Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. Forgive th' Allusion; 'twas not meant to All Nations all Immunities will give 130 To make you theirs, where e're you please to live ;

ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY, CALLED HEROICK LOVE.

AUSPICIOUS Poet, wert thou not my Friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 'tis Natures Law in Love and
Wit,

That Youth shou'd reign and with'ring Age
submit,

With less regret those Lawrels 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,
Thô Yearly beaten, Yearly yet they rise:
Old Monarchs though successful, still in
Doubt,

Catch at a Peace; and wisely turn Devout.
Thine be the Lawrel then; thy blooming
Age

Can best, if any can, support the Stage:
Which so declines, that shortly we may see

Thus they jog on; still tricking, never
thriving;

And Murd'ring Plays, which they iniscal
Reviving.

Our Sense is Nonsense, through their Pipes
convey'd ;

Scarce can a Poet know the Play He made, 'Tis so disguis'd in Death: nor thinks 'tis

That suffers in the Mangled Tragedy.
Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after dress'd
For his own Sire, the Chief Invited Guest.
I say not this of thy successful Scenes; 31
Where thine was all the Glory, theirs the
Gains.

With length of Time, much Judgment, and
more Toil,

Not ill they Acted, what they cou'd not
spoil.

Their Setting Sun still shoots a Glim'ring
Ray,

Like Ancient Rome, Majestick in Decay; Players and Plays reduc'd to second In-And better gleanings their worn Soil can

fancy:

boast,

[TO PETER ANTONY MOTTEUX,
ON HIS TRAGEDY, CALLED BEAUTY IN DISTRESS.]

To my Friend, the AUTHOR.

Voice

31 Has equall'd thy Performance with thy choice.

'Tis hard, my Friend, to write in such an Age | These hast thou chosen; and the public
As damus not only Poets, but the Stage.
That sacred art, by Ileav'n itself infus'd,
Which Moses, David, Salomon have us'd,
Is now to be no more: The Muses' Focs
Wou'd sink their Maker's Praises into Prose.
Were they content to prune the lavish Vine
Of straggling Branches, and improve the
Wine,

All wou'd submit, for all but Fools will mend.
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 loosly, or profanely writ,
Let them to Fires (their due desert) commit:
Nor, when accus'd by me, let them complain:
Their Faults, and not their Function, I
arraign.

Rebellion, worse than Witchcraft, they
pursu'd :

The Pulpit preach'd the Crime, the People ru'd.

20

The Stage was silenc'd; for the Saints wou'd

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 plac'd 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, Int'rest, Avarice, accuse;
These are the Province of the Tragic Muse.

TO PETER ANTONY MOTTEUX. Text from the original, prefixed to the play, 1698.

9 Faults] Many edd. wrongly give Thoughts

Time, Action, l'lace, are so preserv'd by

thee

That ev'n Corneille might with Envy see
Th' Alliance of his tripled Unity.
Thy Incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown ;
But so much Plenty is thy Fault alone:
At least but two, can that good Crime
commit,

Thou in Design, and Wycherley in Wit
Let thine 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, infeebl'd, is refin'd so much;
That like pure Gold, it bends at ev'ry Touch :
Our sturdy Teuton yet will Art obey,
More fit for manly Thought, and strengthen'd
with Allay.

But whence art thou inspir'd, and Thou
alone,

To flourish in an Idiom, not thy own?
It moves our Wonder, that a foreign Guest
Shou'd overmatch the most, and match the
best.

51

In underpraising thy Deserts, I wrong;
Here, find the first deficience of our Tongue:
Words, once my stock, are wanting to com-
mend

So Great a Poet and so Good a Friend.

JOHN DRYDEN.

44 so Many edd. wrongly give too 45 That Many edd. wrongly give And These false readings are all in Christie's text but not in Dr. Saintsbury's.

TO MY | HONOUR'D KINSMAN, | JOHN DRIDEN, |

OF CHESTERTON, IN THE

COUNTY OF HUNTINGDON, ESQUIRE.

Without their Cost, you terminate the Cause;
And save th' Expence of long Litigious Laws:
Where Suits are travers'd; 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 your self, 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 ev'n the first,

Though pair'd by Heav'n, in Paradise, were curs'd.

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.

Ilow cou'd He stand, when, put to double
Pain,

He must a Weaker than himself sustain !
Each might have stood perhaps; but each
alone;

29 Two Wrestlers help to pull each other down.

Not that my Verse wou'd 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;

T'admit the Wealthy, and exclude the
Poor :

For God, who gave the Riches, gave the
Heart

To sanctifie the Whole, by giving Part:
Heav'n, 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.

So may your Stores, and fruitful Fields

increase;

And ever be you bless'd, who live to bless.
As Ceres sow'd where e'er her Chariot flew ;
As Heav'n in Desarts rain'd the Bread of
Dew,

So free to Many, to Relations most,
You feed with Manna your own Israel-
Ilost.

With Crowds attended of your ancient
Race,

50

You seek the Champian-Sports, or Sylvan-
Chace :

With well-breath'd Beagles, you surround
the Wood,

Ev'n then, industrious of the Common Good:
And often have you brought the wily Fox
To suffer for the Firstlings of the Flocks;
Chas'd ev'n amid the Folds; and made to
bleed,

Like Felons, where they did the murd'rous
Deed.

This fiery Game, your active Youth main-
tain'd:

TO JOHN DRIDEN. Text from the original and Not yet, by years extinguish'd, though

only contemporary edition, 1700.

8 Award) Award, 1700.

restrain'd: