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Or is it Fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net, that is for fancies spread,
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of Chance, and not of Care.
No atoms casually together burl'd
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine bere admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your strong genius then which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our instruction make their second end:
We're both enrich ́d and pleas d, like them that woo
At once a beauty, and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge.
Like some brave captain, your successful pen
Restores the exil'd to her crown again:
And gives us hope, that, having seen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
"A sober prince's government is best."
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th' improvement of the richest ground,
That soil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly has discharged those,
Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;
Who, dress'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin robes he took.
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 disguis'd,
More for their dressing, than their substance priz'd.
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 skilful 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 preserv'd shall be 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:

For, since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne, It shares at once his fortune and its own."

EPISTLE II.

то

MY HONOURED FRIEND DR. CHARLETON,

ON HIS LEARNED AND USEFUL WORKS; BUT MORE PARTICULARLY HIS TREATISE OF STONEHENGE, BY HIM RESTORED TO THE TRUE FOUNDER.

THE longest tyranny that ever sway'd,
Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd
Their free-born reason to the Stagirite,
And made his torch their universal light.
So truth, while only one supply'd the state,
Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
Still it was bought, like emp'ric wares, or charms,
Hard words seal'd up with Aristotle's arms.
Columbus was the first that shook his throne;
And found a temperate 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 danc'd 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 admir'd 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.
Gilber 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
blood

(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food)
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 circumscrib'd with English ground,
Flies like the nimble journies of the light;
And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.
Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,
Redeem'd from errour, 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 Saxous boast.

Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crown'd;

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 Wor'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 restor'd, 'tis now become a throne.

EPISTLE 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,

| 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 discharg'd to me,
When your applause and favour did infuse
New life to my condemn'd and dying Muse.

EPISTLE IV.

TO MR. LEE, ON HIS ALEXANDER.

THE blast of common censure could I fear,
Before your play my name should not appear;
For 't will be thought, and with some colour too,
I pay the bribe I first receiv'd from you;
That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
And play the game into each other's hand;
And as cheap pen'orths 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 se-

cure:

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 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 ev'n reversions are all begg'd before:
Desert, how known soe'er, is long delay'd;
And then, too, fools and knaves are better pay'd.
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 away.
'Tis here as 'tis at sea; who furthest 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

Who, when they might prevent, would wait the With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.

blow:

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 preserv'd the play.
When first the triumphs of your sex were sung
By those old poets, Beauty was but young,
And few admir'd the native red and white,
Till poets dress'd them up to charm the sight;

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EPISTLE 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,
Advanc'd 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 barbarous nations, and more barbarous times,
Debas'd 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-vowel'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,
Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polish'd page
Restor❜d a silver, not a golden age.
Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see,
What rhyme improv'd 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 restor'd again,

In Charles's 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 disguis'd, 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 sham'd.
'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow
Deriv'd 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 of Art!
Great generals thus, descending from command,
With their own toil provoke the soldiers' hand.
How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleas'd 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 commend,
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 belov'd by Jove, and they
Whom infus'd 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.

EPISTLE VI.

TO THE DUTCHESS OF YORK,

ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND 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 rais'd no storm, Foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form: Some cry'd, a 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 dy'd. Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate, Her sight is purchas'd 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 restor'd his ancient realm surveys, Recals 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.

EPISTLE 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 ev'n to pole artique;
Since you have 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 ev❜n for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity;
Where love-sick 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 's 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 aud 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 tope 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 deny'd,

You would be pleas'd 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 negotiation.
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 fall 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.

EPISTLE VIII

TO MR. SOUTHERNE,

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 buffoonry 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 pleas'd 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;
Ev'n 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 refase.
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.

EPISTLE 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 bauble 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 your's, who liv'd in more degenerate times,
Was forc'd 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 receiv'd, Half of the labouring world would be reliev'd: For not to wish is not to be deceiv'd. Revenge would into charity be chang'd, Because it costs too dear to be reveng'd: 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' ill-natur'd world to laugh? 'Tis all alike to them, who get the day; They love the spite and mischief of the fray. No; I have cur'd myself of that disease; Nor will I be provok'd, but when I please: But let me half that cure to you restore; You give 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.

EPISTLE X.

ΤΟ

MY DEAR FRIEND MR. CONGREVE,
ON HIS COMEDY CALLED THE DOUBLE DEaler.

WELL then, the promis'd 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 manur'd,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd;
Tam'd 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 curst;
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 mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,

In him all beauties of this age we see,
Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength, of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd:
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd.
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless consul made against the law,
And join his sufferage 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 depos'd, 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 merit more; nor could my love do less.

EPISTLE XI. TO MR. GRANVILLE,

ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY CALLED HEROIC LOVE.

AUSPICIOUS poet, were thou not my friend,
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 resign,
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, obstinate to win the prize,

One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit. Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
VOL. VIII.

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