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,

His 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,

As the French King thro' Articles.
In grand Affairs thy Days are spent,
In waging weighty Complement
With such as monarchs represent.

40

And you, whose Comick Wit is Terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began,

50

60

70

But scribble faster if you can:
Has writ without a ten Years Warning.
For yet no George, to our discerning,

80

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.
O that your Brows my Lawrel had sus-
tain'd,
41
Well had I been depos'd, 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 curst;

For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the
First.

But let 'em not mistake my Patron's Part Nor call his Charity their own Desert.

50

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 Nativey 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 foresee 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.

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 Will;
Comes out, and meets thy Pencil in the
Draught,

her thought.

IO

At least thy Pictures look a Voice; and we Imagine Sounds, deceiv'd 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'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.

30

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 41

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 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,

50

By the first Pair; while Eve was yet a Saint; Before she fell with Pride and learn'd to paint.

Forgive th' Allusion; 'twas not meant to bite;

But Satire will have Room, where e're I write. For oh, the Painter Muse, though last in place,

Has seiz'd 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 Lawrel crown'd.

Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I,
But pass we that unpleasing Image by. 101
Rich in thy self, and of thy self Divine,
All Pilgrims come and offer at thy Shrine.
A graceful Truth thy Pencil can Command;
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 Piece appears.
So warm thy Work, so glows the gen'rous
Frame,

ΙΙΟ

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.
Some other Hand perhaps may reach a
Face;

But none like thee a finish'd Figure place:)
None of this Age, for that's enough for thee,
The first of these Inferiour Times to be;
Not to contend with Heroes Memory.

Due Honours to those mighty Names we grant, 120 But Shrubs may live beneath the lofty Plant; Sons may succeed their greater Parents gone; Such is thy Lott; and such I wish my own. But Poets are confin'd in Narr'wer space, To speak the Language of their Native Place;

The Painter widely stretches his Command; Thy Pencil speaks the Tongue of ev'ry Land.

91-94] Omitted by Tonson, 1701. 95 For] But 1701.

115-123] Omitted by Tonson, 1701.

From hence, my Friend, all Climates are

your own,

Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. All Nations all Immunities will give 130 To make you theirs, where e're you please to live;

And not sev'n Cities, but the World, wou'd strive.

Sure some propitious Planet then did smile When first you were conducted to this Isle ; (Our Genius brought you here, t' inlarge our Fame)

(For your good Stars are ev'ry where the same.)

Thy matchless Hand, of ev'ry Region free, Adopts our Climate, not our Climate thee. Great Rome and Venice early did impart To thee th' Examples of their wondrous Art.

He travell d very young into Italy.

With generous Emulation fir'd thy Blood; For what in Nature's Dawn the Child admir'd, The Youth endeavour'd, and the Man acquir'd.

That yet thou hast not reach'd their high Degree,

Seems only wanting to this Age, not thee. Thy Genius, bounded by the Times, like mine,

Drudges on petty Draughts, nor dare design

150

A more exalted Work, and more Divine.
For what a Song or senceless Opera
Is to the living Labour of a Play,
Or what a Play to Virgil's Work wou'd be,
Such is a single Piece to History.

But we, who Life bestow, our selves must live:

Kings cannot Reign unless their Subjects give;

And they who pay the Taxes bear the Rule:

Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a Fool:

But so his Follies in thy Posture sink,
The senceless Ideot seems at last to think.
Good Heav'n! that Sots and Knaves
shou'd be so vain,

160

To wish their vile Resemblance may remain ! And stand recorded at their own Request, To future Days, a Libel or a Jeast.