Thus vulgar Dishes are by Cooks disguis'd,
More for their dressing,than their substance priz'd
Your curious *Notes to fearch into that Age,
When all was Fable but the Sacred Page,
That fince in tbat dark Night we needs must
ftray,

We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But what we most admire, your Verse no less
The Prophet than the Poet doth confess.
E're our weak Eyes difcern'd the doubtful streak
Of Light, you faw Great Charles his Morning
break.

So skilful Seamen ken the Land from far,
Which fhews like Mists to the dull Paffenger.
To Charles your Mufe first pays her Dutious Love
As ftill the Antients did begin from Jove.

* Azmet ations on Statius.

With

a Monck you end, whofe Name preferv'd fhall be,

me Recorded *Rufus Memory,

thought it greater Honour to Obey Duntrey's Intereft, than the World to fway. Write Worthy Things of Worthy Men, peculiar Talent of your Pen:

me take your Mantle up, and I

enture in your Right to Prophefie.

is Work, by Merit first of Fame fecure, ewife Happy in its Geniture:

nce 'tis Born, when Charles afcends the "Throne,

es, at once, his Fortune and its own.

To Mr. GRANVILLE,

On his Excellent TRAGEDY, call'd

HEROICK LOVE.

A

By Mr. DRYDEN.

Ufpicious Poet, wert thou not my Friend,

How could lenvy what I must commend!

But fince 'tis Nature's Law in Love and Wit,

That Youth fhou'd Reign, and withering Age fubmit;

With less Regret those Laurels I refign,

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

Young

Young Princes, obe to win the Prize,

Thô yearly beaten, yearly yet they rife:
Old Monarchs, thô fuccefsful, ftill in doubt,
Catch at a Peace, and Wifely turn Devout.
Thine be the Laurel then; thy blooming Age
Can best, if any can, fupport the Stage;
Which fo declines, that shortly we may fee
Players and Plays reduc'd to fecond Infancy:
Sharp to the World, But thoughtless of Renown,
They Plot not on the Stage, but on the Town's
And in Despair their empty Pit to fill,

Set up

fome Foreign Monster in the Bill.) nola

Thus they jog on, still tricking, nevet thriving,

And mur'dring Plays, which they mifcall, Reviving:

Our Senfe is Nonsense throngh their Pipes convey'd ;

Scarce can a Poet know the Play he made, T'is so disguis'd in Death; nor thinks 'tis he That suffers in the mangled Tragedy.

Thus Itys first 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 could not Spoil: Their *Setting Sun ftill fhoots a glimʼring Ray, Like Ancient Rome, Majestick in decay;

And better Gleanings Their worn Soil can boast, Than the Crab-Vintage of the Neighb'ringCoast: This difference yet the Judging Word will see, Thou Copiest Homer, and they Copy Thee.