To my Dear Friend

Mr. CONGREVE,

On his COMEDY, call'd,

The DOUBLE-DEALER.

WELL then; the promis'd Hour is some at Laff;
The prefent Age of Wit obfcures the past:

Strong were our Sires; 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 flood.
Like Janus, be the flubborn Soil manur'd,
With Rules of Husbandry, the Rankness cur'd:
Tam'd us to Manners, when the Stage was rude;
And boift'rous English Wit, with Art indu'd.
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 Second Temple was not like the First:
'Till You, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our Beauties equal; but exel our Strength.
Firm Dorique Pillars found Your folid Bafe:
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher Space;
Thus all below is Strength, and all above is Grace.
In eafy Dialogue is Fletcher's Praife:

He mov'd the Mind, but had no Pow'r to raife.
Great Johnfon did by Strength of Judgment please:
Tet doubling Fletcher's 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 fhall fubmit,
One match'd in Judgment, both o'er-match'd in Wit,

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In

In Him all Beauties of this Age we fee,
Etherege his Courtship, Southern's Purity;
The Satire, Wit, and Strength of Manly Wicherly..
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 fare.
A Beardless Conful made again.ft the Law,
And join his Suffrage to the Votes of Rome;
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bom'd to Raphael's Fame;
And Scholar to the Youth be taught, became.

Oh that your Brows my Laurel had fuflain'd,.
Well had I been Depos'd, if You had Reign'd!:
The Father had defcended for the Són;-
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 curs'd;

For Tom the Second Reigns, like Tom the First...
But let 'em not mistake my Patron's Part;
Nor call his Charity their own Defert.
Yet this I Prophefy; Thou shalt be feens
(Tho' with fome Short Parenthesis between:)
High on the Throne of Wit; and feated there,
Not mine (that's little) but thy Laurel wear.
Thy first Attempt an early Promife 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 ;-

Heav'n, that but once was Prodigal before,

To Shakefpear gave as much; she could not give him more.
Maintain your Poft: That's all the Fame you need ; ..
For tis impoffible you shou'd proceed.
Already I am worn with Cares and Age;
And just abandoning th' Ungrateful Stage:

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Unprofitably

Unprofitably kept at Heav'ns Expence,
I live a Reat-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 fhade thefe Laurels which defcend to You:
And take for Tribute what these Lines exprefs
You merit more; nor cou'd my Love do less.

John Dryden

PRO

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.

MOORS 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 Inftinct directs, to swim, or drown.
A barbarous Device, to try if Spouse
Has kept religiously ker 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 Sen.

Let Nature work, and do not Damn too foon,
For Life will ftruggle long, ere 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 Mother's Sin:
But by my Troth I cannot avoid thinking,
How nearly fome good Men might have 'scap'd finking.
But, Heav'n be prais'd, this Cuftom is confin'd
Alone to th' Offspring of the Mufes kind:

Our Chriftian Cuckolds are more bent to Pity;
I know not one Moor-Husband in the City.
I'th good Man's 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 shall fome Comfort find:
For if his Mufe has play'd him falfe, the worst
That can befall him, is, to be divorc'd;
You Husbands judge, if that, be to be Curs'd

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DRAS