To Mr. CONgreve.

On "The Old Bachelor."

WHEN virtue in pursuit of fame appears,
And forward shoots the growth beyond the years,
We timely court the rising hero's cause,
And on his side the poet wisely draws;
Bespeaking him hereafter by applause.
The days will come when we shall all receive
Returning interest from what now we give;
Instructed and supported by that praise
And reputation which we strive to raise.
Nature so coy, so hardly to be woo'd,
Flies like a mistress, but to be pursued.
O CONGREVE! boldly follow on the chase;
She looks behind, and wants thy strong embrace;
She yields, she yields, surrenders all her charms,
Do you but force her gently to your arms :
Such nerves, such graces, in your lines appear,
As you were made to be her ravisher.
Dryden has long extended his command,
By right divine, quite through the Muses' land
Absolute lord; and holding now from none,
But great Apollo, his undoubted crown;
(That empire settled, and grown old in power)
Can wish for nothing but a successor :
Not to enlarge his limits, but maintain
Those provinces which he alone could gain.
His eldest Wycherley, in wise retreat,
Thought it not worth his quiet to be great.
Loose, wandering Etherege, in wild pleasures tost
And foreign interests, to his hopes long lost :
Poor Lee and Otway dead! CONGREVE appears,
The darling and last comfort of his years.
Mayst thou live long in thy great Master's smiles,
And growing under him, adorn these isles :
But when-when part of him (be that but late)
His body yielding must submit to fate,
Leaving his deathless works and thee behind,
(The natural successor of his mind,)
Then mayst thou finish what he has begun ;
Heir to his merit, be in fame his son.
What thou hast done shows all is in thy power;
And to write better, only must write more.
"Tis something to be willing to commend;
But my best praise is, that I am your friend.

THO. SOUTHERNE.

To Mr. CONGREVE. On" The Old Bachelor." THE danger's great in these censorious days, When critics are so rife, to venture praise: When the infectious and ill-natured brood Behold and damn the work because 'tis good; And with a proud, ungenerous spirit, try To pass an ostracism on poetry.

But you, my friend, your worth does safely bear
Above their spleen; you have no cause for fear.
Like a well-mettled hawk you took your flight
Quite out of reach, and almost out of sight.
As the strong sun, in a fair summer's day,
You rise, and drive the mists and clouds away,
The owls and bats, and all the birds of prey.
Each line of yours like polish'd steel's so hard,
In beauty safe it wants no other guard :
Nature herself's beholden to your dress,
Which though still like, much fairer you express.
Some vainly striving honour to obtain,
Leave to their heirs the traffic of their brain,
Like china under ground, the ripening ware,
In a long time, perhaps grows worth our care.
But you now reap the fame, so well you've sown ;
The planter tastes his fruit to ripeness grown.
As a fair orange-tree at once is seen

Big with what's ripe, yet springing still with green,
So at one time my worthy friend appears,
With all the sap of youth, and weight of years.
Accept my pious love, as forward zeal,
Which, though it ruins me, I can't conceal:
Exposed to censure for my weak applause,
I'm pleased to suffer in so just a cause :
And though my offering may unworthy prove,
Take, as a friend, the wishes of my love.

To Mr. CONGREVE.

J. MARSH.

On his Play called "The Old Bachelor." WIT, like true gold refined from all allay, Immortal is, and never can decay; 'Tis in all times and languages the same, Nor can an ill translation quench the flame: For though the form and fashion don't remain, The intrinsic value still it will retain. Then let each studied scene be writ with art; And judgment sweat to form the labour'd part; Each character be just, and Nature seem; Without the ingredient, wit, 'tis all but phlegm : For that's the soul which all the mass must move, And wake our passions into grief, or love. But you, too bounteous, sow your wit so thick, We are surprised, and know not where to pick: And while with clapping we are just to you, Ourselves we injure, and lose something new. What mayn't we then, great youth, of thee presage Whose art and wit so much transcend thy age? How wilt thou shine at thy meridian height, Who, at thy rising, givest so vast a light! When Dryden dying shall the world deceive, Whom we immortal, as his works, believe; Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the stage, Adorn and entertain the coming age.

To my dear Friend Mr. CONGREVE, on his Comedy called "The Double-Dealer."

WELL, then, the promised hour is come at last ;
The present age of wit obscures the past:
Strong were our siros, and as they fought they writ,
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 stood.
Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cured:
Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude;
And boisterous English wit with art endued.
Our age was cultivated thus at length;

But what we gain'd in skill we lost in strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curst;
The second temple was not like the first:
'Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;

He moved the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please ;
Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to CONGREVE justly shall submit,
One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see,
Etherege his courtship, Southerne's purity;
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achieved;
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved ;
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless consul 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.

Oh! 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 curst;

For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let 'em not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet I this 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 wronght,
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 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, oh 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.

JOHN DRYDEN.

To Mr. CONGREVE, occasioned by his Comedy called "The Way of the World."

WHEN pleasure's falling to the low delight,
In the vain joys of the uncertain sight;
No sense of wit when rude spectators know,
But in distorted gesture, farce and show;
How could, great author, your aspiring mind
Dare to write only to the few refined?
Yet though that nice ambition you pursue,
'Tis not in CONGREVE's power to please but few.
Implicitly devoted to his fame,

Well-dress'd barbarians know his awful name.
Though senseless they're of mirth, but when they

laugh,

As they feel wine, but when, till drunk, they quaff.
On you from fate a lavish portion fell
In every way of writing to excel.
Your muse applause to Arabella brings,
In notes as sweet as Arabella sings.
Whene'er you draw an undissembled woe,
With sweet distress your rural numbers flow:
Pastora's the complaint of every swain,
Pastora still the echo of the plain!

Or if your muse describe, with warming force,
The wounded Frenchman falling from his horse;
And her own William glorious in the strife,
Bestowing on the prostrate foe his life:
You the great act as generously rehearse,
And all the English fury's in your verse.
By your selected scenes and handsome choice,
Ennobled Comedy exalts her voice;
You check unjust esteem and fond desire,
And teach to scorn what else we should admire :
The just impression taught by you we bear,
The player acts the world, the world the player;
Whom still that world unjustly disesteems,
Though he alone professes what he seems.
But when your muse assumes her tragic part,
She conquers and she reigns in every heart:
To mourn with her men cheat their private woe,
And generous pity's all the grief they know.
The widow, who, impatient of delay,

From the town joys must mask it to the play,
Joins with your Mourning Bride's resistless moan,
And weeps a loss she slighted when her own:
You give us torment, and you give us ease,
And vary our afflictions as you please.
Is not a heart so kind as yours in pain,
To load your friends with cares you only feign;
Your friends in grief, composed yourself, to leave !
But 'tis the only way you'll e'er deceive.
Then still, great sir, your moving power employ,
To lull our sorrow, and correct our joy.

RICHARD STEELE.

MOST authors on the stage at first appear
Like widows' bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear :
They judge, from the experience of the dame,
How hard a task it is to quench her flame:
And who falls short of furnishing a course,
Up to his brawny predecessor's force,
With utmost rage from her embraces thrown,
Remains convicted, as an empty drone.
Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner
Proves, in the end, a miserable sinner.

As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him,
With all the vigour of his youth about him,
But he, more sanguine, trusts in one-and-twenty,
And impudently hopes he shall content you;
For though his Bachelor be worn and cold,
He thinks the young may club to help the old;

And what alone can be achieved by neither,

Is often brought about by both together.
The briskest of you all have felt alarms,
Finding the fair one prostitute her charms,
With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms.
But for our spark, he swears he'll ne'er be jealous
Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows.
Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave,
After his bragging, prove a washy knave,
May he be banish'd to some lonely den,
And never more have leave to dip his pen
But if he be the champion he pretends,
Both sexes sure will join to be his friends;
For all agree, where all can have their ends.
And you must own him for a man of might,
If he holds out to please you the third night.

How this vile world is changed! in former days
Prologues were serious speeches before plays;
Grave solemn things, as graces are to feasts,
Where poets begg'd a blessing from their
guests.

But now, no more like suppliants we come ;
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum:
Arm'd with keen satire, and with pointed wit,
We threaten you who do for judges sit,
To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit.
But for your comfort, it falls out to day,
We've a young author, and his first-born play;
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He's very civil, and entreats your favour.

Not but the man has malice, would he show it,
But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet;
You think that strange-no matter, he'll out-grow it.
Well, I'm his advocate-by me he prays you,
(I don't know whether I shall speak to please you)
He prays-O bless me! what shall I do now!
Hang me, if I know what he prays, or how !
And 'twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it!
Well the deuse take me, if I han't forgot it!
O Lord, for heaven's sake excuse the play,
Because, you know, if it be damn'd to-day,
I shall be hang'd for wanting what to say.
For my sake then-but I'm in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution. [Runs off.

SCENE I.-The Street.

BELLMOUR and VAINLOVE meeting.

Bell. Vainlove, and abroad so early! good morrow. I thought a contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning, than he could have slept in't.

Vain. Bellmour, good morrow.-Why, truth on't is, these early sallies are not usual to me; but business, as you see, sir-[Showing letters.] And business must be followed, or be lost.

Bell. Business !-and so must time, my friend, be close pursued, or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark. Vain. Pleasure, I guess, you mean. Bell. Ay, what else has meaning? Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you

Bell. More than they believe-or understand

Vain. How, how, Ned, a wise man say more than he understands?

Bell. Ay, ay; wisdom's nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew was, that he knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of 'em wit, be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let father Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel 'till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element-I roll in a higher orb, and dwell

Vain. In castles i'th' air of thy own building: that's thy element, Ned. Well, as high a flyer as you are, I have a lure may make you stoop. [Flings a letter.

Bell. Ay, marry, sir, I have a hawk's eye at a woman's hand.--There's more elegancy in the