To my Dear Friend
MR CONGREVE,
On his COMEDY, call'd,
Well then; the promis' d Hour is come at laft; The prefent Age of Wit obfcures the past. Strong were our Syres; and as they Fought they Writ;
Conqu'ring 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 be the ftubborn Soil manur'd,
With Rules of Husbandry the Rankness cur'd:
Tam'd us to Manners,when the Stage was rude;
And boiftrous English Wit, with Art indu'd.
Our Age was cultivated thus at length;
But what we gain' din Skill, we loft in Strength.
Our Builders were,with Want of Genius,curft;
The Second Temple was not like the First:
'Till You, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
Our Beauties equal, but excel our Strength.
Firm Dorique Pillars found yourfolid Bafe:
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher Space;
Thus all below is Strength, and all above.
Grace.
In eafie Dialogue is Fletchers Praife:
He mov'd the Mind, but had no Pow'r to raife.
Great Johnfon did by Strength of Judgement
please:
Yet doubling Fletchers Force, he wants his Eafe.
In diff'ring Talents both adorn'd their Age;
One for the Study, t'other for the Stage.
But both to Congreve justly Jball fubmit,
One match'd in Judgment, both o'er-match'd in
Wit.
In Him all Beauties of this Age we fee; Etherege his Courtship, Southerns Purity; The Satire, Wit, and Strength of Manly Wi-S
All this in blooming Youth you have Atchiev'd;
Nor are your foil'd Contemporaries griev'd:
So much the Sweetness of your Manners move,
We cannot Envy you, because we Love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he faw
A Beardless Conful 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 Raphaels Fame;
And Scholar to the Youth he taught, became.
Oh that your Brows my Lawrel bad fuftain'd,
Well had I been Depos'd if You had Reign'd!
The Father had defcended for the Son;
For only You are lineal to the Throne.
Thus when the State one Edward did depofe;
A Greater Edward in his Room arofe.
But now, not I, but Poetry is curs'd;
For Tom the Setond reigns like Tom the Firft.
But let 'em not mistake my Patrons Part
Nor call his Charity their own Defert.
Yet this I Prophefie; Thou shalt be seen,
(Tho' with fame jhort Parenthesis between :)
High on the Throne of Wit; and feated there,
Not mine (that's little ) but thy Lawrel wear.
Thy firft Attempt an early Promife made;
That early Promife 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,
[taught.
But Genius must be born; and never can be
This is Your Portion;this Your Native Store;
Heav'n, that but once was Prodigal before,
To Shakespear gave as much; the cou'd not
give him more.
Maintain your Poft: That's all the Fame you need;
For 'tis impoffible you thou'd proceed. Already I am worn with Cares and Age; And just abandoning th’Ungrateful Stage: Unprofitably kept at Heav'ns Expence, I live a Rent-charge on his Providence: But You, whom ev'ry Muse and Grace adorn, Whom I forefee to better Fortune born, Be kind to my Remains; and ob defend, Against your Judgment, your departed Friend! Let not th' infulting Foe my Fame pursue; But Jhade thofe Lawrels which defcend to You: And take for Tribute what thefe Lines exprefs: You merit more; nor cou'd my Love do lefs.
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
OORS have this Way (as Story tells) to know
Whether their Brats are truly got, or no;
Into the Sea the New-born Babe is thrown
There, as Instinct directs, to fwim, or drown.
Abarbarous Device, to try if Spouse
Has kept religiously her Nuptial Vows.
Such are the Trials, Poets make of Plays:
Only they trust to more inconftant Seas;
So does our Author, this his Child commit
To the tempeftuous Mercy of the Pit,
To know if it be truly born of Wit.
Criticks avaunt; for you are Fish of prey,
And feed, like Sharks, upon an Infant Play.
Be ev'ry Monster of the Deep away;
Let's have a fair Trial and a clear Sea.
Let Nature work, and do not damn too soon,
For Life will (truggle long, e're it fink down:
And will at least rife thrice, before it drown.
Let us confider, had it been our Fate,
Thus hardly to be prov'd Legitimate!
I will not fay, we'd all in Danger been,
Were each to fuffer for his Mothers Sin:
But by my Troth Icannot avoid thinking
How nearly fome good Men might have 'cap'd finking.
But, Heav'n be prais'd, this Custom is confin'd
Alone to th' Offspring of the Mujes kind.
Our Chriftian Cuckolds are more bent to Pity;
I know not one Moor-Husband in the City.
Tth' good Mans Arms the Chopping Bastard thrives,
For he thinks all his own, that is his Wives.
Whatever Fate is for this Play defign'd,
The Poet's fure he jhall fome Comfort find:
For if his Mufe has play'd him falfe, the worst
That can befal him, is, to be divoxc'd;
You Husbands judge, if that, be to be Curs'd.
MASKWELL, A Villain; pretended Friend to Mellefont, Gallant to Lady Touchwood, and in Love with Cynthia.
LORD TOUCHWOOD, Uncle to Mellefont. MELLEFONT, promised to, and in Love with Cynthia.
CARELESS, his Friend.
LORD FORTH, A Solemn Coxcomb.
BRISK, A pert Coxcomb.
SIR PAUL PLYANT, An Uxorious, Foolish old Knight; Brother to Lady Touchwood, and Fa ther to Cynthia.
CYNTHIA, Daughter so Sir Paul by a former Wife,
LADY FROTH, A great Cocquet; pretender to Poetry, Wit, and Learning.
LADY PLYANT, Infolent to her Husband, and cafie to any Pretender.
Chaplain, Boy, Footmen, and Attendants.
The SCENE, A Gallery in the Lord Touchwoods Houfe, with Chambers adjoining.
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