He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch.
Now, where are the successors to my name?
What bring they to fill out a poet's fame?
Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age;
Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage!
For humour farce, for love they rime dispense,
That tolls the knell for their departed sense.
From Prologue to the Tempest. [1667
As when a tree 's cut down, the secret root
Lives underground, and thence new branches
So from old Shakespeare's honour'd dust, this
day
Springs up and buds a new reviving play :
Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart
To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.
He, monarch-like, gave those his subjects, law;
And is that nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did
While Jonson crept, and gather'd all below.
This did his love, and this his mirth digest:
One imitates him most, the other best.
If they have since outwrit all other men,
'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's
The storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring
Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to
That innocence and beauty which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle.
But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.
I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magic supernatural things:
But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's.
Those legends from old priesthood were received,
And he then writ, as people then believed.
From Prologue to Albumazar. [1668
To say, this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his masterpiece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
Epilogue to the Second Part of The
Conquest of Granada.
THEY who have best succeeded on the stage,
Have still conform'd their genius to their age.
Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show,
When men were dull, and conversation low.
Their comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse:
Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse.
And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene,
Which must atone for an ill-written play.
They rose, but at their height could seldom stay.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
And they have kept it since by being dead.
But, were they now to write, when Critics weigh
Each line, and every word, throughout a play,
None of them, no, not Jonson in his height,
Could pass, without allowing grains for weight.
Think it not envy that these truths are told:
Our poet's not malicious though he 's bold.
'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown,
But by their errors, to excuse his own.
If love and honour now are higher raised,
'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.
Wit's now arrived to a more high degree;
Our native language more refined and free.
Then, one of these is, consequently, true;
That what this poet writes comes short of you,
And imitates you ill (which most he fears),
Or else his writing is not worse than theirs.
Yet though you judge (as sure the critics will),
That some before him writ with greater skill,
In this one praise he has their fame surpast,
To please an age more gallant than the last.
From The Art of Poetry.
OBSERVE the town, and study well the court;
For thither various characters resort:
Thus 'twas great Jonson purchased his renown,
And in his art had borne away the crown;
If, less desirous of the people's praise,
He had not with low farce debased his plays;
Mix'd dull buffoonery with wit refined,
And Harlequin with noble Terence join'd.
When in the Fox I see the tortoise hiss'd
I lose the author of the Alchymist.
YOUR bully poets, bully heroes write :
Chapman in Bussy d'Ambois took delight,
And thought perfection was to huff and fight.
OUR ancient verse, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeasured, overclogg'd with rhymes;
Number and cadence that have since been shown,
To those unpolish'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax was he, who in that darker age,
By his just rules restrain'd poetic rage;
Spenser did next in pastorals excel,
And taught the noble art of writing well :
To stricter rules the stanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.
Then D'Avenant came; who with a new-found art,
Changed all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart:
His haughty Muse all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the sharp-sighted critics of the times,
In their Mock-Gondibert, exposed his rhymes;
The laurels he pretended did refuse,
And dash'd the hopes of his aspiring muse.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take less liberty.
Waller came last, but was the first whose art
Just weight and measure did to verse impart ;
That of a well-placed word could teach the force,
And show'd for poetry a nobler course;
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And easy words with pleasing numbers join:
His verses to good method did apply,
And changed hard discord to soft harmony.
All own'd his laws; which long approved and tried,
To present authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his steps, secure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expressions clear.
LET not so mean a style your muse debase:
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace.
Epistle 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 sires, 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;
|