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 sustain'd!
Well had I been deposed, 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 cursed ;
For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let them not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen
(Though with some short parenthesis between)
High on the throne of wit, and, seated 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 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.
This is your portion; this your native store;
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,

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To Shakspeare gave as much; she could not give him

more.

Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need ; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence :

;

But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and O defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines express :
You merit more; nor could my love do less.

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EPISTLE XI.

TO MR GRANVILLE,1 ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY CALLED 66 HEROIC LOVE."

AUSPICIOUS poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,

That youth should reign, and withering age submit,
With less regret those laurels 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.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.

1 Mr Granville: Lord Lansdowne.

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Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age
Can best, if any can, support the stage;
Which so declines, that shortly we may see
Players and plays reduced 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,
Set up some foreign monster in a bill.
Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving,
And murdering plays, which they miscall reviving.
Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes convey'd ;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made;
"Tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he
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,

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 sun1 still shoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome majestic in decay :

And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.2
This difference yet the judging world will see;
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.

1 Setting sun,' &c.: Betterton, who had mustered up a company, and played in Lincoln's-Inn Fields.

Neighbouring coast: Drury Lane

play-house.

EPISTLE XII.

TO MY FRIEND MR MOTTEUX,1 ON HIS TRAGEDY CALLED 'BEAUTY IN DISTRESS."

'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,
As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
That sacred art, by Heaven itself infused,
Which Moses, David, Solomon have used,
Is now to be no more: the Muses' foes
Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who but a madman would his thoughts defend?
All would 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 loosely, or profanely, writ,
Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:
Nor, when accused by me, let them complain :
Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.
Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued;
The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people rued.
The stage was silenced; for the saints would 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:

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1 Motteux:' an exiled Frenchman, translator of Don Quixote,' and a play-wright. Dryden alludes here to Collier's attacks on himself.

Our desk be placed 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, interest, avarice, accuse:
These are the province of a tragic Muse.
These hast thou chosen; and the public voice
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are so preserved by thee,
That even Corneille might with envy see
The alliance of his tripled Unity.

Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown ;
But too much plenty is thy fault alone.

At least but two can that good crime commit,
Thou in design, and Wycherly in wit.

Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare;
Contented to be thinly regular :

Born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue, enfeebled, is refined too much;
And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,

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More fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd with allay.
But whence art thou inspired, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?

It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest
Should over-match the most, and match the best.
In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong;
Here find the first deficience of our tongue :
Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend
So great a poet, and so good a friend.

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