To understand how much we owe to you,

We must your numbers with your author's view:
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure stiff, as if design'd in buff';
His colours laid so thick on every place,
As only show'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perspective we beauties see,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be,
So here our sight obligingly mistakes

That wealth which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks disguised,
More for their dressing than their substance prized.
Your curious Notes so search into that age,
When all was fable but the Sacred page,

That, since in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But what we most admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break.
So skiiful seamen ken the land from far,
Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.
To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous love,
As still the Ancients did begin from Jove.
With Monk you end, whose name preserved shall
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory,
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His country's interest than the world to sway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,

Is the peculiar talent of your pen:

Yet let me take your mantle up, and I

Will venture in your right to prophesy.

"This work, by merit first of fame secure,

Is likewise happy in its geniture;

[be

For since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne,

It shares at once his fortune and its own."

II.

To my honoured friend DR. CHARLETON, on his learned and useful works; but more particularly his Treatise of Stone-Henge, by him restored to the true founder.

THE longest tyranny that ever sway'd,
Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd
Their freeborn reason to the Stagyrite,
And made his torch their universal light.
So truth, while only one supplied the state,
Grew scarce and dear, and yet sophisticate.
Still it was bought, like empiric wares or charms,
Hard words, seal'd up with Aristotle's arms.
Columbus was the first that shook his throne,
And found a Temp'rate in a Torrid zone;
The feverish air, fann'd by a cooling breeze,
The fruitful vales set round with shady trees,
And guiltless men, who danced away their time,
Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime.
Had we still paid that homage to a name,
Which only God and Nature justly claim,
The western seas had been our utmost bound,
Where poets still might dream the sun was
drown'd,

And all the stars that shine in southern skies
Had been admired by none but savage eyes.

Among th' asserters of free Reason's claim
Our nation's not the least in worth or fame.
The world to Bacon does not only owe
Its present knowledge, but its future too.
Gilberd shall live till loadstones cease to draw,
Or British fleets the boundless ocean awe;
And noble Boyle, not less in Nature seen
Than his great brother read in states and men.
The circling streams, once thought but pools of
(Whether life's fuel or the body's food) [blood,
From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall save,
While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.
Nor are you, learned Friend! the least renown'd,
Whose fame, not circumscribed with English
ground,

Flies, like the nimble journeys of the light,
And is like that unspent too in its flight.
Whatever truths have been by Art or Chance
Redeem'd from error or from ignorance,
Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,
Your works unite, and still discover more:
Such is the healing virtue of your pen,
To perfect cures on books as well as men.
Nor is this work the least; you well may give
To men new vigour who make stones to live.
Through you the Danes, their short dominion lost,
A longer conquest than the Saxons boast.

A throne, where kings our earthly gods were
Where by their wondering subjects they were seen,
Joy'd with their stature and their princely mien.
Our sovereign here above the rest might stand,
And here be chose again to rule the land.

These Ruins shelter'd once his sacred head,
When he from Worc'ster's fatal battle fled,
Watch'd by the Genius of this royal place,
And mighty visions of the Danish race.
His refuge then was for a temple shown;
But, he restored, 'tis now become a throne.

III.

To the LADY CASTLEMAIN, upon her encouraging his first play.

As seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before,
And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain,

So my much-envy'd Muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success
Than she could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose,

While they the victor, he the vanquish'd, chose;
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too.
Let others still triumph, and gain their cause
By their deserts, or by the world's applause;
Let Merit crowns and Justice laurels give,
But let me, happy, by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praise despise ;
Fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize.
You sit above, and see vain men below
Contend for what you only can bestow :
But those great actions others do by chance,
Are, like your beauty, your inheritance:
So great a soul, such sweetness, join'd in one,
Could only spring from noble Grandison.
You, like the stars, not by reflection bright,
Are born to your own heaven and your own light;
Like them are good, but from a nobler cause,
From your own knowledge, not from Nature's
laws.

Your power you never use but for defence,
To guard your own or others' innocence:
Your foes are such as they, not you, have made,
And Virtue may repel, though not invade.
Such courage did the ancient heroes show, [blow
Who, when they might prevent, would wait the
With such assurance, as they meant to say
We will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way.
What further fear of danger can there be?
Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free.
Posterity will judge by my success

I had the Grecian poet's happiness,
Who, waving plots, found out a better way;
Some god descended, and preserved the play.
When first the triumphs of your sects were sung
By those old poets, Beauty was but young,
And few admired the native red and white,
Till poets dress'd them up to charm the sight;
So Beauty took on trust, and did engage
For sums of praises till she came to age:
But this long-growing debt to poetry
You justly Madam have discharged to me,
When your applause and favour did infuse
New life to my condemn'd and dying Muse.

IV.

To MR. LEE on his ALEXANDER.

THE blast of common censure could I fear,
Before your play my name should not appear;
For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,
I pay the bribe I first received from you;
That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
And play the game into each other's hand;
And as cheap penn'worths to ourselves afford,
As Bessus and the brothers of the sword.
Such libels private men may well endure,
When states and kings themselves are not secure;
For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
Think the best actions on by-ends are built,
And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;
Then envy had not suffer'd me to write;
For since I could not ignorance pretend,
Such merit I must envy or commend.

So many candidates there stand for wit,
A place at court is scarce so hard to get:
In vain they crowd each other at the door;
For e'en reversions are all begg'd before:
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 forced itself away.
'Tis here as 'tis at sea; who farthest goes,

Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.
Yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest,
It shoots too fast and high to be exprest;
As his heroic worth struck Envy dumb

Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.
Such praise is yours, while you the passions move,
That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love,
Where Nature triumphs over wretched Art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart:
Always you warm; and if the rising year,
As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,
Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire, who are themselves all
phlegm.

Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,
Were cripples made the judges of the race.
Despise those drones who praise while they accuse
The too much vigour of your youthful Muse:
That humble style which they your virtue make
Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allow'd
By all but some vile poets of the crowd.
But how should any signpost dauber know
The worth of Titian or of Angelo?
Hard features every bungler can command;
To draw true beauty shows a master's hand.

V.

To the EARL OF ROSCOMMON, on his excellent Essay on
Translated Verse.

WHETHER the fruitful Nile or Tyrian shore
The seeds of arts and infant science bore,
"Tis sure the noble plant translated first
Advanced its head in Grecian gardens nurst.
The Grecians added verse; their tuneful tongue
Made Nature first, and Nature's God, their song.
Nor stopt Translation here: for conquering Rome,
With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers
home,

Enrich'd by those Athenian Muses more
Than all the vanquish'd world could yield before;
Till barb'rous nations, and more barb'rous times,
Debased the majesty of verse to rhymes:
Those rude at first, a kind of hobbling prose,
That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close.
But Italy, reviving from the trance

Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,

Made rhyme an art; and Dante's polish'd page
Restored a Silver not a Golden age.

Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see
What rhyme improved in all its height can be;
At best a pleasing sound and fair barbarity.
The French pursued their steps; and Britain last
In manly sweetness, all the rest surpass'd.

The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,
Appear exalted in the British loom :
The Muses' empire is restored again

In Charles his reign, and by Roscommon's pen:
Yet modestly he does his work survey,
And calls a finish'd poem an Essay:
For all the needful rules are scatter'd here,
Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe :
So well is art disguised for nature to appear.
Nor need those rules to give translation light;
His own example is a flame so bright,
That he who but arrives to copy well,
Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.
Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain,
Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain.
How much in him may rising Ireland boast!
How much in gaining him has Britain lost!
Their island in revenge has ours reclaim'd;

The more instructed we the more we still are

shamed.

'Tis well for us his gen'rous blood did flow, Derived from British channels long ago,

That here his conquering ancestors were nurst,
And Ireland but translated England first:
By this reprisal we regain our right,
Else must the two contending nations fight;
A nobler quarrel for his native earth
Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth.
To what perfection will our tongue arrive,
How will invention and translation thrive,
When authors nobly born will bear their part,
And not disdain th' inglorious praise or art!
Great generals thus, deseending from command,
With their own toil provoke the soldiers' hand.
How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear
His fame augmented by an English peer!
How he embellishes his Helen's loves,
Outdoes his softness, and his sense improves !
When these translate, and teach translators too,
Nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow,
Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand:
Roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand,
Muse! feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand.
Roscommon! whom both court and camps com-

mend,

True to his prince, and faithful to his friend;
Roscommon! first in fields of honour known,
First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown,
Who both Minervas justly makes his own,
Now let the few beloved by Jove and they
Whom infused Titan form'd of better clay,
On equal terms with ancient wit engage,
Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page
Our English palace opens wide in state,
And without stooping they may pass the gate.

VI.

To her Royal Highness the DUTCHESS, on the memorable victory gained by the Duke over the Hollanders, June 3, 1665; and on her journey afterwards into the North.

MADAM,

WHEN for our sakes your hero you resign'd
To swelling seas, and every faithless wind,
When you released his courage, and set free
A valour fatal to the enemy,

You lodged your country's cares within your breast,
(The mansion where soft love should only rest)
And, ere our foes abroad were overcome,
The noblest conquest you had gain'd at home.
Ah, what concerns did both your souls divide!
Your honour gave us what your love denied ;
And 'twas for him much easier to subdue
Those foes he fought with than to part from you.
That glorious day which two such navies saw,
As each unmatch'd might to the world give law,
Neptune, yet doubtful whom he should obey,
Held to them both the trident of the sea:
The winds were hush'd, the waves in ranks were
As awfully as when God's people pass'd; [cast,
Those yet uncertain on whose sails to blow,
These where the wealth of nations ought to flow.
Then with the Duke your Highness ruled the day:
While all the brave did his command obey,
The fair and pious under you did pray.
How powerful are chaste vows! the wind and tide
You bribed to combat on the English side.
Thus to your much-loved lord you did convey
An unknown succour sent the nearest way:
New vigour to his wearied arms you brought,
(So Moses was upheld while Israel fought)
While from afar, we heard the cannon play,
Like distant thunder on a shiny day.
For absent friends we were ashamed to fear,
When we considered what you ventured there.
Ships, men, and arms, our country might restore,
But such a leader could supply no more.
With generous thoughts of conquest he did burn,
Yet fought not more to vanquish than return.
Fortune and Victory he did pursue,

To bring them, as his slaves, to wait on you;
Thus beauty ravish'd the rewards of fame,
And the fair triumph'd when the brave o'ercame.
Then, as you meant to spread another way,
By land, your conquests, far as his by sea,
Leaving our southern clime, you march'd along
The stubborn North ten thousand Cupids strong.
Like commons the nobility resort

In crowding heaps to fill your moving court:
To welcome your approach the vulgar run,
Like some new envoy from the distant sun;
And country-beauties by their lovers go,
Blessing themselves, and wondering at the show

So when the new born phoenix first is seen,
Her feather'd subjects all adore their queen,
And while she makes her progress through the
East,

From every grove her numerous trains increased;
Each Poet of the air her glory sings, [wings.
And round him the pleased audience clap their

VII.

A Letter to Sir GEORGE ETHEREGE.

To you who live in chill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From Tropic e'en to pole Arctic,
Since you had such a constitution
As no where suffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a Plenipo.

Like mighty missioner you come
Ad partes infidelium,

A work of wondrous merit sure,
So far to go, so much t' endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where sound of Cupid never came.
Less had you done, had you been sent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the Line-a,
Or e'en for oranges to China,
That had indeed been charity,
Where lovesick ladies helpless lie,
Chapt and for want of liquor dry.
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear:
What region of the earth so dull
That is not of your labours full?
Triptolemus (so sung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But, spite of all these fable-makers,
He never sow'd on Almain acres:
No, that was left by Fate's decree
To be perform'd and sung by thee.

Thou break'st through forms with as much ease
As the French King through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent
In waging weighty compliment,
With such as monarchs represent.
They whom such vast fatigues attend
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To show the world that now and then
Great ministers are mortal men.

Then Rhenish rummers walk the round,
In bumpers every king is crown'd;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is sunk
That pays to make his Envoy drunk.
These Dutch delights I mention'd last
Suit not I know your English taste;
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your Excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your Excellence;
For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,
His Excellence for all but sleeping.
Now, if you top in form and treat,
'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great,
Nay, here's a harder imposition,
Which is indeed the Court's petition,
That, setting worldly pomp aside,
Which poet has at font denied,
You would be pleased in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation

But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wise negociation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree your friends will say,
The Duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce;
And you, whose comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fal! below Rehearsal;
Then finish what you have began,
But scribble faster if you can:
For yet no George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten years' warning.

VIII.

To MR. SOUTHERN, on his comedy called The Wives'
Excuse.

SURE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write while these malignant planets reign.
Some very foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to sense, or just to wit;
And whilst it lasts let buffoon'ry succeed
To make us laugh, for never was more need.
Farce in itself is of a nasty scent,

But the gain smells not of the excrement.
The Spanish Nymph, a wit and beauty too,
With all her charms, bore but a single show;
But let a monster Muscovite appear,

He draws a crowded audience round the year.
May be thou hast not pleased the box and pit;
Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:
So Terence plotted, but so Terence writ.
Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language
clean;

E'en lewdness is made moral in thy scene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine,
But rest secure the readers will be thine.
Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd,
But with a kind civility dismiss'd;
With such good manners as the wife did use,
Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.
There was a glance at parting; such a look
As bids thee not give o'er for one rebuke.
But if thou wouldst be seen as well as read,
Copy one living author and one dead:
The standard of thy style let Etherege be;
For wit, th' immortal spring of Wycherley:
Learn after both to draw some just design,
And the next age will learn to copy thine.

IX.

TO HENRY HIGDEN, Esq. on his translation of the
Tenth Satire of Juvenal.

THE Grecian wits, who satire first began,
Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man;
At mighty villains, who the state opprest,
They durst not rail: perhaps they lash'd at least,
And turn'd them out of office with a jest.
No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand
The drolls to clap a bawble in his hand.
Wise legislators never yet could draw

A fop within the reach of Common law;
For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation,
Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.
Our last redress is dint of verse to try,
And satire is our court of Chancery.
This way took Horace to reform an age,
Not bad enough to need an author's rage,
But yours, who lived in more degenerate times,
Was forced to fasten deep and worry crimes.
Yet you, my Friend! have temper'd him so well,
You make him smile in spite of all his zeal;
An art peculiar to yourself alone

To join the virtues of two styles in one.

Oh! were your author's principle received, Half of the labouring world would be relieved; For not to wish is not to be deceived: Revenge would into charity be changed, Because it costs too dear to be revenged: It costs our quiet and content of mind.; And when 'tis compass'd leaves a sting behind. Suppose I had the better end o' th' staff, Why should I help th' illnatured world to laugh "Tis all alike to them who get the day; They love the spite and mischief of the fray. No: I have cured tnyself of that disease, Nor will I be provoked but when I please; But let me half that cure to you restore, You gave the salve, I laid it to the sore. Our kind relief against a rainy day, Beyond a tavern or a tedious play, We take your book, and laugh our spleen away. If all your tribe, too studious of debate, Would cease false hopes and titles to create, Led by the rare example you begun, Clients would fail, and lawyers be undone.

X

To my dear friend MR. CONGREVE, on his Comedy called The Double Dealer.

WELL, then, the promised hour is come at last,
The present age of wit obscures the past:

Strong were our sires, and as they fought they

writ,

Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit:
Theirs was the giant race before the flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;
Tamed us to manners when the stage was rude,
And boisterous English wit with art endued.
Our age was cultivated thus at length,
But what we gain'd in skill we lost in strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curs'd;
The second temple was not like the first;
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;

He moved the mind, but had not power to raise. Great Jonson did by strength of judgmen please;

Yet doubling Fletcher's force he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age,
One for the study, th' other for the stage:
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see,
Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength, of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achieved,
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved.
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you because we love.
Fabius inight joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.

O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd!
Well had I been deposed if you had reign'd:
The father had descended for the son,
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus when the state one Edward did depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose,
But now not I, but Poetry, is curs'd,

For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the First.
But let them not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy; Thou shalt be seen
(Though with some short parenthesis between)
High on the throne of Wit, and, seated there,
Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously, you dare,
That your least praise is to be regular.
Time, place, and action, may with pains be
wrought,

But genius must be born, and never can be taught.
This is your portion, this your native store,
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakspeare gave as much; she could not give
him more.

Maintain your post, that's all the fame you need,
For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage.
Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence:
But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my Remains; and, O defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you;
And take for tribute what these lines express;
You rit more, nor could my love do less.

Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight like Hannibal to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.
Thine be the laurel then, thy blooming age
Can best, if any can, support the stage,
Which so declines, that shortly we may see
Players and plays reduced to second infancy.
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the stage but on the Town,
And, in despair their empty pit to fill,

Set up some foreign monster in a bill.

Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving, And murdering plays, which they miscall Keviv ing.

Our sense is nonsense through their pipes convey'd ;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made,

"Tis so disguised in death, nor thinks 'tis he
That suffers in the mangled tragedy.
Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after drest
For his own sire, 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 sun still shoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay;
And better gleanings their worn soil can boast
Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.
This difference yet the judging world will see,
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.

XII.

To my friend Mr. MOTTEUX, on his Tragedy called
Beauty in Distress.

'Tis hard, my friend! to write in such an age
As damns not only poets but the stage.
That sacred art, by Heaven itself infused,
Which Moses, David, Solomon, have used,
Is now to be no more. The Muses' foes
Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of straggling 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 lie,
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 profanely writ,
Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:
Nor when accused by me let them complain;
Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.
Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued;
The pulpit preach'd the crime the people rued.
The stage was silenced, for the saints would see
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy.
But let us first reform, and then so live,
That we may teach our teachers to forgive:
Our desk be placed 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, interest, avarice, accuse;
These are the province of a Tragic Muse.
These hast thou chosen; and the public voice
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are so preserved by thee,
That e'en Corneille might with envy see
Th'alliance of his tripled Unity.
Thy incidents perhaps too thick are sown;
Put too much plenty is thy fault alone.
At least but two can that good crime commit.
Thou in design, and Wycherley 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 refined too much,
And like pure gold it bends at every touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,
More fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd with
allay.

But whence art thou inspired, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?
It moves our wonder that a foreign guest
Should overmatch the most and match the best.

In under-praising thy deserts I wrong;
Here find the first deficience of our tongue;
Words, once my stock, are wanting to commend
So great a poet and so good a friend.

XIII.

To the Dutchess of YORK, on her return from Scot land in the year 1682.

WHEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
The Queen of Beauty and the Court of Love,
The Muses droop'd with their forsaken arts,
And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts,
Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd,
Like Eden's face when banish'd Man it mourn'd.
Love was no more when Loyalty was gone
The great supporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the sun and he had lost their way.
But now th' illustrious Nymph return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wondering Nereids, though they raised no
storm,

Foreflow'd her passage to behold her form.

Some cried, à Venus; some, a Thetis, past; But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste. Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride, And Envy did but look on her and died. Whate'er we suffer'd from her sullen fate, Her sight is purchased at an easy rate. Three gloomy years against this day were set, But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt: Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom, The famine past, the plenty still to come. For her the weeping heavens become serene; For her the ground is clad in cheerful green; For her the nightingales are taught to sing, And Nature has for her delay'd the spring. The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, And Love restored his ancient realm surveys, Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays; His waste dominions peoples once again, And from her presence dates his second reign. But awful charms on her fair forehead sit, Dispensing what she never will admit; Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam, The people's wonder and the poet's theme. Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate, No more shall vex the church and tear the state; No more shall Faction civil discords move, Or only discords of too tender love; Discord like that of music's various parts; Discord that makes the harmony of hearts; Discord that only this dispute shall bring,

Who best shall love the Duke and serve the King.

XIV.

To my honoured kinsman, JOHN DRYDEN of Chesterton, in the county of Huntingdon, Esq.

How bless'd is he who leads a country life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares and void of strife!
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 loved himself needs only to be known.
Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours
From your award to wait their final doom, [come,
And, foes before, return in friendship home.
Without their cost you terminate the cause,
And save th' expense of long litigious laws,
Where suits are traversed, 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.
Promoting concord, and composing strife,
Lord of yourself, uncumber'd with a wife;
Where for a year, a month, perhaps a night,
Long penitence succeeds a short delight:
Minds are so hardly match'd, that e'en the first,
Though pair'd by Heaven, in Paradise were curst;
For man and woman, though in one they grow,
Yet first or last return again to two:
He to God's image, she to his was made;

So farther from the fount the stream at random stray 'd.

How could he stand when, put to double pain, He must a weaker than himself sustain ? Each might have stood perhaps; but, each alone! Two wrestlers help to pull each other down.

Not that my verse would blemish all the fair; But yet if some be bad 'tis wisdom to beware; And better shun the bait than struggle in the

snare.

Thus have you shunn'd, and shun the marry'd state, Trusting as little as you can to Fate.

No porter guards the passage of your door
T' admit the wealthy and exclude the poor;
For God, who gave the riches, gave the heart
To sanctify the whole, by giving part;
Heaven, who foresaw the will, the means has
wrought,

And to the second son a blessing brought:
The first begotten had his father's share,

But you like Jacob are Rebecca's heir.

So may your stores and fruitful fields increase, And ever be you bless'd who live to bless. As Ceres sow'd where'er her chariot flew ; As Heaven in deserts rain'd the bread of dew; So, free to many, to relations most, You feed with manna your own Israel host.

With crowds attended of your ancient race You seek the champion sports or sylvan chase: With well-breathed beagles you surround the wood, E'er then industrious of the common good; And often have you brought the wily fox To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks; Chased e'en amid the folds, and made to bleed, Like felons, where they did the murderous deed. This fiery game your active youth maintain'd, Not yet by years extinguish'd, though restrain'd; You season still with sports your serious hours, For age but tastes of pleasures, youth devours. The hare in pastures or in plains is found, Emblem of human life, who runs the round, And, after all his wandering ways are done, His circle fills, and ends where he begun, Just as the setting meets the rising sun.

Thus princes ease their cares; but happier he Who seeks not pleasure through necessity, Than such as once on slippery thrones were placed, And chasing, sigh to think themselves are chased. So lived our sires ere doctors learn'd to kill, And multiply'd with theirs the weekly bill. The first physicians by debauch were made; Excess began, and sloth sustains, the trade. Pity the generous kind their cares bestow To search forbidden truths; (a sin to know) To which if human science could attain, The doom of death, pronounced by God, were

thy soul.

By chase our long-lived fathers earn'd their food, Toil strung the nerves, and purify'd the blood; But we, their sons, a pamper'd race of men, Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten. Better to hunt in fields for health unbought Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise, for cure, on exercise depend: God never made his work for man to mend.

The tree of Knowledge, once in Eden placed, Was easy found, but was forbid the taste: O, had our grandsire walk'd without his wife, He first had sought the better plant of Life! Now both are lost; yet, wandering in the dark, Physicians for the tree have found the bark: They, labouring for relief of humankind, With sharpen'd sight some remedies may find: Th' apothecary-train is wholly blind. From files a random recipe they take, And many deaths of one prescription make. Garth, generous as his Muse, prescribes and gives; The shopman sells, and by destruction lives." Ungrateful tribe! who like the viper's brood, From med'cine issuing suck their mother's blood! Let these obey, and let the learn'd prescribe, That men may die without a double bribe; Let them, but under their superiors, kill When doctors first have sign'd the bloody bill. He 'scapes the best who, nature to repair, Draws physic from the fields in draughts of vital

air.