And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view: 40
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart,
But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languish'd and insensibly decay'd.

50

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive, And with old Greece unequally did strive; Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race, Did all the matchless monuments deface. Then all the Muses in one ruin lie, And rhyme began t' enervate poetry. Thus, in a stupid military state, The pen and pencil find an equal fate. Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen, Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen, Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep, A heavy sabbath did supinely keep:

At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,

Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes. Thence rose the Roman and the Lombard

60

line; One color'd best, and one did best design. Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part, But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.

With reverence look on his author.

majestic face;

the

Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:

Bids thee, thro' me, be bold; with dauntless breast

Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. 80 Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost: When most they rail, know then, they envy

Our unities of action, time, and place;
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the
best,

With ev'ry various character express'd;
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view; 170
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew;
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art express'd,
But venerable age shall add the rest:
For Time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening
hand;

Mellow your colors, and imbrown the teint; Add every grace, which Time alone can grant;

To future ages shall your fame convey, 180 And give more beauties than he takes away.

[This comedy, by John Dryden, Jr., the poet's second son, was published in July, 1696 (Malone, I, 1, 425, on the authority of an advertisement in the London Gazette), with a prologue by Congreve, and a dedication to Sir Robert Howard, the author's uncle. The play bore the appropriate Virgilian motto:

Et pater Æneas et avunculus excitet Hector. (Eneid, III, 343.) Dryden's preface furnishes a delightful proof of his fatherly kindliness. So also, in a different fashion, does the following excerpt from a letter to Tonson (Malone, I, 2, 48):

"Send word, if you please, Sir, what is the most you will give for my sonn's play, that I may take the fairest chapman, as I am bound to do for his benefit."]

PREFACE

I HAVE thought convenient to acquaint the reader with somewhat concerning this comedy, tho' perhaps not worth his knowledge. It was sent me from Italy some years since, by my second son, to try its fortune on the stage; and being the essay of a young unexperienc'd author, to confess the truth, I thought it not worthy of that honor. "T is true, I was not willing to discourage him so far as to tell him plainly my opinion, but it seems he guess'd somewhat of my mind, by my long delays of his expectation; and therefore, in my absence from the town last summer, took the boldness to dedicate his play to that person of honor whose name you will find before his epistle. It was receiv'd by that noble gentleman with so much candor and generosity, as neither my son nor I could deserve from him. Then the play was no longer in my power; the patron demanding it in his own right, it was deliver'd to him. And he was farther pleas'd, during my sickness, to put it into that method in which you find it; the loose scenes digested into order, and knit into a tale.

As it is, I think it may pass amongst the rest of our new plays: I know but two authors, and they are both my friends, who have done better

since the Revolution. This I dare venture to maintain, that the taste of the age is wretchedly deprav'd in all sorts of poetry; nothing almost but what is abominably bad can please. The young hounds, who ought to come behind, now lead the pack; but they miserably mistake the scent. Their poets, worthy of such an audience, know not how to distinguish their characters; the manners are all alike, inconsistent and interfering with each other. There is scarce a man or woman of God's making in all their farces: yet they raise an unnatural sort of laughter, the common effect of buffoon'ry; and the rabble, which takes this for wit, will endure no better, because 't is above their understanding. This account I take from the best judges; for I thank God, I have had the grace hitherto to avoid the seeing or reading of their gallimaufries. But 't is the latter end of a century, and I hope the next will begin better.

This play, I dare assure the reader, is none of those; it may want beauties, but the faults are neither gross nor many. Perfection in any art is not suddenly obtain'd: the author of this, to his misfortune, left his country at a time when he was to have learn'd the language. The story he has treated was an accident which happen'd at Rome, tho' he has transferr'd the scene to England. If it shall please God to restore him to me, I may perhaps inform him better of the rules of writing; and if I am not partial, he has already shewn that a genius is not wanting to him. All that I can reasonably fear is, that the perpetual good success of ill plays may make him endeavor to please by writing worse, and by accommodating himself to the wretched capacity and liking of the present audience, from which, Heaven defend any of my progeny! A poet, indeed, must live by the many; but a good poet will make it his business to please the few. I will not proceed farther on a subject which arraigns so many of the readers.

For what remains, both my son and I are extremely oblig'd to my dear friend, Mr. Congreve, whose excellent prologue was one of the greatest ornaments of the play. Neither is my epilogue the worst which I have written; tho' it seems, at the first sight, to expose our young clergy with too much freedom. It was on that consideration that I had once begun it otherwise, and deliver'd the copy of it to be spoken, in case the first part of it had given offense. This I will give you, partly in my own justification, and partly too because I think it not unworthy of your sight; only rememb'ring you that the last line connects the sense to the ensuing part of it. Farewell, reader: if you are a father, you will forgive me; if not, you will when you are a father.

Time was, when none could preach without degrees,
And seven years' toil at universities;

But when the canting saints came once in play,
The spirit did their bus'ness in a day:
A zealous cobbler, with the gift of tongue,

If he could pray six hours, might preach as long.
Thus, in the primitive times of poetry,
The stage to none but men of sense was free.
But thanks to your judicious taste, my masters,
It lies in common, now, to poetasters.
You set them up, and till you dare condemn,
The satire lies on you, and not on them.
When mountebanks their drugs at market cry,
Is it their fault to sell, or yours to buy?
'Tis true, they write with ease, and well they may;
Flyblows are gotten every summer's day;
The poet does but buzz, and there's a play.
Wit's not his business, &c.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE

}

scarce one

But has as little as the very parson. Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;

But 't is for a third day, and for induction.

The difference is, that tho' you like the play,

The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day; But with the parson 't is another case; He, without holiness, may rise to grace. The poet has one disadvantage more, That if his play be dull, he 's damn'd all o'er,

Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd