TO MY FRIEND MR. NORTHLEIGH,
AUTHOR OF THE PARALLEL,
ON HIS TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH MONARCHY.
So Joseph, yet a Youth, expounded well
The boding Dream, and did th' Event fore-
tell,
Judg'd by the past, and drew the Parallel.
Thus early Solomon the truth explored,
The Right awarded, and the Babe restor'd.
Thus Daniel, ere to Prophecy he grew,
The perjur'd Presbyters did first subdue,
Well may our Monarchy Triumphant stand,
While warlike James protects both Sea and
Land;
And, under Covert of his sev'nfold Shield,
Thou sendst thy Shafts to scour the distant
Field.
By law thy pow'rful Pen has set us free;
Thou studiest that, and that may study
thee.
To my Ingenious Friend | Henry Higden, Esq.; | on his
translation of the Tenth SATYR | of | JUVENAL.
THE Grecian Wits, who Satyr first began,
Were Pleasant Pasquins on the Life of
At Mighty Villains, who the State opprest,
They durst not Rail perhaps ; they
Laugh'd at least,
And turn'd 'em 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,
Tho' Foes to Sence, are Harmless to the
Nation.
Our last Redress is Dint of l'erse to try,
And Satyr is our Court of Chancery.
This Way took Horace to reform an Age,
Not Bad enough to need an Author's
Rage:
But Yours,* who liv'd in more Juvenal.
degen'rate Times,
Was forc'd to fasten Deep, and worry
Crimes:
Yet You, my Friend, have temper'd him so
well,
You make him Smile in spight of all his
Zeal:
An Art peculiar to your Self alone,
To joyn the Vertues of Two stiles in One.
TO MR. NORTHLEIGH. Text from the original, prefixt to John Northleigh's The Triumph of Our Monarchy, 1685. (I depend for the collation on another hand.)
Oh! were your Author's Principle re
Half of the lab'ring World wou'd be
reliev'd;
For not to Wish, is not to be deceiv'd!
Revenge wou'd into Charity be chang'd,
Because it costs too Dear to be Reveng'd:
It costs our Quiet and Content of Mind;
And when 'tis compass'd leaves a Sting
behind.
Suppose I had the better End o' th' Staff,
Why should I help th' ill-natur'd World to
laugh?
'Tis all alike to them who gets the Day;
They Love the Spight and Mischief of the
Fray.
No; I have Cur'd my Self of that Disease,
Nor will I be provok'd, 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
Wou'd cease false Hopes and Titles to create,
Led by the Rare Example you begun,
Clyents wou'd fail and Lawyers be undone.
JOHN DRYDEN.
Text from the original,
prefixt to Higden's Translation of Juvenal's Tenth
Satire, 1687.
4 Rail perhaps ;] Rail; perhaps, 1687.
Laugh'd] Many editors wrongly give lash'd
A LETTER TO SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.
Like mighty Missioner you come
Ad Partes Infidelium;
A Work of wondrous Merit sure,
So far to go, so much t' indure;
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,
For Cloves or Nutmegs to the line a,
Or e'en for Oranges to China:
That had indeed been Charity,
Where Love-sick Ladies helpless lye,
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,
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.
They who 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 Rummers walk the Round,
In Bumpers ev'ry King is crown'd,
Besides three Holy miter'd Hectors,
And the whole College of Electors.
No Health of Potentate is sunk
That pays to make his Envoy drunk.
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, Keep-
ing,
Ilis Excellence for all but Sleeping.
20 Now if you tope in form, and treat,
'Tis the sour Sauce to the sweet Meat,
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 deny'd,
You wou'd be pleased in humble way
To write a Trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a Degradation,
30 But wou'd oblige the Crown and Nation
Next to your wise Negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high Degree, your friends will say,
The Duke St. Agnon made a play.
If Gallick Wit convince you scarce,
Thou break'st thro' Forms with as much case His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce;
As the French King thro' Articles.
In grand Affairs thy Days are spent,
In waging weighty Complement
With such as monarchs represent.
And you, whose Comick Wit is Terse all, Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began,
To Sir George ETHEREGE. Text from the
Miscellanies of several dates.
TO MR. SOUTHERN;
ON HIS COMEDY, CALL'D THE WIVES EXCUSE.
SURE there's a Fate in Plays; and 'tis in ¦ Like his, thy Thoughts are true, thy Lanvain
Ev'n 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,
But with a kind Civility dismiss'd;
With such good manners, as
the Wife did use,
Who, not accepting, did but
just refuse.
*The Wife in the play, Mrs. Frien dall.
There was a glance at parting;
such a look
As bids thee not give o're, for one rebuke.
But if thou wou'dst be seen as well as read;
Copy one living Author and one dead :
The Standard of thy Style, let Etherege be;
For Wit, th' Immortal Spring of Wycherly.
Learn, after both, to draw some just Design,
And the next Age will learn to Copy thine.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. CONGREVE,
ON HIS COMEDY CALLED THE DOUBLE-DEALER.
WELL then, the promis'd Hour is come at | Our Age was cultivated thus at length, 11
last;
But what we gain'd in Skill we lost in
Strength.
The present Age of Wit obscures the past:
Strong were our Syres, and as they fought
they Writ,
Conqu'ring 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 manur'd,
With Rules of Husbandry the Rankness
cur'd:
Tam'd us to Manners, when the Stage was rude,
And boistrous English Wit with Art indu'd.
Our Builders were with Want of Genius curst;
The second Temple was not like the first;
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our Beauties equal, but excel our Strength.
Firm Dorique Pillars found Your solid Base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher
Space;
Thus all below is Strength, and all above
is Grace.
Yet this I Prophesie; Thou shalt be seen,
(Tho' with some short Parenthesis between :)
High on the Throne of Wit; and, seated there,
Nor mine (that's little) but thy Lawrel 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:
Heav'n, that but once was Prodigal before, To Shakespear gave as much; she cou'd not give him more.
Maintain your Post: that's all the Fame
you need;
For 'tis impossible you shou'd proceed.
Already I am worn with Cares and Age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful Stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heav'n's Expence,
I live a Rent-charge on his Providence :
But You, whom ev'ry Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I foresce to better Fortune born, 71
Be kind to my Remains; and oh defend,
Against your Judgment, your departed
Friend!
Let not th' insulting Foe my Fame pursue;
But shade those Lawrels which descend to
You:
And take for Tribute what these Lines
express;
You merit more; nor cou'd my Love do less.
John Dryden.
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 gaz'd so
long,
Pleas'd 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, Šuch thy
Skill,
| That Nature seems obedient to thy Wiil;
Comes out, and meets thy Pencil in the
Draught,
TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER. Text from the Lives there, and wants but words to speak
At least thy Pictures look a Voice; and we Imagine Sounds, deceiv'd to that degree, We think 'tis somewhat more than just to
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'd in the strife;
And from their animated Canvass came, 20
Demanding Souls; and loosened from the
Frame.
Prometheus, were he here, wou'd cast away
His Adam, and refuse a Soul to Clay,
And either wou'd 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,
Gave out-lines to the rude Original;
Ere Canvass yet was strain'd: before the
Grace
Of blended Colours found their use and place:
Or Cypress Tablets first receiv'd a Face.
By slow degrees the Godlike Art advanc'd; As man grew polish'd, Picture was inhanc'd: Greece added Posture, Shade, and Perspective,
And then the Mimick Piece began to Live. Yet Perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common View: No point of Light was known, no bounds of Art; 41
When Light was there, it knew not to depart,
But glaring on remoter Objects play'd ;
Not languish'd and insensibly decay'd.
Rome rais'd 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 ruine lye,
And Rhyme began t' enervate Poetry.
Thus, in a stupid Military State,
The Pen and Pencil find an equal Fate.
Flat Faces, such as wou'd disgrace a Skreen,
Such as in Bantam's Embassy were seen,
Unrais'd, 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.
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 looked like Virgil's Art.
Thy Genius gives thee both; where true Design,
Postures unforc'd, and lively Colours joyn, Likeness is ever there; but still the best, Like proper Thoughts in lofty Language drest,
Where Light, to Shades descending, plays, not strives,
Dyes by degrees, and by degrees revives. 70 Of various Parts a perfect whole is wrought; Thy Pictures think, and we Divine their Thought.
Shakespear, thy Gift, I place before my Sight; With awe I ask his Blessing e're I write ; With Rev'rence look on his Majestick Face;
Shakespear's
Picture drawn by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and given to the
Author.
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 thro' me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Contemn the bad and Emulate the best. So Like his, thy Criticks in th' attempt are lost:
When most they rail, know then they envy
|