Yet, as fome Actions bear fo great a Name,
That Courts themselves are juft, for fear of Shame;
So has the mighty Merit of your Play
Extorted Praife, and forc'd it felf a way.
'Tis here, as 'tis at Sea; who fartheft goes,
Or dares the most, makes all the reft his Foes.
Yet when fome Virtue much out-grows the reft,
It shoots too faft, and high, to be exprest ;
As his Heroic Worth ftruck Envy dumb,
Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the Boom.
Such Praise is yours, while you the Paffions move,
That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real Love,
Where Nature triumphs over wretched Art;
We only warm the Head, but you the Heart.
Always you warm; and if the rifing Year,
As in hot Regions, brings the Sun too near,
'Tis but to make your fragrant Spices blow,
Which in our cooler Climates will not grow.
They only think you animate your Theme
With too much Fire, who are themselves all Phlegm.
Prizes wou'd be for Lags of floweft
Were Cripples made the Judges of the Race.
Defpife thofe Drones, who praife, while they accufe,
The too much Vigour of your youthful Muse.
That humble Style, which they their Virtue make,
Is in your pow'r you need but floop and take.
Your beauteous Images must be allow'd
By all, but fome vile Poets of the Crowd.
But how fhou'd any Sign-Poft Dawber know
The Worth of Titian or of Angelo?
Hard Features ev'ry Bungler can command;
To draw true Beauty fhews a Mafter's hand.
dear Friend Mr. CONGREVE, on bis Comedy call'd The Double Dealer.
Ell then, the promis'd Hour is come at last ;
The prefent Age of Wit obfcures the paft:
Strong were our Sires, 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 ftubborn Soil manur'd,
With Rules of Husbandry the Rankness cur'd;
Tam'd us to Manners, when the Stage was rude;
And boiftrous English Wit with Art indu'd.
Our Age was cultivated thus at length;
But what we gain'd in Skill we loft in Strength:
Our Builders were with want of Genius curft;
The fecond Temple was not like the first:
'Till you, the beft Vitruvius, come at length;
Our Beauties equal, but excel our Strength.
Firm Dorick Pillars found your folid Base:
The Fair Corinthian crowns the higher Space :
Thus all below is Strength, and all above is Grace.
In eafy Dialogue is Fletcher's Praise ;
He mov'd the Mind, but had not Pow'r to raise.
Great Johnson did by Strength of Judgment please ;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's Force, he wants his Ease.
In diff'ring Talents both adorn'd their Age;
One for the Study, t'other for the Stage.
But both to Congreve juftly fhall fubmit,
One match'd in Judgment, both o'ermatch'd in Wit.
In him all Beauties of this Age we fee,
Etherege his Courtship, Southern's Purity,
The Satire, Wit, and Strength of Manly Witcherly.
All this in blooming Youth you have atchiev'd:
Nor are your foil'd Contemporaries griev'd.
So much the Sweetness of your Manners move,
We cannot envy you, becaufe we Love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he faw
A beardlefs Conful 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 Laurel had fuftain'd!
Well had I been depos'd, if you had Reign'd :
The Father had defcended 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 arofe.
But now, not I, but Poetry is curs'd
For Tom the fecond reigns like Tom the first.
But let 'em not mistake my Patron's Part,
Nor call his Charity their own Desert.
Yet this I prophefy; Thou shalt be seen,
(Tho' with some short Parenthefis between)
High on the Throne of Wit, and, feated there,
Not mine (that's little) but thy Laurel wear.
Thy first Attempt an early Promise made;
That early Promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet fo judicioufly you dare,
That your leaft Praife is to be regular.
Time, Place, and Action, may with pains be wrought;
But Genius must be born, and never can be taught.
This is your Portion; this your native Store ;
Heav'n, that but once was prodigal before, [more.
To Shakespear gave as much; fhe could not give him
Maintain your Post: That's all the Fame you need ; For 'tis impoffible you fhou'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 Mufe and Grace adorn, Whom I forefee to better Fortune born, Be kind to my Remains; and O defend, Against your Judgment, your departed Friend! Let not th' infulting Foe my Fame pursue, But fhade thofe Laurels which defcend to You: And take for Tribute what thefe Lines exprefs: You merit more; nor cou'd my Love do less.
To Mr. GRANVILLE , on his excellent Tragedy called Heroic Love.
Ufpicious Poet, wert thou not my Friend,
A could I envy,
How cou'd I envy, what I must commend!
But fince 'tis Nature's Law in Love and Wit,
That Youth fhou'd reign, and with'ring Age fubmit,
With lefs regret those Laurels I refign,
Which, dying on my Brows, revive on thine.
With better Grace an ancient Chief may
The long contended Honours of the Field,
Than venture all his Fortune at a caft,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lofe at laft.
Young Princes, obftinate to win the Prize,
Tho' yearly beaten, yearly yet they rife:
Old Monarchs, tho' fuccefsful, ftill in doubt,
Catch at a Peace, and wifely turn devout.
Thine be the Laurel then; thy blooming Age
Can beft, if any can, fupport the Stage;
Which fo declines, that fhortly we may fee
Players and Plays reduc'd to second Infancy.
Sharp to the World, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the Stage, but on the Town,
And, in despair their empty Pit to fill,
fome Foreign Monster in a Bill.
Thus they jog on, ftill tricking, never thriving,
And murd'ring Plays, which they miscal Reviving.
Our Senfe is Nonfenfe, through their Pipes convey'd
Scarce can a Poet know the Play he made;
'Tis fo difguis'd in Death; nor thinks 'tis He
That fuffers in the mangled Tragedy.
Thus Itys firft was kill'd, and after drefs'd
For his own Sire, the chief invited Guest.
I fay not this of thy fuccefsful Scenes,
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* ftill fhoots a glimmering Ray,
Like antient Rome, majestick in Decay :
And better Gleanings their worn Soil can boast,
Than the Crab-Vintage of the neighb'ring Coast +.
This diff'rence yet the judging World will fee;
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.
* Mr. Betterton's Company in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, † Drury Lane Play-House.
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