The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume Ii Part 4

Farce, in itself, is of a nasty scent; But the gain smells not of the excrement.

The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too, With all her charms, bore but a single show: 10 But let a monster Muscovite appear, He draws a crowded audience round the year.

May be thou hast not pleased the box and pit; Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit: So Terence plotted, but so Terence writ.

Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean Even lewdness is made moral in thy scene.

The hearers may for want of Nokes repine; But rest secure, the readers will be thine.

Nor was thy labour'd drama d.a.m.n'd or hiss'd, 20 But with a kind civility dismiss'd; With such good manners, as the Wife[17] did use, Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.

There was a glance at parting; such a look, As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.

But if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read, Copy one living author, and one dead: The standard of thy style let Etherege be; For wit, the immortal spring of Wycherly: Learn, after both, to draw some just design, 30 And the next age will learn to copy thine.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 17: 'Wife:' the wife in the play, Mrs Friendall.]

EPISTLE IX.

TO HENRY HIGDEN,[18] ESQ., ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

The Grecian wits, who Satire first began, Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man; At mighty villains, who the state oppress'd, They durst not rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least, And turn'd them out of office with a jest.

No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand.

Wise legislators never yet could draw A fop within the reach of common law; For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation, 10 Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.

Our last redress is dint of verse 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,[19] who lived in more degenerate times, Was forced to fasten deep, and worry crimes.

Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him so well, You make him smile in spite of all his zeal: An art peculiar to yourself alone, 20 To join the virtues of two styles in one.

Oh! were your author's principle received, Half of the labouring world would be relieved: For not to wish is not to be deceived.

Revenge would into charity be changed, Because it costs too dear to be revenged: It costs our quiet and content of mind, And when 'tis compa.s.s'd leaves a sting behind.

Suppose I had the better end o' the staff, Why should I help the ill-natured world to laugh? 30 'Tis all alike to them, who get the day; They love the spite and mischief of the fray.

No; I have cured myself of that disease; Nor will I be provoked, but when I please: But let me half that cure to you restore; You gave the salve, I laid it to the sore.

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 studious of debate, 40 Would cease false hopes and t.i.tles to create, Led by the rare example you begun, Clients would fail, and lawyers be undone.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18: 'Higden:' author of a bad comedy, which was condemned.]

[Footnote 19: 'Yours:' Juvenal, the tenth satire of whom Higden had translated.]

EPISTLE X.

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 Ja.n.u.s 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. 10 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 cursed; 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 s.p.a.ce: Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.

In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise; 20 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, the 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's courtship, Southerne's purity, The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly. 30 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. 40

O 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 cursed; For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.

But let them not mistake my patron's part, Nor call his charity their own desert. 50 Yet this I 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 wrought; But genius must be born, and never can be taught, 60 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, 70 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and O 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.

EPISTLE XI.

TO MR GRANVILLE,[20] ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY CALLED "HEROIC LOVE."

Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend, How could I envy, what I must commend!

But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit, That youth should reign, and withering age submit, With less regret those laurels I resign, 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 cast, And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. 10 Young princes, obstinate to win the prize, Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise: Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt, Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.

Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age Can best, if any can, support the stage; Which so declines, that shortly we may see Players and plays reduced to second infancy.

Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown, They plot not on the stage, but on the town, 20 And, in despair, their empty pit to fill, Set up some foreign monster in a bill.

Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving, And murdering plays, which they miscall reviving.

Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes convey'd: Scarce can a poet know the play he made; 'Tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he That suffers in the mangled tragedy.

Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after dress'd For his own sire, the chief invited guest. 30 I say not this of thy successful scenes, Where thine was 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 setting sun[21] still shoots a glimmering ray, Like ancient Rome majestic in decay: And better gleanings their worn soil can boast, Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.[22]