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How could I envy, what I must commend! But since 'tis nature's law in love and wit, That youth should reign, and withering age submit, With less regret those laurels I refign, Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine. With better grace an ancient chief may yield The long contended honours of the field, Than venture all his fortune at a cast, And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. Young princes, obftinate to win the prize, Tho' yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise : Old monarchs, tho' successful, still in doubt, Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout. Thine be the laurel then; thy blooming age Can belt, if any can, support the stage ; Which so declines, that Mortly we may

fee Players and plays reduc'd to second infancy. Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown, They plot not on the stage, but on the town,

i Lord Lansdowne,

And,

And, in despair their empty pit to fill,
Set up some foreign monster in a bill.
Thus they jog on, ftill tricking, never thriving,
And murd'ring plays, which they miscal reviving.
Our sense is nonsense, thro' their pipes convey’d;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made ;
'Tis so disguis’d in death ; nor thinks 'tis he
That suffers in the mangled tragedy.
Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after dressid
For his own fire, the chief invited guest.
I say not this of thy successful scenes,
Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains.
With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,
Not ill they acted, what they could not spoil.
Their setting fun 2 ftill foots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay:
And better gleanings their worn foil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighb'ring coaft 3.
This diff'rence yet the judging world will see;
Thou copieft Homer, and they copy thee.

2 Betterton who had mustered up a Company, and played in Lircoln's-Inn Fields.

3 Drury-lane play-house.

EPISTLE the TWELFTH.

TO MY FRIEND

Mr. M O T TE U X,

ON HIS

TRAGEDY call'd, BEAUTY IN DISTRESS.

'T'Achard, my

friend, to write in fuch an age,

That sacred art, by heaven itself infus’d,
Which Moses, David, Solomon have us'd,
Is now to be no more: the muses' foes
Would fink their Maker's praises into profe.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of ftraggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who, but a madman, would his thoughts defend
All would submit; for all but fools will mend.
But when to common sense they give the lye,
And turn distorted words to blasphemy.
They give the scandal; and the wise discern,
Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or prophanely, writ,
Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:
Nor, when accus'd by me, let them complain :
Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.
Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursu'd ;
The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people ru’d.

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The stage was filenc'd; for the saints would see
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy.
But let us firft reform, and then so live,
That we may teach our teachers to forgive:
Our desk be plac'd below their lofty chairs ;
Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs.
The moral part, at least, we may divide,
Humility reward, and punish pride ;
Ambition, int'reft, avarice, accuse :
These are the province of a tragic muse.
These haft thou chosen ; and the public voice
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice. ·
Time, action, place, are so preserv'd by thee,
That e'en Corneille might with envy see
Th'alliance of his Tripled Unity.
Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown ;
But too much plenty is thy fault alone.
At least but two can that good crime commit,
Thou in design, and Wycherly in wit.
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare;
Contented to be thinly regular :
Born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue, enfeebled, is refind too much ;
And, like pure gold, it bends at ev'ry touch :
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obeys
More fit for manly thought, and itrengthend with allay.
But whence art thou inspir'd, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?
It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest
Should over-match the most, and match the bett.
In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong;
Here find the firit deficience of our tongue :
Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend
So great a poet, and so good a friend.

EPISTLE the THIRTEENTH.

TO MY HONOURED KINSM AN,

JOHN DRY DEN',

OF

CHESTERTON, in the County of HUN.

TINGDON, Esq;

OW bless'd is he, who leads a country life,

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Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age :
All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.

Juft, good and wise, contending neighbours come,
From

your award to wait their final doom ; And, foes before, return in friendship home. Without their coft, you terminate the cause ; And save th' expence of long litigious laws: Where suits are travers’d; and so little won, That he who conquers, is but last undone : Such are not your decrees; but so design’d, The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind ; Like

your own soul, serene; a pattern of your mind. 1 This poem was written in 1699. The person to whom it is addressed, was coufin German to the poet, and a younger brother of the baronet.

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