For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts. Bold Britons, at a brave Bear Garden fray, Are rous'd; and, clatt'ring sticks, cry: "Play, play, play!

Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare And mutter to himself: "Ha, gens barbare!"

And, gad, 't is well he mutters; well for him;

Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb.

'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be

30

Infected with this French civility;
But this in after-ages will be done:
Our poet writes a hundred years too soon.
This age comes on too slow, or he too fast;
And early springs are subject to a blast!
Who would excel, when few can make a test
Betwixt indiff'rent writing and the best?
For favors cheap and common who would
strive,

Which, like abandon'd prostitutes, you give?
Yet scatter'd here and there I some behold
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold:
To these he writes; and, if by them allow'd,
Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd.
For he more fears, like a presuming man,
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs
who can.

41

EPILOGUE TO THE MAN OF MODE

OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER

[This comedy, by Sir George Etherege, was acted and published in 1676. Dryden had a hearty admiration for Etherege, as a writer of genuine comic power: see his Letter to Sir George Etherege, p. 214, below; and Mac Flecknoe, lines 151-154, p. 136, below.]

MOST modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,

They seem'd not of Heav'n's making, but their own.

Those nauseous harlequins in farce may

pass,

But there goes more to a substantial ass! Something of man must be expos'd to view, That, gallants, they may more resemble you. Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,

The ladies would mistake him for a wit; And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry:

"I vow, methinks he 's pretty company: 10
So brisk, so gay, so travel'd, so refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind."
True fops help nature's work, and go to
school,

To file and finish God-A'mighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' th' shire, and represents ye

all.

[This tragedy, by Charles Davenant, son of Sir William, was probably acted late in 1676 or early in 1677; the songs in Circe are mentioned in the Term Catalogue for Easter Term (May), 1677, the play itself in that for Trinity Term (July) of the same year. Downes terms Circe an opera; it is in fact a spectacular heroic play, with many songs interspersed. The prologue is extant in two forms, of which the later (given first below) was printed in

Miscellany Poems, 1684, with the heading, An Epilogue, written by Mr. Dryden. The earlier form was printed with the play in 1677.]

WERE you but half so wise as y' are severe, Our youthful poet should not need to fear: To his green years your censures you would suit,

Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit. The sex that best does pleasure understand, Will always choose to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's awkward in delight,

But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.

Thus hearten'd well and flesh'd upon his prey,
The youth may prove a man another day. 10
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young
flight,

Did no Volpone, no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and short excursions
made

From bough to bough, as if they were
afraid,

And each were guilty of some Slighted
Maid.

Shakespeare's own Muse her Pericles first bore;

The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor: 'Tis miracle to see a first good play; All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas

The captive once submitted to your bands You should protect from death by vulgar hands.

TO MR. LEE, ON HIS ALEXANDER

[This poem was published in 1677, in The Rival Queens, or The Death of Alexander the Great, by Nathaniel Lee. The play is entered on the Term Catalogue for Michaelmas Term (November). For Lee Dryden had a warm regard, mixed with a trifle of condescension. In a letter to Dennis he writes: "I remember, poor Nat. Lee, who was then upon the verge of madness, yet made a sober and a witty answer to a bad poet, who told him it was an easie thing to write like a madman. 'No,' said he, 'it is very difficult to write like a madman, but it is a very easie matter to write like a fool"" (Malone, I, 2; 35, 36).]

THE blast of common censure could I fear, Before your play my name should not appear;

For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
Think the best actions on by-ends are built.
And yet my silence had not 'scap'd their
spite;

Then, envy had not suffer'd me to write;
For, since I could not ignorance pretend,
Such worth I must or envy or commend.
So many candidates there stand for wit,
A place in court is scarce so hard to get:
In vain they crowd each other at the door;
For ev'n reversions are all begg'd before: 20
Desert, how known soe'er, is long delay'd;
And then, too, fools and knaves are better
paid.

Yet, as some actions bear so great a name, That courts themselves are just for fear of shame;

So has the mighty merit of your play Extorted praise, and forc'd itself a way. "T is here as 't is at sea; who farthest goes, Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.

Yet, when some virtue much outgrows the rest,

31

It shoots too fast and high to be oppress'd; As his heroic worth struck envy dumb, Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.

Such praise is yours, while you the passions

10

As sad as Dido's; and almost as old.
His hero, whom you wits his bully call,
Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all:
He's somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning

mind;

Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind.

In short, a pattern, and companion fit,
For all the keeping Tonies of the pit.
I could name more: a wife, and mistress
too;

Both (to be plain) too good for most of

you:

The wife well-natur'd, and the mistress true.

Now, poets, if your fame has been his

care,

Allow him all the candor you can spare. 20 A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day; Like Hectors, in at every petty fray.

Let those find fault whose wit's so very small,

They've need to show that they can think at all;

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below.

Fops may have leave to level all they can, As pigmies would be glad to lop a man. Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light, We scarce could know they live, but that they bite.

30

But, as the rich, when tir'd with daily feasts,

For change, become their next poor tenant's guests,

Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls,

And snatch the homely rasher from the coals;

So you, retiring from much better cheer, For once, may venture to do penance here. And since that plenteous autumn now is

[This tragedy, by Lee, was published in 1678, being licensed for the press on March 28. The following epilogue is taken from the first edition. Scott prints another epilogue, from a broadside, but gives no proof that it is by Dryden.]

YOU'VE seen a pair of faithful lovers die: And much you care, for most of you will cry,

'T was a just judgment on their constancy.

For, Heav'n be thank'd, we live in such an age,

When no man dies, for love, but on the stage:

And ev'n those martyrs are but rare in plays;

A cursed sign how much true faith decays. Love is no more a violent desire; 'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.

In all our sex, the name, examin'd well, 10

[In a chronological list of his plays which Dryden printed with King Arthur in 1691 (see Malone, I, 1; 56, 218, 219), this comedy is placed between All for Love and Edipus. Hence it was probably acted early in 1678; though, perhaps because of its ill success on the stage, it was not published until late in 1679, when it is entered on the Term Catalogue for Michaelmas Term (November). The first edition is dated 1680. This play and Edipus were both "printed for R. Bentley and M. Magnes; " Dryden had evidently quarreled with his former publisher Herringman, to whom a little later (1682) he devoted a sarcastic line (line 105) in Mac Flecknoe.]

Let them, who the rebellion first began
To wit, restore the monarch, if they can;
Our author dares not be the first bold man.
He, like the prudent citizen, takes care
To keep for better marts his staple ware;
His toys are good enough for Sturbridge
fair.

21

Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,
'Tis time enough at Easter to invent;
No man will make up a new suit for Lent.
If now and then he takes a small pretense,
To forage for a little wit and sense,
Pray pardon him, he meant you no offense.
Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,
That all the critics shall be shipp'd away,
And not enow be left to damn a play.
To every sail beside, good Heav'n, be kind;
But drive away that swarm with such a
wind,

That not one locust may be left behind!