To my dear friend Mr. CONGREVE, on his Comedy called
The Double Dealer.
WELL, then, the promis'd hour is come at last,
The present age of wit obscures 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 stood.
Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manur'd,
With rules of husbandry, the rankness cur'd;
Tam'd us to manners when the stage was rude,
And boist'rous English wit with art endu'd..
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 curs'd;
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 space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise ;
He mov'd the mind, but had not pow'r to raise. Great Johnson did by strength of judgment please; Yet doubling Fletcher's force he wants his case.
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.
To my dear friend Mr. CONGREVE, on his Comedy called
The Double Dealer.
WELL, then, the promis'd hour is come at last,
The present age of wit obscures 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 stood.
Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manur'd,
With rules of husbandry, the rankness cur'd;
Tam'd us to manners when the stage was rude,
And boist'rous English wit with art endu'd.
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 curs'd;
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 space; Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;
He mov'd the mind, but had not pow'r to raise. Great Johnson did by strength of judgment please; Yet doubling Fletcher's force he wants his ease.
In diff'ring talents both adorn'd their age,
One for the study, th' 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 his courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achiev'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 saw
A beardless consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,
Tho' he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.
O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd!
Well had I been depos'd, 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 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 desert.
Yet this I prophecy: Thou shalt be seen
(Tho' 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,
Heav'n, that but once was prodigal before, [more.
To Shakspeare gave as much; she could not give him
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 th' ungrateful stage.
Unprofitably kept at Heav'n's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence :
But you, whom ev'ry Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and, O defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th' 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.
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