A COMEDY, WRITTEN BY MR. J. DRYDEN, JUN.
THIS year has been remarkable two ways,
For blooming poets, and for blafted plays : We've been by much appearing plenty mock'd, At once both tantaliz'd and over-stock'd. Our authors too, by their fuccefs of late, Begin to think third-days are out of date. What can the caufe be, that our plays won't keep Unless they have a rot fome years like sheep? For our parts, we confefs, we 're quite afham'd, To read fuch weekly bills of poets damn'd. Each parith knows 'tis but a mournful cafe When chriftenings fall, and funerals increase. Thus 'tis, and thus 'twill be when we are dead, There will be writers which will ne'er be read. Why will you be fuch wits, and write fuch things? You're willing to be wafps, but want the ftings. Let not your fpleen provoke you to that height, 'Odslife you don't know what you do, firs, when you
You'll find that Pegasus has tricks, when try'd,
Though you make nothing on 't, but and ride;
Ladies and all, I'faith, now get aftride.
Contriving characters, and fcenes, and plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting knots:
With the fame cafe, and negligence of thought,
The charming play is writ, and fringe is wrought.
Though this be frightful, yet we 're more afraid,
When ladies leave, that beaux will take the trade :
Thus far 'tis well enough, if here 'twould stop,
But fhould they write, we muft e'en fhut up fhop.
How fhall we make this mode of writing fink?
A mode, faid I? 'tis a difeafe, I think,
A ftubborn tetter that 's not cur'd with ink.
For ftill it spreads, 'till each th' infection takes,
And feizes ten, for one that it forfakes.
Our play to-day is fprung from none of these;
Nor should you damn it, though it does not please,
Since born without the bounds of your four feas.
For if you grant no favour as 'tis new,
Yet as a stranger, there is fomething due :
From Rome (to try its fate) this play was fent ;
Start not at Rome! for there's no popery meant;
Though there the poet may his dwelling chuse,
Yet ftill he knows his country claims his Muse.
Hither an offering his first-born he sends,
Whofe good, or ill fuccefs, on you depends.
Yet he has hope fome kindness may be shown,
As due to greater merit than his own,
And begs the fire may for the fon atone.
There's his laft refuge, if the play don't take,
Yet fpare young Dryden for his father's fake.
HERE's a young fellow here-an actor-Powell—
One whofe perfon, perhaps, you all may know well; And he has writ a play---this very play
Which you are all come here to fee, to-day;
And fo, it being an ufual thing, to speak
Something or other, for the author's fake,
Before the play (in hopes to make it take)
I'm come, being his friend and fellow-player,
To fay what (if you please) you're like to hear.
First know, that favour which I'd fain have shown,
I afk not for, in his name, but my own;
For, without vanity, I'm better known.
Mean time then, let me beg you would forbear
Your cat-calls, and the inftruments of war.
For mercy, mercy, at your feet we fall,
Before your roaring gods destroy us all!
I'll speak with words sweet as diftilling honey,
With words---as if I meant to borrow money;
Fair, gentle firs, most soft alluring beaux,
Think 'tis a lady, that for pity fues..
Bright ladies---but to gain the ladies grace,
I think I need no more than fhew my face.
Next then, you authors, be not you fevere;
Why, what a fwarm of scribblers have we here!
One, two, three, four, five, fix, seven, eight, nine, ten,
All in one row, and brothers of the pen.
All would be poets; well, your favour's due
To this day's author, for he 's one of you.
Among the few which are of noted fame,
I'm fafe; for I myself am one of them.
You've seen me fmoak at Will's among the wits;
I'm witty too, as they are---that's by fits.
Now, you, our city friends, who hither come
By three o'clock, to make fure elbow-room :
While fpoufe, tuckt-up, does in her pattens trudge it,'
With handkerchief of prog, like trull with budget,
And here, by turns, you eat plumb-cake and judge it;
Pray be you kind, let me your grace importune,
Or elfe---egad, I'll tell you all your fortune.
Well now, I have but one thing more to say,
And that's in reference to our third day;
An odd requeft---may be you'll think it fo;
Pray come, whether you like the play or no :
And if you'll ftay, we fhall be glad to fee
If not---leave your half-
HE happy Mufe, to this high fcene preferrd,
Hereafter fhall in loftier ftrains be heard :
And, foaring to transcend her ufual theme,
Shall fing of virtue and heroic fame.
No longer fhall the toil upon the stage,
And fruitlefs war with vice and folly wage;
No more in mean disguise the fhall appear,
And fhapes fhe would reform be forc'd to wear :
While ignorance and malice join to blame,
And break the mirror that reflects their fhame.
Henceforth he fhall purfue a nobler task,
Shew her bright virgin face, and scorn the Satyr's mask.
Happy her future days! which are design'd
Alone to paint the beauties of the mind.
By juft originals to draw with care,
And copy from the court a faultlefs fair:
Such labours with fuccefs her hopes may crown,
And fhame to manners an incorrigible town.
While this defign her eager thoughts pursues,
Such various virtues all around the views,
She knows not where to fix, or which to chufe.
Yet, ftill ambitious of the daring flight,
ONE only awes her with fuperior light.
|