But you
Within the circle of the Bear:
What region of the earth so dull,
That is not of your labours full?
Triptolemus (so sung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But, spite of all these fable-makers,
He never sow'd on Almain acres :
No, that was left, by Fate's decree,
To be perform'd and sung by thee.
Thou break'st thro' forms with as much ease
As the French king thro' articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment
With such as monarchs represent.
They whom such vast fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To shew the world that now and then
Great ministers are mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round,
In bumpers ev'ry king is crown'd;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is sunk,
That pays to make his Envoy drunk.
These Dutch delights I mention'd last
Suit not, I know, your English taste;
For wine, to leave a whore or play,
Was ne'er your Excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your Excellence;
For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,
His Excellence for all but sleeping,
Now, if you top in form and treat,
'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder imposition,
Which is indeed the Court's petition,
That, setting worldly pomp aside,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd, in humble way,
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation,
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wise negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will say,
The Duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce;
And you, whose comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal :
Then finish what you have began,
But scribble faster, if you can:
For yet no George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten year's warning.
To Mr. SOUTHERN, on his Comedy called The Wive's Excuse.
SURE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain To write while these malignant planets reign. Some very foolish influence rules the pit, Not always kind to sense, or just to wit, And whilst it lasts let buffoon'ry succeed To make us laugh, for never was more need. 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; But let a monster Muscovite appear, He draws a crowded audience round the year. May be thou hast not pleas'd the box and pit; Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit: To Terence plotted but so Terence writ. Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean E'en 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 damn'd or hiss'd,
But with a kind civility dismiss'd;
With such good manners as the wife did use
Who, not excepting, did but just efuse.
There was a glance at parting; such a look
As bids thee not give o'er for one rebuke,
But if thou would'st be seen as well as read,
Copy one living author and one dead:
The standard of thy style let Etherege be;
For wit, th' immortal spring of Wycherley:
Learn, after both, to draw some just design,
And the next age will learn to copy thine,
To HENRY HIGDEN, 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 opprest,
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,
Tho' 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 your's who liv'd in more degen'rate times,
Was forc'd 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,
To join the virtues of two styles in one.
Oh! were your author's principle receiv'd,
Half of the lab'ring world would be reliev'd:
For not to wish is not be deceiv'd.
Revenge would into charity be chang'd,
Because it costs too dear to be reveng'd:
It costs our quiet and content of mind,
And when 'tis compass'd leaves a sting behind.
Suppose I had the better end o' th' staff,
Why should I help th' ill-natur'd world to laugh? 'Tis all alike to them who get the day;
They love the spite and mischief of the fray.
No; I have cur'd myself of that disease,
Nor will I be provok'd 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,
Would cease false hopes and titles to create,
Led by the rare example you begun,
Cliants would fail, and lawyers be undone.
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