Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean's
Ev'n lewdness is made moral in thy fcene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
But reft fecure, the readers will be thine.

Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hifs'd,
But with a kind civility dismiss'd;
With fuch good manners, as the Wife did use,
Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.
There was a glance at parting; fuch a look,
As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.
But if thou wouldst be feen, as well as read,
Copy one living author, and one dead:
The standard of thy ftyle let Etherege be;
For wit, th' immortal fpring of Wycherley;
Learn, after both, to draw fome just design,
And the next age will learn to copy thine.

THE Grecian wits, who Satire first began,
Were pleasant Pafquins on the life of man ;
At mighty villains, who the ftate oppreft,
They durft not rail, perhaps; they lafh'd, at
leaft,

And turn'd them out of office with a jeft.

No fool could peep abroad, but ready ftand
The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand.
Wife legiflators never yet could draw
A fop within the reach of common law;
For pofture, drefs, grimace, and affectation,
Though focs to fenfe, are harmless to the nation.

Our laft redrefs is dint of verfe to try,
And Satire is our Court of Chancery.
This way took Horace to reform an age,
Not bad enough to need an author's rage.
But yours, who liv'd in more degenerate times,
Was forc'd to faften deep, and worry crimes.
Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him so well,
You make him fmile in spite of all his zeal :
An art peculiar to yourself alone,

To join the virtues of two ftyles in one.

Oh were your author's principle receiv'd, Half of the labouring world would be reliev'd: For not to with is not to be deceiv'd. Revenge would into charity be chang'd, Because it costs too dear to be reveng'd: It cofts our quiet and content of mind,

And when 'tis compass'd leaves a fting behind.

Suppose I had the better end o' th' staff,
Why should I help th' ill-natur'd world to laugh?
'Tis all alike to them, who get the day;
They love the spite and mifchief of the fray.
No; I have cur'd myself of that disease;
Nor will I be provok'd, but when I please:
But let me half that cure to you restore;
You give the falve, I laid it to the fore.

Our kind relief against a rainy day,
Beyond a tavern, or a tedious play,
We take your book, and laugh our spleen away.
If all your tribe, too ftudious of debate,
Would ceafe falfe hopes and titles to create,
Led by the rare example you begun,

Clients would fail, and lawyers be undone.

WELL then, the promis'd hour is come at last,
The prefent age of wit obfcures the pasft: [writ,
Strong were our fires, and as they fought they
Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit:
Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire ftood.
Like Janus he the stubborn foil manur'd,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd;
Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude,
And boisterous English wit with art indued.
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 beat Vitruvius, come at length;
Our beauties equal, but excel our frength;
Firm Doric pillars found your folid base:
The fair Corinthian crown the higher space :
Thus all below is ftrength, and all above is grace.

[wit.

[ley.

In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praife;
He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonfon did by strength of judgment pleafe;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his cafe.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the ftudy, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in
In him all beauties of this age we see
Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity,
The fatire, wit, and strength of manly Wycher-
All this in blooming youth you have atchiev'd:
Nor are your foil'd co-temporaries griev’d.
So mnch the sweetnefs of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardlefs conful made against the law,
And join his fufferage to the votes of Rome;
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.

Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,
And fcholar to the youth he taught became.

O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd!
Well had I been depos'd, if you had reign'd:
The father had defcended for the fon;
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus, when the ftate one Edward did depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose.
But now, not 1, but poetry is curs'd;

For Tom the fecond reigns like Tom the first.
But let them not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own defert.
Yet this I prophefy; thou fhalt be seen,
(Though with fome fhort parenthesis between)
High on the throne of wit, and, feated there,
Not mine, that's littie, but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet fo judiciously 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;
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much; fhe could not (
give him more.

Maintain your poft: That's all the fame you
For 'tis impoffible you should proceed. [need;
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage :
Unprofitably kept at heaven's expence,
I live a rent-charge on his providence:
But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I forefee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and O defend,
Againft your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th' infulting foe my fame pursue,
But fhade thofe laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines exprefs:
You merit more; nor could my love do leís.

AUSPICIOUS poet, were thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But fince 'tis nature's law in love and wit, [mit,
That youth fhould reign, and withering age fub-
With lefs regret thofe laurels 1 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 caft,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lofe at last.
Young princes, obftinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rife:
Old monarchs, though 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 shortly we may fee
Players and plays reduc'd to fecond infency.
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the ftage, but on the town.
And, in defpair their empty pit to fill,
Set up fome foreign moufler in a bill.

Thus they jog on, ftill tricking, never thriving, And murdering plays, which they miscal riviving.

Our fenfe is nonfenfe, through their pipes convey'd;

Scarce can a poet know the play be made;
'Tis fo difquis'd in death; nor thinks 'tis he
That fuffers in the mangled tragedy,,
Thus Itys firft was kill'd, and after drefs'&
For his own fire, the chief invited gueft.

I fay not this of thy fuccefsful fcenes,
Where thine is 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 fetting-fun ftill fhoors a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majeftic in decay :
And better gleanings their worn foil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coat.
This difference yet the judging world will fee
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.

"Tis hard, my friend, to write in fuch an age,
As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
That facred art, by heaven itself infus'd,
Which Mofes, David, Solomon, have us'd,
Is now to be no more: the Mufes' foes
Would fink their Maker's praises into profe.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of ftraggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who, but a madman, would his thoughts defend?
All would fubmit; for all but fools will mend.
But when to common fenfe they give the lie,
And turn diftorted words to blafphemy,
They give the fcandal, and the wife difcern,
Their gloffes teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely or profanely writ,
Let them to fires, their due defert, commit:
Nor, when accus'd 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 filenc'd; for the faints would fee
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy.
But let us first reform, and then fo live,
That we may teach our teachers to forgive:
Our defk be plac'd 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;

VOL. VI.

Ambition, intereft, avarice, accufe:
These are the province of a Tragic Muse.
These haft thou chofen; and the public voice
Has equal'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are fo preferv'd by thee
That ev'n Corneille might with envy see
Th' 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 defign, and Wycherley in wit.
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare;
Contented to be thinly regular :

Born there, but not for them, our fruitful foil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue, enfeebled, is refin'd too much;
And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,
More fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd
with allay.

But whence art thou infpir'd, 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 beft.
In under-praising thy deferts, I wrong;
Here find the firft deficience of our tongue :
Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend
So great a poet, and so good a friend.

K

How blefs'd is he, who leads a country life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of ftrife!
Who, studying peace, and fhunning civil rage,
Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:
All who deferve his love, he makes his own;
And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
Juft, good, and wife, contending neigbours

come,

From your award to wait their final doom;
And, foes before, return in friendship home.
Without their cost, you terminate the caufe;
And fave th' expence of long litigious laws:
Where fuits are travers'd; and fo little won,
That he who conquers, is but laft undone :
Such are not your decrees; but fo defign'd,
The fanction leaves a lafting peace behind;
Like your own foul, ferene; a patron of your
mind.

Promoting concord, and compofing ftrife;
Lord of yourself, uncumber'd with a wife;
Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night,
Long penitence fucceeds a fhort delight:
Minds are fo hardly match'd, that even the first,
Though pair'd by Heaven, in Paradife were
curs'd.

For man and woman, though in one they grow,
Yet first or laft, return again to two
He to God's image, the to his was made;
So, farther from the fount the ftream at ran
dom ftray'd.

How could he ftand, when, put to duble pain, He muft a weaker than himself fuftain!

Each might have ftooc perhaps; but each alone; Two wrestlers help to pull each other down.

Not that my verfe would blemish all the fair,
But yet, if fome be bad, 'tis wifdom to beware;
And better fhun the bait, than struggle in the
fnare.

Thus have you fhunn'd, and shun the marry'd ftate,
Trufting as little as you can to fate.
No porter guards the paffage of
your door,
T'admit the wealthy, and exclude the poor;
For God, who gave the riches, gave the heart,
To fanctify the whole, by giving part;
Heaven, who forefaw the will, the means has
wrought,

And to the fecond fon a bleffing brought;
The first begotten had his father's fhare :
But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca's heir.

So may your stores and fruitful fields increase;
And ever be you blefs'd, who live to blefs.
As Ceres low'd, where-e'er her chariot flew;
As heaven in deferts rain'd the bread of dew:
So free to many, to relations most,

You feed with manna your own lfrael host.

With crowds attended of your ancient race, You feck the champion sports, or sylvan chace: With well-breath'd beagles you furround the wood,

Ev'n then, induftrious of the common good:
And often have you brought the wily fox
To fuffer for the fiftings of the flocks;
Chac'd even amid the folds, and made to bleed,
Like felons, where they did the murderous deed.
This fiery game your active youth maintain'd;
Nt yet by year extinguif', though reftrain'd:
You feafon fill with ipor s your ferious hours:
For age but tailes of plemu.es, youth devours.