You had oblig'd us by employing wit
Not to reform Pandora, but the Pit;
For as the nightingale, without the throng
Of other birds, alone attends her fong,
While the loud daw, his threat displaying, draws
The whole affembly of his fellow-daws;
So must the writer whose productions should
Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould;
Whilft nobler fancies make a flight too high
For common view, and lessen as they fly.

XXXVII.

TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR,

A PERSON OF HONOUR,

Whe lately writ a religious book, intituled, Hiftorical Applications, and Occafional Meditations, upon feveral Subjects.

BOLD is the man that dares engage
For Piety in fuch an age!
Who can presume to find a guard

From scorn, when Heav'n's fo little spar'd?
Divines are pardon'd; they defend
Altars on which their lives depend;
But the profane impatient are,
When nobler pens make this their care;
For why should these let in a beam
Of divine light to trouble them,
And call in doubt their pleafing thought,
That none believes what we are taught?
High birth and fortune warrant give
That fuch men write what they believe;
And, feeling first what they endite,
New credit give to ancient light.
Amongst these few, our author brings
His well-known pedigree from kings.
This book, the image of his mind,
Will make his name not hard to find:
I wish the throng of great and good
Made it lefs eas'ly understood!

XXXVIII.

TO A PERSON OF HONOUR,

Upon bis incomparable, incomprehensible Poem, intituled, The Britifo Princes.

SIR! you've oblig'd the British nation more
Than all their bards could ever do before,
And at your own charge monuments as hard
As brafs or marble to your fame have rear'd:
For as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight,
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own;
That 'twill be doubtful whether you do write,
Or they have acted at a nobler height.

You of your ancient princes have retriev'd More than the ages knew in which they liv'd; Explain'd their customs and their rights anew, Better than all their Druids ever knew;

Unriddled those dark oracles as well

As thofe that made them could themselves fore.

tel.

For as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again,
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in your poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic pow'r has your prodigious pen
To raise the dead, and give new life to men,
Make rival princes meet in arms, and love
Whom diftant ages did fo far remove:
For as eternity has neither past

Nor future, authors fay, nor first nor laft,
But is all inftant, your eternal mufe
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then why fhould you, whose miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufied head
T' obferve what times they liv'd in, or were
dead!

For fuch you have, fuch arbitrary pow'r,
It were defect in judgment to go low'r,
Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As ufe to take the vulgar latitude:

For no man's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not fome proportion with your wit:
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring sense that understands it here.

XXXIX.

TO CHLORIS.

CHLORIS! what's eminent, we know
Muft for fome cause be valu'd fo:
Things without use though they be good,
Are not by us fo underflood.
The early rofe, made to display
Her blushes to the youthful May,

Doth yield her fweets, fince he is fair,
And courts her with a gentle air.
Our ftars do fhew their excellence

Not by their light, but influence:

When brighter comets, fince still knows,
Fatal to all, are lik'd by none.
So your admired beauty still
Is, by effects, made good or ill.

XL.

TO THE KING.

GREAT Sir! difdain not in this piece to stand Supreme commander both of fea and land. Thole which inhabit the celestial bow'r, Painters exprefs with emblems of their pow'r;

His club Alcides, Phœbus has his bow,
Jove has his thunder, and your navy you.

But your great providence no colours here Can reprefent, nor pencil draw that care Which keeps you waking to secure our peace, The nation's glory, and our trade's increase: You for these ends whole days in council fit, And the diverfions of your youth forget.

Small were the worth of valour and of force, If your high wisdom govern'd not their course: You as the foul, as the first mover you, Vigour and life on ev'ry part bestow: How to build ships, and dreadful ord'nance cast, Inftruct the artists, and reward their hafte.

So Jove himself, when Typhon heav'n does
brave,

Defcends to vifit Vulcan's fmoky cave,
Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame
His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and
flame.

Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode,
Crete had not been the cradle of their god :
On that small island they had look'd with scorn,
And in great Britain thought the thund'rer
born.

XLI.

TO THE DUCHESS,

When be prefented

THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

MADAM! I here present you with the rage,
And with the beauties of a former age,
Wishing you may with as great pleasure view
This, as we take in gazing upon you.
Thus we writ then; your brighter eyes inspire
A nobler flame, and raise our genius high'r.
While we your wit and early knowledge fear,
To our productions we become severe :
Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing,
Your judgment makes us careful how we fing.
Lines not compos'd, as heretofore, in hafte,
Polifh'd like marble, shall like marble last,
And make you through as many ages fhine
As Tafso has the heroes of your line.

Though other names our wary writers use,
You are the fubject of the British Muse:
Dilating mischief to yourself unknown,
Men write, and die of wounds they dare not oWN.
So the bright fun burns all our grafs away,
While it means nothing but to give us day.

I.

SONG.

STAT, Phebus! ftay;

The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day

From us to them, can pay your hafte
With no fuch object, nor falute your rife

With no fuch wonder as De Mornay's eyes.

Well does this prove

The error of those antique books

Which made you move

About the world: her charming looks

Would fix your beams, and make it ever day, Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.

II.

SONG.

SAY, lovely Dream! where couldst thou find
Shades to counterfeit that face?
Colours of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.

In heav'n itself thou fure wert drest
With that angel-like disguise :
Thus deluded him I blest,
And fee my joy with closed eyes.

But, ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream:
Cruel Sachariffa's mind

Never put on that sweet extreme!

Fair Dream! if thou intend's me grace,
Change that heav'nly face of thine;
Paint defpis'd love in thy face,
And make it t' appear like mine.

Pale, wan, and meagre, let it look,
With a pity-moving shape,
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.

Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whofe fhape thou shineft fo;

BEHOLD the brand of Beauty toft!

See how the motion does dilate the flame!

Delighted Love his spoils does boast,
And triumph in this game.
Fire, to no place confin'd,

Is both our wonder and our fear,
Moving the mind,

As light'ning hurled through the air.

High heav'n the glory does increase
Of all her fhining lamps this artful way;
The fun in figures, fuch as thefe,
Joys with the moon to play:

To the fweet ftrains they advance,
Which do refult from their own spheres,
As this nymph's dance

Moves with the numbers which the hears.

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

THIS happy day two lights are seen
A glorious Saint, a matchlefs Queen;
Both nam'd alike, both crown'd appear,
The faint above, th' infanta here.
May all those years which Catharine
The martyr did for heav'n refign,
Be added to the line

Of your bleft life among us here!
For all the pains that she did feel,
And all the torments of her wheel,
May you as many pleasures share!
May Heav'n itself content
With Catharine the Saint!
Without appearing old,
An hundred times may you,
With eyes as bright as now,
This welcome day behold!

I.

PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS,

SPOKEN BEFORE K. CHARLES H.

AMAZE us not with that majestic frowa,
But lay afide the greatness of your crown!
And for that look which does your people awe,
When in your throne and robes you give them law,
Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile,
Such as we fee great Jove's in picture, while
He liftens to Apollo's charming lyre,
Or judges of the fongs he does inspire.
Comedians on the ftage fhew all their skill,
And after do as Love and Fortune will.
We are lefs careful, hid in this disguise;
In our own clothes more serious and more wife.
Modeft at home, upon the ftage more bold,
We feem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold:
A fault committed here deserves no scorn,
If we act well the parts to which we're born.

Our mufe would flourish, and a nobler rage
Would honour this than did the Grecian stage.
Thus fays our author, not content to fee
That others write as carelessly as he;
Though he pretends not to make things complete,
Yet, to pleafe you, he'd have the poets fweat.

In this old play, what's new we have exprest
In rhyming verfe, diftinguish'd from the reft;
That as the Rhone its hafty way does make
(Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake,
So having here the diff'rent styles in view,
You may compare the former with the new.
If we lefs rudely fhall the knot untie,
Soften the rigour of the tragedy,
And yet preferve each perfon's character,
Then to the other this you may prefer.
'Tis left to you: the boxes and the pit
Are fov'reign judges of this fort of wit.
In other things the knowing artist may
Judge better than the people; but a play,
(Made for delight, and for no other use)
If you approve it not, has no excuse.

II.
PROLOGUE

TO THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.

SCARCE fhould we have the boldness to pretend
So long renown'd a tragedy to mend,
Had not already fome deferv'd your praise
With like attempt. Of all our elder plays
This and Philafter have the loudeft fame:
Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame.
In both our English genius is exprefs'd;
Lofty and bold, but negligently drefs'd.

Above our neighbours our conceptions are ;
But faultless writing is th' effect of care.
Our lines reform'd, and not compos'd in haste,
Polish'd like marble, would like marble last.
But as the prefent, fo the last age writ;
In both we find like negligence and wit,
Were we but lefs indulgent to our faults,
And patience had to cultivate our thoughts,

1

III.

EPILOGUE

TO THE MAID'S TRAGEDY

Spoken by the King.

THE fierce Melantius was content, you fee,
The King fhould live; be not more fierce than he :
Too long indulgent to fo rude a time,
When love was held fo capital a crime,
That a crown'd head could no compaffion find,
But dy'd because the killer had been kind;
Nor is't lefs ftrange fuch mighty wits as those
Should use a style in tragedy like profe.
Well-founding verfe, where princes tread the stage,
Should speak their virtue, or defcribe their rage.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that found, as well as fenfe, perfuades :
And verses are the potent charms we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infufe.