A LETTER TO SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE. Like mighty Missioner you come Ad Partes Infidelium; A Work of wondrous Merit sure, To be perform'd and sung by thee. They who such vast Fatigues attend, His Excellence for all but Sleeping. 30 But wou'd oblige the Crown and Nation If Gallick Wit convince you scarce, Thou break'st thro' Forms with as much ease His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce; As the French King thro' Articles. 40 TO SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE. Text from the Miscellanies of several dates. And you, whose Comick Wit is Terse all, 50 60 70 But scribble faster if you can: 80 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 guage clean; TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. CONGREVE, ON HIS COMEDY CALLED THE DOUBLE-DEALER. WELL then, the promis'd Hour is come at last; The present Age of Wit obscures the past: Conqu❜ring with Force of Arms and Dint of Theirs was the Giant Race before the Flood; Like Janus, he the stubborn Soil manur'd, Tam'd us to Manners, when the Stage was rude, And boistrous English Wit with Art indu'd. Our Age was cultivated thus at length, II Our Builders were with Want of Genius curst; Thus all below is Strength, and all above is Grace. 20 In easie Dialogue is Fletcher's Praise : TO MR. CONGREVE. Text from the original published with the play, 1694. 5 Race] Race, 1694. 10 Wit] Wit, 1694. 21 no] The editors give not We cannot Envy you, because we Love. For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the 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, 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. Let not th' insulting Foe my Fame pursue; And take for Tribute what these Lines express; You merit more; nor cou'd my Love do less. John Dryden. TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, 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 I only have transferr'd it to her Eyes. That Nature seems obedient to thy Will; TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER. Text from the Lives there, and wants but words to speak Miscellanies, 1694. 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 This is the least Attendant on thy Praise : 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, Rome rais'd not Art, but barely kept alive, 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, Likeness appears in every Lineament; A nobler Beauty in thy Piece appears. 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 none like thee a finish'd Figure place:) 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. 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, 160 To wish their vile Resemblance may remain ! And stand recorded at their own Request, To future Days, a Libel or a Jeast. |