sweetmeats,

for boys and women; but little of solid meat, for men. All this

proceeded not from any want of knowledge, but of judgment; neither did

he want that in discerning the beauties and faults of other poets; but

only indulged himself in the luxury of writing; and perhaps knew it was

a fault, but hoped the reader would not find it. For this reason, though

he must always be thought a great poet, he is no longer esteemed a good

writer; and for ten impressions, which his works have had in so many

successive years, yet at present a hundred books are scarcely purchased

once a twelvemonth: for, as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat

profanely, not being of God, he could not stand.

Chaucer followed nature everywhere; but was never so bold to go beyond

her: and there is a great difference of being _Poeta_ and _nimis Poeta_,

if we believe Catullus, as much as betwixt a modest behaviour and

affectation. The verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not harmonious to us;

but it is like the eloquence of one whom Tacitus commends, it was

_auribus istius temporis accommodata_. They who lived with him, and some

time after him, thought it musical; and it continues so even in our

judgment, if compared with the numbers of Lidgate and Gower, his

contemporaries: there is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it,

which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect. It is true, I cannot

go so far as he who published the last edition of him; for he would make

us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there were really ten

syllables in a verse where we find but nine. But this opinion is not

worth confuting; it is so gross and obvious an error, that common sense

(which is a rule in every thing but matters of faith and revelation)

must convince the reader, that equality of numbers in every verse which

we call Heroic, was either not known, or not always practised in

Chaucer's age. It were an easy matter to produce some thousands of his

verses, which are lame for want of half a foot, and sometimes a whole

one, and which no pronunciation can make otherwise. We can only say,

that he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing is brought

to perfection at the first. We must be children before we grow men.

There was an Ennius, and in process of time a Lucilius, and a Lucretius,

before Virgil and Horace; even after Chaucer there was a Spenser, a

Harrington, a Fairfax, before Waller and Denham were in being; and our

numbers were in their nonage till these last appeared. I need say little

of his parentage, life and fortunes: they are to be found at large in

all the editions of his works. He was employed abroad and favoured by

Edward the Third, Richard the Second, and Henry the Fourth, and was

poet, as I suppose, to all three of them. In Richard's time, I doubt, he

was a little dipt in the rebellion of the commons; and being

brother-in-law to John of Gaunt, it was no wonder if he followed the

fortunes of that family; and was well with Henry the Fourth when he had

deposed his predecessor. Neither is it to be admired, that Henry, who

was a wise as well as a valiant prince, who claimed by succession, and

was sensible that his title was not sound, but was rightfully in

Mortimer, who had married the heir of York; it was not to be admired, I

say, if that great politician should be pleased to have the greatest wit

of those times in his interests, and to be the trumpet of his praises.

Augustus had given him the example, by the advice of Maecenas, who

recommended Virgil and Horace to him; whose praises helped to make him

popular while he was alive, and after his death have made him precious

to posterity. As for the religion of our poet, he seems to have some

little bias towards the opinions of Wickliff, after John of Gaunt his

patron; somewhat of which appears in the tale of Piers Plowman: yet I

cannot blame him for inveighing so sharply against the vices of the

clergy in his age: their pride, their ambition, their pomp, their

avarice, their worldly interest, deserved the lashes which he gave them,

both in that, and in most of his Canterbury tales: neither has his

contemporary Boccace spared them. Yet both those poets lived in much

esteem with good and holy men in orders; for the scandal which is given

by particular priests, reflects not on the sacred function. Chaucer's

Monk, his Chanon, and his Fryer, took not from the character of his Good

Parson. A satirical poet is the check of the laymen on bad priests. We

are only to take care, that we involve not the innocent with the guilty

in the same condemnation. The good cannot be too much honoured, nor the

bad too coarsely used; for the corruption of the best becomes the worst.

When a clergyman is whipped, his gown is first taken off, by which the

dignity of his order is secured: if he be wrongfully accused, he has his

action of slander; and it is at the poet's peril, if he transgress the

law. But they will tell us, that all kind of satire, though never so

well deserved by particular priests, yet brings the whole order into

contempt. Is then the peerage of England anything dishonoured, when a

peer suffers for his treason? If he be libelled, or any way defamed, he

has his _Scandalum Magnatum_ to punish the offender. They who use this

kind of argument, seem to be conscious to themselves of somewhat which

has deserved the poet's lash; and are less concerned for their public

capacity, than for their private; at least there is pride at the bottom

of their reasoning. If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged

among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say

the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we

be sure that they will be impartial judges? How far I may be allowed to

speak my opinion in this case, I know not; but I am sure a dispute of

this nature caused mischief in abundance betwixt a king of England and

an archbishop of Canterbury; one standing up for the laws of his land,

and the other for the honour (as he called it) of God's Church; which

ended in the murder of the prelate, and in the whipping of his majesty

from post to pillar for his penance. The learned and ingenious Dr Drake

has saved me the labour of inquiring into the esteem and reverence which

the priests have, had of old; and I would rather extend than diminish

any part of it; yet I must needs say, that when a priest provokes me

without any occasion given him, I have no reason, unless it be the

charity of a Christian, to forgive him. _Prior laesit_ is justification

sufficient in the civil law. If I answer him in his own language,

self-defence, I am sure, must be allowed me; and if I carry it farther,

even to a sharp recrimination, somewhat may be indulged to human

frailty. Yet my resentment has not wrought as far, but that I have

followed Chaucer in his character of a holy man, and have enlarged on

that subject with some pleasure, reserving to myself the right, if I

shall think fit hereafter, to describe another sort of priests, such as

are more easily to be found than the Good Parson; such as have given the

last blow to Christianity in this age, by a practice so contrary to

their doctrine. But this will keep cold till another time. In the mean

while, I take up Chaucer where I left him. He must have been a man of a

most wonderful comprehensive nature, because, as it has been truly

observed of him, he has taken into the compass of his Canterbury tales

the various manners and humours (as we now call them) of the whole

English nation, in his age. Not a single character has escaped him. All

his pilgrims are severally distinguished from each other; and not only

in their inclinations, but in their very physiognomies and persons.

Baptista Porta could not have described their natures better, than by

the marks which the poet gives them. The matter and manner of their

tales, and of their telling, are so suited to their different

edncations, humours, and callings, that each of them would be improper

in any other mouth. Even the grave and serious characters are

distinguished by their several sorts of gravity: their discourses are

such as belong to their age, their calling, and their breeding; such as

are becoming of them, and of them only. Some of his persons are vicious,

and some virtuous; some are unlearned, or (as Chaucer calls them) lewd,

and some are learned. Even the ribaldry of the low characters is

different. The Reeve, the Miller, and the Cook, are several men, and

distinguished from each other, as much as the mincing Lady Prioress, and

the broad-speaking gap-toothed Wife of Bath. But enough of this: there

is such a variety of game springing up before me, that I am distracted

in my choice, and know not which to follow. 'Tis sufficient to say,

according to the proverb, that here is God's plenty. We have our

forefathers and great-granddames all before us, as they were in

Chaucer's days: their general characters are still remaining in mankind,

and even in England, though they are called by other names than those of

monks and friars, and chanons, and lady abbesses, and nuns: for mankind

is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though every thing is

altered. May I have leave to do myself the justice, (since my enemies

will do me none, and are so far from granting me to be a good poet, that

they will not allow me so much as to be a Christian, or a moral man);

may I have leave, I say, to inform my reader, that I have confined my

choice to such tales of Chaucer as savour nothing of immodesty. If I had

desired more to please than to instruct, the Reeve, the Miller, the

Shipman, the Merchants, the Sumner, and above all the Wife of Bath, in

the prologue to her tale, would have procured me as many friends and

readers as there are beaux and ladies of pleasure in the town. But I

will no more offend against good manners. I am sensible, as I ought to

be, of the scandal I have given by my loose writings; and make what

reparation I am able by this public acknowledgment. If any thing of this

nature, or of profaneness, be crept into these poems, I am so far from

defending it, that I disown it. _Totum hoc indicium volo._ Chaucer makes

another manner of apology for his broad-speaking, and Boccace makes the

like; but I will follow neither of them. Our countryman, in the end of

his characters, before the Canterbury tales, thus excuses the ribaldry,

which is very gross in many of his novels.

"But first, I pray you of your courtesy,

That ye ne arrettee it nought my villainy,

Though that I plainly speak in this mattere,

To tellen you her words, and eke her chere:

Ne though I speak her words properly,

For this ye knowen as well as I,

Who shall tellen a tale after a man,

He mote rehearse as nye as ever he can:

Everich word of it been in his charge,

All speke he, never so rudely, ne large.

Or else he mote tellen his tale untrue,

Or feine things, or find words new:

He may not spare, although he were his brother,

He mote as well say o word as another,

Christ spake himself full broad in holy writ,

And well I wote no villainy is it;

Eke Plato saith, who so can him rede,

the words mote been cousin to the dede."

Yet, if a man should have inquired of Boccace or of Chaucer what need

they had of introducing such characters, where obscene words were proper

in their mouths, but very indecent to be heard,--I know not what answer

they could have made; for that reason, such tale shall be left untold by

me. You have here a specimen of Chaucer's language, which is so

obsolete, that his sense is scarce to be understood; and you have

likewise more than one example of his unequal numbers, which were

mentioned before. Yet many of his verses consist of ten syllables, and

the words not much behind our present English; as, for example, these

two lines in the description of the carpenter's young wife:

"Wincing she was, as is a jolly colt,

Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt."

I have almost done with Chaucer when I have answered some objections

relating to my present work. I find some people are offended that I have

turned these tales into modern English, because they think them unworthy

of my pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fashioned wit not worth

reviving. I have often heard the late Earl of Leicester say that Mr

Cowley himself was of that opinion, who, having read him over at my

lord's request declared he had no taste of him. I dare not advance my

opinion against the judgment of so great an author, but I think it fair,

however, to leave the decision to the public. Mr Cowley was too modest

to set up for a dictator, and being shocked, perhaps, with his old

style, never examined into the depth of his good sense. Chaucer, I

confess, is a rough diamond, and must first be polished ere he shines.

I deny not, likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he

writes not always of a piece, but sometimes mingles trivial things with

those of greater moment. Sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot,

like Ovid, and knows not when he has said enough. But there are more

great wits besides Chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and

those ill sorted. An author is not to write all he can, but only all he

ought. Having observed this redundancy in Chaucer (as it is an easy

matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater), I

have not tied myself to a literal translation, but have often omitted

what I judged unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the

company of better thoughts. I have presumed farther, in some places, and

added somewhat of my own where I thought my author was deficient, and

had not given his thoughts their true lustre, for want of words in the

beginning of our language. And to this I was the more emboldened,

because (if I may be permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul

congenial to his, and that I had been conversant in the same studies.

Another poet, in another age, may take the same liberty with my

writings, if, at least, they live long enough to deserve correction. It

was also necessary sometimes to restore the sense of Chaucer, which was

lost or mangled in the errors of the press. Let this example suffice at

present. In the story of Palamon and Arcite, where the temple of Diana

is described, you find these verses in all the editions of our author:--

"There saw I Danè turned into a tree,

I mean not the goddess Diane,

But Venus' daughter, which that hight Danè:"

Which, after a little consideration, I knew was to be reformed into this

sense, that Daphne, the daughter of Peneus, was turned into a tree. I

durst not make thus bold with Ovid, lest some future Milbourn should

arise, and say I varied from my author because I understood him not.

But there are other judges who think I ought not to have translated

Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion. They suppose there

is a certain veneration due to his old language, and that it is little

less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of

opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this

transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be

lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. Of this opinion

was that excellent person whom I mentioned, the late Earl of Leicester,

who valued Chaucer as much as Mr Cowley despised him. My lord dissuaded

me from this attempt (for I was thinking of it some years before his

death), and his authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my

undertaking while he lived, in deference to him; yet my reason was not

convinced with what he urged against it. If the first end of a writer be

to be understood, then, as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts

must grow obscure: _multa renascentur quæ nunc cecidere, cadentque,

quæ nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, quem penes arbitrium

est et jus et norma loquendi._ When an ancient word for its sound and

significancy deserves to be revived, I have that reasonable veneration

for antiquity to restore it. All beyond this is superstition. Words are

not like landmarks, so sacred as never to be removed; customs are

changed, and even statutes are silently repealed, when the reason ceases

for which they were enacted. As for the other part of the argument,

that his thoughts will lose their original beauty by the innovation of

words; in the first place, not only their beauty, but their being is

lost, where they are no longer understood, which is the present case. I

grant that something must be lost in all transfusion, that is, in all

translations; but the sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost,

or at least be maimed, when it is scarce intelligible, and that but to a

few. How few are there who can read Chaucer, so as to understand him

perfectly! And if imperfectly, then with less profit and no pleasure.

'Tis not for the use of some old Saxon friends that I have taken these

pains with him: let them neglect my version, because they have no need

of it. I made it for their sakes who understand sense and poetry as well

as they, when that poetry and sense is put into words which they

understand. I will go further, and dare to add, that what beauties I

lose in some places, I give to others which had them not originally; but

in this I may be partial to myself; let the reader judge, and I submit

to his decision. Yet I think I have just occasion to complain of them,

who, because they understand Chaucer, would deprive the greater part of

their countrymen of the same advantage, and hoard him up, as misers do

their grandam, gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others

from making use of it. In sum, I seriously protest that no man ever had,

or can have, a greater veneration for Chaucer than myself. I have

translated some part of his works, only that I might perpetuate his

memory, or at least refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have altered

him anywhere for the better, I must at the same time acknowledge that I

could have done nothing without him: _Facile est inventis addere_ is no

great commendation, and I am not so vain to think I have deserved a

greater. I will conclude what I have to say of him singly, with this one

remark: a lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a kind of correspondence

with some authors of the fair sex in France, has been informed by them

that Mademoiselle de Scudery, who is as old as Sibyl, and inspired like

her by the same god of poetry, is at this time translating Chaucer into

modern French; from which I gather that he has been formerly translated

into the old Provençal, (for how she should come to understand old

English I know not). But the matter of fact being true, it makes me

think that there is something in it like fatality; that, after certain

periods of time, the fame and memory of great wits should be renewed, as

Chaucer is both in France and England. If this be wholly chance, 'tis

extraordinary, and I dare not call it more for fear of being taxed with

superstition.

Boccace comes last to be considered, who, living in the same age with

Chaucer, had the same genius, and followed the same studies. Both writ

novels, and each of them cultivated his mother tongue. But the greatest

resemblance of our two modern authors being in their familiar style, and

pleasing way of relating comical adventures, I may pass it over, because

I have translated nothing from Boccace of that nature. In the serious

part of poetry, the advantage is wholly on Chaucer's side; for though

the Englishman has borrowed many tales from the Italian, yet it appears

that those of Boccace were not generally of his own making, but taken

from authors of former ages, and by him only modelled; so that what

there was of invention in either of them may be judged equal. But

Chaucer has refined on Boccace, and has mended the stories which he has

borrowed, in his way of telling; though prose allows more liberty of

thought, and the expression is more easy when unconfined by numbers.

Our countryman carries weight, and yet wins the race at disadvantage. I

desire not the reader should take my word, and, therefore, I will set

two of their discourses on the same subject, in the same light, for

every man to judge betwixt them. I translated Chaucer first, and,

amongst the rest, pitched on the Wife of Bath's tale, not daring, as I

have said, to adventure on her prologue, because it is too licentious.

There Chaucer introduces an old woman of mean parentage, whom a youthful

knight of noble blood was forced to marry, and consequently loathed her.

The crone being in bed with him on the wedding night, and finding his

aversion, endeavours to win his affection by reason, and speaks a good

word for herself, (as who could blame her?) in hope to mollify the

sullen bridegroom. She takes her topics from the benefits of poverty,

the advantages of old age and ugliness, the vanity of youth, and the

silly pride of ancestry and titles without inherent virtue, which is the

true nobility. When I had closed Chaucer I returned to Ovid and

translated some more of his fables, and by this time had so far

forgotten the Wife of Bath's tale, that, when I took up Boccace,

unawares I fell on the same argument of preferring virtue to nobility of

blood and titles, in the story of Sigismunda, which I had certainly

avoided for the resemblance of the two discourses, if my memory had not

failed me. Let the reader weigh them both, and if he thinks me partial

to Chaucer, it is in him to right Boccace.

I prefer in our countryman, far above all his other stories, the noble

poem of Palamon and Arcite, which is of the Epic kind, and perhaps not

much inferior to the Ilias, or the Æneis. The story is more pleasing

than either of them, the manners as perfect, the diction as poetical,

the learning as deep and various, and the disposition full as

artful,--only it includes a greater length of time, as taking up seven

years at least; but Aristotle has left undecided the duration of the

action, which, yet, is easily reduced into the compass of a year by a

narration of what preceded the return of Palamon to Athens. I had

thought, for the honour of our nation, and more particularly for his,

whose laurel, though unworthy, I have worn after him, that this story

was of English growth, and Chaucer's own; but I was undeceived by

Boccace, for, casually looking on the end of his seventh Giornata, I

found Dioneo (under which name he shadows himself) and Fiametta (who

represents his mistress, the natural daughter of Robert king of Naples)

of whom these words are spoken: _Dioneo e la Fiametta granpezza

contarono insieme d'Arcita e di Palamone_: by which it appears that this

story was written before the time of Boccace, but the name of its author

being wholly lost, Chaucer is now become an original, and I question not

but the poem has received many beauties by passing through his noble

hands. Besides this tale, there is another of his own invention, after

the manner of the Provençals, called "The Flower and the Leaf," with

which I was so particularly pleased, both for the invention and the

moral, that I cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the reader.

As a corollary to this preface, in which I have done justice to others,

I owe somewhat to myself: not that I think it worth my time to enter the

lists with one Milbourn, and one Blackmore, but barely to take notice,

that such men there are, who have written scurrilously against me

without any provocation. Milbourn, who is in orders, pretends, amongst

the rest, this quarrel to me, that I have fallen foul on priesthood. If

I have, I am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his part

of the reparation will come to little. Let him be satisfied that he

shall not be able to force himself upon me for an adversary. I contemn

him too much to enter into competition with him. His own translations of

Virgil have answered his criticisms on mine. If (as they say he has

declared in print) he prefers the version of Ogilby to mine, the world

has made him the same compliment: for it is agreed on all hands that he

writes even below Ogilby: that, you will say, is not easily to be done;

but what cannot Milbourn bring about? I am satisfied, however, that

while he and I live together, I shall not be thought the worst poet of

the age. It looks as if I had desired him underhand to write so ill

against me; but upon my honest word I have not bribed him to do me this

service, and am wholly guiltless of his pamphlet. 'Tis true, I should be

glad, if I could persuade him to continue his good offices, and write

such another critique on any thing of mine; for I find by experience he

has a great stroke with the reader, when he condemns any of my poems, to

make the world have a better opinion of them. He has taken some pains

with my poetry; but nobody will be persuaded to take the same with his.

If I had taken to the church (as he affirms, but which was never in my

thoughts), I should have had more sense, if not more grace, than to have

turned myself out of my benefice by writing libels on my parishioners.

But his account of my manners and my principles are of a piece with his

cavils and his poetry; and so I have done with him for ever.

As for the City Bard, or Knight Physician, I hear his quarrel to me is,

that I was the author of Absalom and Achitophel, which he thinks is a

little hard on his fanatic patrons in London.

But I will deal the more civilly with his two poems, because nothing ill

is to be spoken of the dead; and therefore peace be to the manes of his

Arthurs! I will only say, that it was not for this noble knight that I

drew the plan of an Epic poem on King Arthur, in my preface to the

translation of Juvenal. The guardian angels of kingdoms were machines

too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected them, as

Dares did the whirlbats of Eryx, when they were thrown before him by

Entellus. Yet from that preface he plainly took his hint; for he began

immediately upon the story, though he had the baseness not to

acknowledge his benefactor, but instead of it, to traduce me in a libel.

I shall say the less of Mr Collier, because in many things he has taxed

me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of

mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or

immorality; and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he

be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise,

he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in

the defence of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good

one. Yet it were not difficult to prove, that in many places he has

perverted my meaning by his glosses; and interpreted my words into

blasphemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty; besides that he is

too much given to horse-play in his raillery; and comes to battle like a

dictator from the plough. I will not say, the zeal of God's house has

eaten him up; but I am sure it has devoured some part of his

good-manners and civility. It might also be doubted whether it were

altogether zeal which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding:

perhaps it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of

ancient and modern plays: a divine might have employed his pains to

better purpose than in the nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes; whose

examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed that

he read them not without some pleasure. They who have written

commentaries on those poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have

explained some vices, which without their interpretation had been

unknown to modern times. Neither has he judged impartially betwixt the

former age and us.

There is more bawdry in one play of Fletcher's, called "The Custom of

the Country," than in all ours together. Yet this has been often acted

on the stage in my remembrance. Are the times so much more reformed now,

than they were five-and-twenty years ago? If they are, I congratulate

the amendment of our morals. But I am not to prejudice the cause of my

fellow-poets, though I abandon my own defence. They have some of them

answered for themselves, and neither they nor I can think Mr Collier so

formidable an enemy that we should shun him. He has lost ground at the

latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too far, like the Prince of

Conde at the battle of Senneffe: from immoral plays, to no plays; _ab

abusu ad usum non valet consequentia_. But being a party, I am not to

erect myself into a judge. As for the rest of those who have written

against me, they are such scoundrels, that they deserve not the least

notice to be taken of them. Blackmore and Milbourn are only

distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered to their infamy.

--Demetri, teque Tigelli

Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.

* * * * *

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND,[71]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF PALAMON AND ARCITE.

MADAM,

The bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,

Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song:

Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,

And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:

He match'd their beauties, where they most excel;

Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond! to behold

What power the charms of beauty had of old;

Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,

Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own. 10

If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,

And poets can divine each other's thought,

The fairest nymph before his eyes he set;

And then the fairest was Plantagenet;

Who three contending princes made her prize,

And ruled the rival nations with her eyes:

Who left immortal trophies of her fame,

And to the noblest order gave the name.

Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,

You keep her conquests, and extend your own: 20

As when the stars in their ethereal race,

At length have roll'd around the liquid space,

At certain periods they resume their place;

From the same point of heaven their course advance,

And move in measures of their former dance;

Thus, after length of ages, she returns,

Restored in you, and the same place adorns;

Or you perform her office in the sphere,

Born of her blood, and make a new Platonic year.

O true Plantagenet! O race divine! 30

(For beauty still is fatal to the line)

Had Chaucer lived that angel-face to view,

Sure he had drawn his Emily from you;

Or had you lived to judge the doubtful right,

Your noble Palamon had been the knight;

And conquering Theseus from his side had sent

Your generous lord, to guide the Theban government.

Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see

A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.

Already have the Fates your path prepared, 40

And sure presage your future sway declared:

When westward, like the sun, you took your way,

And from benighted Britain bore the day,

Blue Triton gave the signal from the shore,

The ready Nereids heard, and swam before,

To smooth the seas; a soft Etesian gale

But just inspired, and gently swell'd the sail;

Portunus took his turn, whose ample hand

Heaved up his lighten'd keel, and sunk the sand,

And steer'd the sacred vessel safe to land. 50

The land, if not restrain'd, had met your way,

Projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea.

Hibernia, prostrate at your feet, adored

In you the pledge of her expected lord;

Due to her isle; a venerable name;

His father and his grandsire known to fame;

Awed by that house, accustom'd to command,

The sturdy kerns in due subjection stand;

Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand.

At your approach, they crowded to the port; 60

And scarcely landed, you create a court:

As Ormond's harbinger, to you they run;

For Venus is the promise of the sun.

The waste of civil wars, their towns destroy'd,

Pales unhonour'd, Ceres unemploy'd,

Were all forgot; and one triumphant day

Wiped all the tears of three campaigns away.

Blood, rapines, massacres, were cheaply bought,

So mighty recompence your beauty brought.

As when the dove returning bore the mark 70

Of earth restored to the long labouring ark,

The relics of mankind, secure of rest,

Oped every window to receive the guest,

And the fair bearer of the message bless'd;

So, when you came, with loud repeated cries,

The nation took an omen from your eyes,

And God advanced his rainbow in the skies,

To sign inviolable peace restored;

The saints, with solemn shouts, proclaim'd the new accord.

When at your second coming you appear, 80

(For I foretell that millenary year)

The sharpen'd share shall vex the soil no more,

But earth unbidden shall produce her store;

The land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile,

And Heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.

Heaven from all ages has reserved for you

That happy clime, which venom never knew;

Or if it had been there, your eyes alone

Have power to chase all poison, but their own.

Now in this interval, which Fate has cast 90

Betwixt your future glories, and your past,

This pause of power, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn;

While England celebrates your safe return,

By which you seem the seasons to command,

And bring our summers back to their forsaken land.

The vanquish'd isle our leisure must attend,

Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send;

Nor can we spare you long, though often we may lend.

The dove was twice employ'd abroad, before

The world was dried, and she return'd no more. 100

Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger,

New from her sickness, to that northern air:

Rest here a while, your lustre to restore,

That they may see you as you shone before;

For yet the eclipse not wholly past, you wade

Through some remains, and dimness of a shade.

A subject in his prince may claim a right,

Nor suffer him with strength impair'd to fight;

Till force returns, his ardour we restrain,

And curb his warlike wish to cross the main. 110

Now past the danger, let the learn'd begin

The inquiry where disease could enter in;

How those malignant atoms forced their way;

What in the faultless frame they found to make their prey,

Where every element was weigh'd so well,

That Heaven alone, who mix'd the mass, could tell

Which of the four ingredients could rebel;

And where, imprison'd in so sweet a cage,

A soul might well be pleased to pass an age.

And yet the fine materials made it weak: 120

Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break:

Even to your breast the sickness durst aspire;

And, forced from that fair temple to retire,

Profanely set the holy place on fire.

In vain your lord, like young Vespasian, mourn'd

When the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd:

And I prepared to pay in verses rude

A most detested act of gratitude:

Even this had been your elegy, which now

Is offer'd for your health, the table of my vow. 130

Your angel sure our Morley's mind inspired,

To find the remedy your ill required;

As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree,

Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolemy:

Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestow'd,

As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,

So liked the frame, he would not work anew,

To save the charges of another you.

Or by his middle science did he steer,

And saw some great contingent good appear, 140

Well worth a miracle to keep you here:

And for that end preserved the precious mould,

Which all the future Ormonds was to hold;

And meditated in his better mind

An heir from you, which may redeem the failing kind.

Blest be the Power which has at once restored

The hopes of lost succession to your lord!

Joy to the first and last of each degree--

Virtue to courts, and, what I long'd to see,

To you the Graces, and the Muse to me! 150

O daughter of the rose! whose cheeks unite

The differing titles of the red and white;

Who Heaven's alternate beauty well display,

The blush of morning, and the milky way;

Whose face is Paradise, but fenced from sin:

For God in either eye has placed a cherubin.

All is your lord's alone; even absent, he

Employs the care of chaste Penelope.

For him you waste in tears your widow'd hours,

For him your curious needle paints the flowers; 160

Such works of old imperial dames were taught;

Such, for Ascanius, fair Eliza wrought.

The soft recesses of your hours improve

The three fair pledges of your happy love:

All other parts of pious duty done,

You owe your Ormond nothing but a son;

To fill in future times his father's place,

And wear the garter of his mother's race.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 71: 'Duchess of Ormond:' daughter of Duke of Bedford,

afterwards Lieutenant of Ireland, and who had recently visited it.]

* * * * *

PALAMON AND ARCITE:

OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE.

BOOK I.

In days of old, there lived, of mighty fame,

A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name:

A chief, who more in feats of arms excell'd,

The rising nor the setting sun beheld.

Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,

And added foreign countries to his crown.

In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove,

Whom first by force he conquer'd, then by love;

He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,

With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came. 10

With honour to his home let Theseus ride,

With love to friend, and fortune for his guide,

And his victorious army at his side.

I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array,

Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way.

But, were it not too long, I would recite

The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight

Betwixt the hardy queen and hero knight;

The town besieged, and how much blood it cost

The female army, and the Athenian host; 20

The spousals of Hippolita the queen;

What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen;

The storm at their return, the ladies' fear:

But these, and other things, I must forbear.

The field is spacious I design to sow,

With oxen far unfit to draw the plough:

The remnant of my tale is of a length

To tire your patience, and to waste my strength;

And trivial accidents shall be forborne,

That others may have time to take their turn; 30

As was at first enjoin'd us by mine host:

That he whose tale is best, and pleases most,

Should win his supper at our common cost.

And therefore where I left, I will pursue

This ancient story, whether false or true,

In hope it may be mended with a new.

The prince I mention'd, full of high renown,

In this array drew near the Athenian town;

When in his pomp and utmost of his pride,

Marching he chanced to cast his eye aside, 40

And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay

By two and two across the common way:

At his approach they raised a rueful cry,

And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high,

Creeping and crying, till they seized at last

His courser's bridle, and his feet embraced.

Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence you are,

And why this funeral pageant you prepare?

Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds,

To meet my triumph in ill-omen'd weeds? 50

Or envy you my praise, and would destroy

With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy?

Or are you injured, and demand relief?

Name your request, and I will ease your grief.

The most in years of all the mourning train

Began; but swooned first away for pain,

Then scarce recover'd spoke: Nor envy we

Thy great renown, nor grudge thy victory;

'Tis thine, O king, the afflicted to redress,

And fame has fill'd the world with thy success: 60

We wretched women sue for that alone,

Which of thy goodness is refused to none;

Let fall some drops of pity on our grief,

If what we beg be just, and we deserve relief:

For none of us, who now thy grace implore,

But held the rank of sovereign queen before;

Till, thanks to giddy chance, which never bears,

That mortal bliss should last for length of years,

She cast us headlong from our high estate,

And here in hope of thy return we wait: 70

And long have waited in the temple nigh,

Built to the gracious goddess Clemency.

But reverence thou the Power whose name it bears,

Relieve the oppress'd, and wipe the widow's tears.

I, wretched I, have other fortune seen,

The wife of Capaneus, and once a queen:

At Thebes he fell; cursed be the fatal day!

And all the rest thou seest in this array,

To make their moan, their lords in battle lost

Before that town besieged by our confederate host: 80

But Creon, old and impious, who commands

The Theban city, and usurps the lands,

Denies the rites of funeral fires to those

Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes.

Unburn'd, unburied, on a heap they lie;

Such is their fate, and such his tyranny;

No friend has leave to bear away the dead,

But with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed.

At this she shriek'd aloud; the mournful train

Echoed her grief, and grovelling on the plain, 90

With groans, and hands upheld, to move his mind,

Besought his pity to their helpless kind!

The prince was touch'd, his tears began to flow,

And, as his tender heart would break in two,

He sigh'd, and could not but their fate deplore,

So wretched now, so fortunate before.

Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew,

And, raising one by one the suppliant crew,

To comfort each full solemnly he swore,

That by the faith which knights to knighthood bore, 100

And whate'er else to chivalry belongs,

He would not cease, till he revenged their wrongs:

That Greece should see perform'd what he declared;

And cruel Creon find his just reward.

He said no more, but, shunning all delay,

Rode on; nor enter'd Athens on his way:

But left his sister and his queen behind,

And waved his royal banner in the wind:

Where in an argent field the god of war

Was drawn triumphant on his iron car; 110

Red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire,

And all the godhead seem'd to glow with fire;

Even the ground glitter'd where the standard flew,

And the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue.

High on his pointed lance his pennon bore

His Cretan fight, the conquer'd Minotaur:

The soldiers shout around with generous rage,

And in that victory their own presage.

He praised their ardour: inly pleased to see

His host the flower of Grecian chivalry, 120

All day he march'd, and all the ensuing night,

And saw the city with returning light.

The process of the war I need not tell,

How Theseus conquer'd, and how Creon fell:

Or after, how by storm the walls were won,

Or how the victor sack'd and burn'd the town:

How to the ladies he restored again

The bodies of their lords in battle slain:

And with what ancient rites they were interr'd;

All these to fitter times shall be deferr'd. 130

I spare the widows' tears, their woeful cries,

And howling at their husbands' obsequies;

How Theseus at these funerals did assist,

And with what gifts the mourning dames dismiss'd.

Thus when the victor chief had Creon slain,

And conquer'd Thebes, he pitch'd upon the plain

His mighty camp, and, when the day return'd,

The country wasted, and the hamlets burn'd,

And left the pillagers, to rapine bred,

Without control to strip and spoil the dead. 140

There, in a heap of slain, among the rest

Two youthful knights they found beneath a load oppress'd

Of slaughter'd foes, whom first to death they sent--

The trophies of their strength, a bloody monument.

Both fair, and both of royal blood they seem'd,

Whom kinsmen to the crown the heralds deem'd;

That day in equal arms they fought for fame;

Their swords, their shields, their surcoats were the same.

Close by each other laid, they press'd the ground,

Their manly bosoms pierced with many a grisly wound; 150

Nor well alive, nor wholly dead they were,

But some faint signs of feeble life appear:

The wandering breath was on the wing to part,

Weak was the pulse, and hardly heaved the heart.

These two were sisters' sons; and Arcite one

Much famed in fields, with valiant Palamon.

From these their costly arms the spoilers rent,

And softly both convey'd to Theseus' tent:

Whom, known of Creon's line, and cured with care,

He to his city sent as prisoners of the war, 160

Hopeless of ransom, and condemn'd to lie

In durance, doom'd a lingering death to die.

This done, he march'd away with warlike sound,

And to his Athens turn'd, with laurels crown'd,

Where happy long he lived, much loved, and more renown'd.

But in a tower, and never to be loosed,

The woful captive kinsmen are enclosed.

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,

Till once, 'twas on the morn of cheerful May,

The young Emilia, fairer to be seen 170

Than the fair lily on the flowery green,

More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,

For with the rosy colour strove her hue,

Waked, as her custom was, before the day,

To do the observance due to sprightly May:

For sprightly May commands our youth to keep

The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;

Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves;

Inspires new flames, revives extinguish'd loves.

In this remembrance, Emily, ere day, 180

Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array;

Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair:

Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair:

A riband did the braided tresses bind,

The rest was loose and wanton'd in the wind.

Aurora had but newly chased the night,

And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,

When to the garden walk she took her way,

To sport and trip along in cool of day,

And offer maiden vows in honour of the May. 190

At every turn, she made a little stand,

And thrust among the thorns her lily hand

To draw the rose, and every rose she drew

She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew:

Then party-colour'd flowers of white and red

She wove, to make a garland for her head:

This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear,

That men and angels might rejoice to hear:

Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing;

And learn'd from her to welcome in the spring. 200

The tower, of which before was mention made,

Within whose keep the captive knights were laid,

Built of a large extent, and strong withal,

Was one partition of the palace wall;

The garden was enclosed within the square

Where young Emilia took the morning air.

It happen'd Palamon, the prisoner knight,

Restless for woe, arose before the light,

And with his jailer's leave desired to breathe

An air more wholesome than the damps beneath. 210

This granted, to the tower he took his way,

Cheer'd with the promise of a glorious day:

Then cast a languishing regard around,

And saw, with hateful eyes, the temples crown'd

With golden spires, and all the hostile ground.

He sigh'd, and turn'd his eyes, because he knew

'Twas but a larger jail he had in view:

Then look'd below, and from the castle's height

Beheld a nearer and more pleasing sight:

The garden, which before he had not seen, 220

In spring's new livery clad of white and green,

Fresh flowers in wide parterres, and shady walks between.

This view'd, but not enjoy'd, with arms across

He stood, reflecting on his country's loss;

Himself an object of the public scorn,

And often wish'd he never had been born.

At last, for so his destiny required,

With walking giddy, and with thinking tired,

He through a little window cast his sight,

Though thick of bars, that gave a scanty light: 230

But even that glimmering served him to descry

The inevitable charms of Emily.

Scarce had he seen, but seized with sudden smart,

Stung to the quick, he felt it at his heart;

Struck blind with overpowering light he stood,

Then started back amazed, and cried aloud.

Young Arcite heard; and up he ran with haste,

To help his friend, and in his arms embraced;

And ask'd him why he look'd so deadly wan,

And whence and how his change of cheer began? 240

Or who had done the offence? But if, said he,

Your grief alone is hard captivity;

For love of Heaven, with patience undergo

A cureless ill, since Fate will have it so:

So stood our horoscope in chains to lie,

And Saturn in the dungeon of the sky,

Or other baleful aspect, ruled our birth,

When all the friendly stars were under earth:

Whate'er betides, by Destiny 'tis done;

And better bear like men, than vainly seek to shun. 250

Nor of my bonds, said Palamon again,

Nor of unhappy planets I complain;

But when my mortal anguish caused my cry,

That moment I was hurt through either eye;

Pierced with a random shaft, I faint away,

And perish with insensible decay;

A glance of some new goddess gave the wound,

Whom, like Actaeon, unaware I found.

Look how she walks along yon shady space!

Not Juno moves with more majestic grace; 260

And all the Cyprian queen is in her face.

If thou art Venus (for thy charms confess

That face was form'd in heaven, nor art thou less

Disguised in habit, undisguised in shape),

Oh, help us captives from our chains to 'scape!

But if our doom be past in bonds to lie

For life, and in a loathsome dungeon die,

Then be thy wrath appeased with our disgrace,

And show compassion to the Theban race,

Oppress'd by tyrant power! While yet he spoke, 270

Arcite on Emily had fix'd his look;

The fatal dart a ready passage found,

And deep within his heart infix'd the wound:

So that if Palamon were wounded sore,

Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more:

Then from his inmost soul he sigh'd, and said,

The beauty I behold has struck me dead:

Unknowingly she strikes; and kills by chance;

Poison is in her eyes, and death in every glance.

Oh, I must ask; nor ask alone, but move 280

Her mind to mercy, or must die for love!

Thus Arcite: and thus Palamon replies,

(Eager his tone and ardent were his eyes):

Speak'st thou in earnest, or in jesting vein?

Jesting, said Arcite, suits but ill with pain.

It suits far worse (said Palamon again,

And bent his brows) with men who honour weigh,

Their faith to break, their friendship to betray;

But worst with thee, of noble lineage born,

My kinsman, and in arms my brother sworn. 290

Have we not plighted each our holy oath,

That one should be the common good of both;

One soul should both inspire, and neither prove

His fellow's hindrance in pursuit of love?

To this before the gods we gave our hands,

And nothing but our death can break the bands.

This binds thee, then, to further my design,

As I am bound by vow to further thine:

Nor canst, nor dar'st thou, traitor, on the plain

Appeach my honour, or thine own maintain, 300

Since thou art of my council, and the friend

Whose faith I trust, and on whose care depend:

And would'st thou court my lady's love, which I

Much rather than release would choose to die?

But thou, false Arcite, never shall obtain

Thy bad pretence; I told thee first my pain;

For first my love began ere thine was born:

Thou as my council, and my brother sworn,

Art bound to assist my eldership of right,

Or justly to be deem'd a perjured knight. 310

Thus Palamon: but Arcite with disdain

In haughty language thus replied again:

Forsworn thyself: the traitor's odious name

I first return, and then disprove thy claim.

If love be passion, and that passion nursed

With strong desires, I loved the lady first.

Canst thou pretend desire, whom zeal inflamed

To worship, and a power celestial named?

Thine was devotion to the blest above,

I saw the woman and desired her love; 320

First own'd my passion, and to thee commend

The important secret, as my chosen friend.

Suppose (which yet I grant not) thy desire

A moment elder than my rival fire;

Can chance of seeing first thy title prove?

And know'st thou not, no law is made for love?

Law is to things which to free choice relate;

Love is not in our choice, but in our fate;

Laws are but positive; love's power, we see,

Is Nature's sanction, and her first decree. 330

Each day we break the bond of human laws

For love, and vindicate the common cause.

Laws for defence of civil rights are placed,

Love throws the fences down, and makes a general waste;

Maids, widows, wives, without distinction fall;

The sweeping deluge, love, comes on, and covers all.

If, then, the laws of friendship I transgress,

I keep the greater, while I break the less;

And both are mad alike, since neither can possess.

Both hopeless to be ransom'd, never more 340

To see the sun, but as he passes o'er.

Like Æsop's hounds contending for the bone,

Each pleaded right, and would be lord alone:

The fruitless fight continued all the day;

A cur came by, and snatch'd the prize away.

As courtiers, therefore, jostle for a grant,

And when they break their friendship, plead their want;

So thou, if fortune will thy suit advance,

Love on, nor envy me my equal chance;

For I must love, and am resolved to try 350

My fate, or, failing in the adventure, die.

Great was their strife, which hourly was renew'd,

Till each with mortal hate his rival view'd;

Now friends no more, nor walking hand in hand;

But when they met, they made a surly stand;

And glared like angry lions as they pass'd,

And wish'd that every look might be their last.

It chanced at length, Pirithous came to attend

This worthy Theseus, his familiar friend:

Their love in early infancy began, 360

And rose as childhood ripen'd into man.

Companions of the war; and loved so well,

That when one died, as ancient stories tell,

His fellow to redeem him went to Hell.

But to pursue my tale; to welcome home

His warlike brother is Pirithous come:

Arcite of Thebes was known in arms long since,

And honour'd by this young Thessalian prince.

Theseus, to gratify his friend and guest,

Who made our Arcite's freedom his request, 370

Restored to liberty the captive knight,

But on these hard conditions I recite:

That if hereafter Arcite should be found

Within the compass of Athenian ground,

By day or night, or on whate'er pretence,

His head should pay the forfeit of the offence.

To this Pirithous for his friend agreed,

And on his promise was the prisoner freed.

Unpleased and pensive hence he takes his way,

At his own peril; for his life must pay. 380

Who now but Arcite mourns his bitter fate,

Finds his dear purchase, and repents too late?

What have I gain'd, he said, in prison pent,

If I but change my bonds for banishment?

And banish'd from her sight, I suffer more

In freedom than I felt in bonds before;

Forced from her presence, and condemn'd to live:

Unwelcome freedom, and unthank'd reprieve!

Heaven is not, but where Emily abides,

And where she's absent, all is hell besides. 390

Next to my day of birth, was that accursed,

Which bound my friendship to Pirithous first:

Had I not known that prince, I still had been

In bondage, and had still Emilia seen:

For though I never can her grace deserve,

'Tis recompence enough to see and serve.

O Palamon, my kinsman and my friend,

How much more happy fates thy love attend!

Thine is the adventure; thine the victory:

Well has thy fortune turn'd the dice for thee: 400

Thou on that angel's face may'st feed thine eyes,

In prison, no; but blissful paradise!

Thou daily seest that sun of beauty shine,

And lovest at least in love's extremest line.

I mourn in absence, love's eternal night;

And who can tell but since thou hast her sight,

And art a comely, young, and valiant knight,

Fortune (a various power) may cease to frown,

And by some ways unknown thy wishes crown?

But I, the most forlorn of human kind, 410

Nor help can hope, nor remedy can find;

But doom'd to drag my loathsome life in care,

For my reward, must end it in despair.

Fire, water, air, and earth, and force of fates,

That governs all, and Heaven that all creates,

Nor art, nor nature's hand can ease my grief;

Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief:

Then farewell youth, and all the joys that dwell,

With youth and life, and life itself farewell!

But why, alas! do mortal men in vain 420

Of fortune, fate, or Providence complain?

God gives us what he knows our wants require,

And better things than those which we desire:

Some pray for riches; riches they obtain;

But, watch'd by robbers, for their wealth are slain:

Some pray from prison to be freed; and come,

When guilty of their vows, to fall at home;

Murder'd by those they trusted with their life,

A favour'd servant, or a bosom wife.

Such dear-bought blessings happen every day, 430

Because we know not for what things to pray.

Like drunken sots about the street we roam;

Well knows the sot he has a certain home;

Yet knows not how to find the uncertain place,

And blunders on, and staggers every pace.

Thus all seek happiness; but few can find.

For far the greater part of men are blind.

This is my case, who thought our utmost good

Was in one word of freedom understood:

The fatal blessing came: from prison free, 440

I starve abroad, and lose the sight of Emily.

Thus Arcite; but if Arcite thus deplore

His sufferings, Palamon yet suffers more.

For when he knew his rival freed and gone,

He swells with wrath; he makes outrageous moan:

He frets, he fumes, he stares, he stamps the ground;

The hollow tower with clamours rings around:

With briny tears he bathed his fetter'd feet,

And dropp'd all o'er with agony of sweat.

Alas! he cried, I wretch in prison pine, 450

Too happy rival, while the fruit is thine:

Thou livest at large, thou draw'st thy native air,

Pleased with thy freedom, proud of my despair:

Thou may'st, since thou hast youth and courage join'd,

A sweet behaviour and a solid mind,

Assemble ours, and all the Theban race,

To vindicate on Athens thy disgrace;

And after, by some treaty made, possess

Fair Emily, the pledge of lasting peace.

So thine shall be the beauteous prize, while I 460

Must languish in despair, in prison die.

Thus all the advantage of the strife is thine,

Thy portion double joys, and double sorrows mine.

The rage of jealousy then fired his soul,

And his face kindled like a burning coal:

Now cold despair, succeeding in her stead,

To livid paleness turns the glowing red.

His blood, scarce liquid, creeps within his veins,

Like water which the freezing wind constrains.

Then thus he said: Eternal Deities, 470

Who rule the world with absolute decrees,

And write whatever time shall bring to pass,

With pens of adamant on plates of brass;

What! is the race of human kind your care,

Beyond what all his fellow-creatures are?

He with the rest is liable to pain,

And like the sheep, his brother-beast, is slain;

Cold, hunger, prisons, ills without a cure,

All these he must, and guiltless, oft endure.

Or does your justice, power, or prescience fail, 480

When the good suffer, and the bad prevail?

What worse to wretched virtue could befall,

If fate or giddy fortune govern'd all?

Nay, worse than other beasts is our estate;

Them, to pursue their pleasures, you create;

We, bound by harder laws, must curb our will,

And your commands, not our desires, fulfil;

Then when the creature is unjustly slain,

Yet after death, at least, he feels no pain;

But man, in life surcharged with woe before, 490

Not freed when dead, is doom'd to suffer more.

A serpent shoots his sting at unaware;

An ambush'd thief forelays a traveller:

The man lies murder'd, while the thief and snake,

One gains the thickets, and one threads the brake.

This let divines decide; but well I know,

Just, or unjust, I have my share of woe,

Through Saturn seated in a luckless place,

And Juno's wrath, that persecutes my race;

Or Mars and Venus, in a quartile, move 500

My pangs of jealousy for Arcite's love.

Let Palamon oppress'd in bondage mourn,

While to his exiled rival we return.

By this, the sun, declining from his height,

The day had shorten'd to prolong the night;

The lengthen'd night gave length of misery

Both to the captive lover and the free.

For Palamon in endless prison mourns,

And Arcite forfeits life if he returns:

The banish'd never hopes his love to see, 510

Nor hopes the captive lord his liberty.

'Tis hard to say who suffers greater pains:

One sees his love, but cannot break his chains:

One free, and all his motions uncontroll'd,

Beholds whate'er he would, but what he would behold.

Judge as you please, for I will haste to tell

What fortune to the banish'd knight befell.

When Arcite was to Thebes return'd again,

The loss of her he loved renew'd his pain;

What could be worse, than never more to see 520

His life, his soul, his charming Emily?

He raved with all the madness of despair,

He roar'd, he beat his breast, he tore his hair.

Dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears,

For, wanting nourishment, he wanted tears:

His eye-balls in their hollow sockets sink,

Bereft of sleep, he loathes his meat and drink.

He withers at his heart, and looks as wan

As the pale spectre of a murder'd man:

That pale turns yellow, and his face receives 530

The faded hue of sapless boxen leaves:

In solitary groves he makes his moan,

Walks early out, and ever is alone:

Nor, mix'd in mirth, in youthful pleasures shares,

But sighs when songs and instruments he hears.

His spirits are so low, his voice is drown'd,

He hears as from afar, or in a swound,

Like the deaf murmurs of a distant sound:

Uncomb'd his locks and squalid his attire,

Unlike the trim of love and gay desire; 540

But full of museful mopings, which presage

The loss of reason, and conclude in rage.

This when he had endured a year and more,

Now wholly changed from what he was before,

It happen'd once, that, slumbering as he lay,

He dream'd (his dream began at break of day)

That Hermes o'er his head in air appear'd,

And with soft words his drooping spirits cheer'd:

His hat, adorn'd with wings, disclosed the god,

And in his hand he bore the sleep-compelling rod: 550

Such as he seem'd, when, at his sire's command,

On Argus' head he laid the snaky wand.

Arise, he said, to conquering Athens go,

There fate appoints an end to all thy woe.

The fright awaken'd Arcite with a start,

Against his bosom bounced his heaving heart;

But soon he said, with scarce-recover'd breath,

And thither will I go, to meet my death.

Sure to be slain; but death is my desire,

Since in Emilia's sight I shall expire. 560

By chance he spied a mirror while he spoke,

And gazing there, beheld his alter'd look;

Wondering, he saw his features and his hue

So much were changed, that scarce himself he knew.

A sudden thought then starting in his mind,

Since I in Arcite cannot Arcite find,

The world may search in vain with all their eyes,

But never penetrate through this disguise.

Thanks to the change which grief and sickness give,

In low estate I may securely live, 570

And see unknown my mistress day by day.

He said; and clothed himself in coarse array:

A labouring hind in show; then forth he went,

And to the Athenian towers his journey bent:

One squire attended in the same disguise,

Made conscious of his master's enterprise.

Arrived at Athens, soon he came to court,

Unknown, unquestion'd in that thick resort:

Proffering for hire his service at the gate,

To drudge, draw water, and to run or wait. 580

So fair befell him, that for little gain

He served at first Emilia's chamberlain;

And, watchful all advantages to spy,

Was still at hand, and in his master's eye;

And as his bones were big, and sinews strong,

Refused no toil that could to slaves belong;

But from deep wells with engines water drew,

And used his noble hands the wood to hew.

He pass'd a year at least attending thus

On Emily, and call'd Philostratus. 590

But never was there man of his degree

So much esteem'd, so well beloved as he.

So gentle of condition was he known,

That through the court his courtesy was blown:

All think him worthy of a greater place,

And recommend him to the royal grace;

That, exercised within a higher sphere,

His virtues more conspicuous might appear.

Thus by the general voice was Arcite praised,

And by great Theseus to high favour raised; 600

Among his menial servants first enroll'd,

And largely entertain'd with sums of gold:

Besides what secretly from Thebes was sent,

Of his own income, and his annual rent:

This well employ'd, he purchased friends and fame,

But cautiously conceal'd from whence it came.

Thus for three years he lived with large increase,

In arms of honour, and esteem in peace;

To Theseus' person he was ever near;

And Theseus for his virtues held him dear. 610