friend's apostrophes, I hope the reader need not be told, that Mr. Waller is only mentioned for honour's sake; that I am desirous of laying hold on his memory, on all occasions, and thereby acknowledging to the world, that unless he had written, none of us could write.

I know, my friend will forgive me this digression; for it is not only a copy of his style, but of his candour. The reader will observe, that he is ready for all hints of commending merit, and the writers of this age and country are particularly obliged to him, for his pointing out those passages which the French call beaux endroits, wherein they have most excelled. And though I may seem in this to have my own interest in my eyes, because he has more than once mentioned me, so much to my advantage, yet I hope the reader will take it only for a parenthesis, because the piece would have

ham, from the age of sixteen when he went to Trinity College, in Oxford, (Nov. 18, 1631,) to the time of his father's death, (Jan. 6, 1638-9) had lived in great dissipation, and as Wood says, was considered by his contemporaries as "a slow and dreaming young man, more addicted to cards and dice, than to study." Waller, on the other hand, wrote his first poem in 1623, when he was only eighteen years of age, at which time his contemporaries must rather have been surprized at so early a display of talents, than at the lateness of their exertion. Besides, the circumstance of THE SOPHY being published precisely at the period of the Irish Rebellion's breaking out, appropriates the remark, and shews that it was made on Denham.

*

been very perfect without it. I

I may be suffered to please myself with the kindness of my friend, without valuing myself upon his partiality: he had not confidence enough to send it out into the world without my opinion of it, that it might pass securely, at least amongst the fair readers, for whose service it was principally designed. I am not so presuming, to think my opinion can either be his touchstone, or his passport; but I thought I might send him back to Ariosto; who has made it the business of almost thirty stanzas in the beginning of the 37th book of his ORLANDO FuRIOSO, not only to praise that beautiful part of the creation, but also to make a sharp satire on their enemies; to give mankind their own, and to tell them plainly, that from their envy it proceeds that the virtue and great actions of women are purposely concealed, and the failings of some few amongst them exposed with all the aggravating circumstances of malice. For my own part, who have always been their servant, and have never drawn my pen against them, I had rather see some of them praised extraordinarily, than any of them suffer by detraction: and that in this age, and at this time particularly, wherein I find more heroines than heroes. Let me therefore give them joy of their new champion. If any will think me more partial to him than really I am, they can only say I have returned his bribe; and the worst I wish him, is, that he may receive justice from the men, and favour only from the ladies.

Here

hap

one among many

pavoss of our authors love of English
diomatical phrases, io men wall in
No
to write
gave mankind throw own" in the lens if

a serious composition in here

DEDICATION

OF

ELEONORA;'

A PANEGYRICAL POEM.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF ABINGDON.

MY LORD,

THE commands, with which

you honoured me some months ago, are now performed: they had been sooner, but betwixt ill health, some bu

8 The lady in honour of whom this poem was written, was Eleonora, eldest daughter, and at length sole heir, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in the county of Oxford, Baronet, by Anne, daughter of Sir John Danvers, and sister and heir to Henry Danvers, Esq., who was nephew and heir to Henry, Earl of Danby: she was the wife of James Bertie, first Earl of Abingdon, and died May 31, 1691. Her lord, in 1698, married a second wife, Catharine, daughter of Sir Thomas Chamberlaine, Bart.

1691-2 1699) at the

It is a singular circumstance, that our author should have written this poem, (which was published in 4to. in 2 4699) at the desire of a nobleman with whom he was not personally acquainted, in praise of a lady whom he never saw. This, therefore, was evidently a task undertaken for a pecuniary reward; and the commission, perhaps, was procured by Mr. Aubrey, a common friend of our author and the Earl of Abingdon.

siness, 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 awhile 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 till 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 prophecied beyond my natural power. Let me

9 Our author's disorder was the gout.

Erish leb in el.

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 criticks: for the whole poem, though written in that which they call heroick verse, is of the Pindarick 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 panegyrick: 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.