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 reduc'd 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 reviving.
Our sense is nonsense, through 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 dress'd
For his own sire, the chief invited guest.
I say not this of thy successful scenes,
Where thine was all the glory, their's 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.

EPISTLE XIL

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 infus'd,
Which Moses, David, Solomon, have us'd,
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 accus'd 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 silenc'd; 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 plac'd below their lofty chairs ;
Our's be the practice, as the precept their's.
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 preserv'd by thee,
That even 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 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 refin'd too much;
And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey, [allay.
More fit for maply thought, and strengthen'd with
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 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.

EPISTLE XIII. 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 lov'd himself, needs only to be known

Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
From your award to wait their final doom;
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 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.
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 ev'n the first,
Though pair'd by Heaven, in Paradise were curs'd.
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; [stray'd.
So, further from the fount the stream at random
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-breath'd beagles you surround the wood, Ev'n then, industrious of the common good: And often have you brought the wily fox To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks; Chas'd ev'n 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 plac'd; And, chasing, sigh to think themselves are chas'd. So liv'd 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, pronounc'd by God, were vain. In vain the leech would interpose delay; Fate fastens first, and vindicates the prey. What help from Art's endeavours can we have? Gibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save: [grave; But Maurus sweeps whole parishes, and peoples every And no more mercy to mankind will use, Than when he robb'd and murder'd Maro's Muse. Wouldst thou be soon dispatch'd, and perish whole, Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourn with thy

soul.

By chase our long-liv'd 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 plac'd, 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 human kind, 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.

You hoard not health, for your own private use;
But on the public spend the rich produce.
When, often urg'd, unwilling to be great,
Your country calls you from your lov'd retreat,
And sends to senates, charg'd with common care,
Which none more shuns; and none can better bear:
Where could they find another form'd so fit,
To poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit!
Were these both wanting, as they both abound,
Where could so firm integrity be found?
Well born, and wealthy, wanting no support,
You steer betwixt the country and the court:
Nor gratify whate'er the great desire,
Nor grudging give, what public needs require.
Part must be left, a fund when foes invade;
And part employ'd to roll the watery trade:
Ev'n Canaan's happy land, when worn with toil,
Requir'd a sabbath-year to mend the meagre soil.
Good senators (and such as you) so give,

That kings may be supply'd, the people thrive.
And he, when want requires, is truly wise,
Who slights not foreign aids, nor over-buys;
But on our native strength, in time of need, relies.
Munster was bought, we boast not the success;
Who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace.
Our foes, compell'd by need, have peace embrac'd:
The peace both parties want, is like to last:
Which, if secure, securely we may trade;
Or, not secure, should never have been made.
Safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand,
The sea is ours, and that defends the land.
Be, then, the naval stores the nation's care,
New ships to build, and batter'd to repair.

Observe the war, in every annual course;
What has been done, was done with British force:
Namur subdued, is England's palm alone;
The rest besieg'd; but we constrain'd the town:
We saw th' event that follow'd our success;
France, though pretending arms, pursued the peace;
Oblig'd, by one sole treaty, to restore
What twenty years of war had won before.
Enough for Europe has our Albion fought:
Let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought.
When once the Persian king was put to flight,
The weary Macedons refus'd to fight:
Themselves their own mortality confess'd;
And left the son of Jove to quarrel for the rest.
Ev'n victors are by victories undone;
Thus Hannibal, with foreign lanrels won,
To Carthage was recall'd, too late to keep his own.
While sore of battle, while our wounds are green,
Why should we tempt the doubtful dye again?
In wars renew'd, uncertain of success;
Sure of a share, as umpires of the peace.

A patriot both the king and country serves: Prerogative, and privilege, preserves: Of each our laws the certain limit show; One must not ebb, nor t'other overflow: Betwixt the prince and parliament we stand; The barriers of the state on either hand : May neither overflow, for then they drown the land. When both are full, they feed our bless'd abode; Like those that water'd once the Paradise of God.

Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share;
In peace the people, and the prince in war:
Consuls of moderate power in calms were made;
When the Gauls came, one sole dictator sway'd.
Patriots, in peace, assert the people's right;
With noble stubbornness resisting might:
No lawless mandates from the court receive,
Nor lend by force, but in a body give.
Such was your generous grandsire; free to grant
In parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want:
But so tenacious of the common cause,
As not to lend the king against his laws.
And in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie,
In bonds retain'd his birthright liberty,
And sham'd oppression, till it set him free.
O true descendant of a patriot line, [thine,
Who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them
Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see;
'Tis so far good, as it resembles thee.
The beauties to th' original I owe ;

Which when I miss, my own defects I show:
Nor think the kindred Muses thy disgrace:
A poet is not born in every race.
Two of a house few ages can afford;
One to perform, another to record.
Praiseworthy actions are by thee embrac'd;
And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last.
For ev'n when Death dissolves our human frame,
The soul returns to Heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, verse preserves the fame.

EPISTLE XIV.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

PRINCIPAL PAINTER TO HIS MAJESTY.

ONCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,
And still the sweet idea charms my mind:
True, she was dumb; for Nature gaz'd so long,
Pleas'd with her work, that she forgot her tongue;
But, smiling, said, " She still shall gain the prize;
I only have transferr'd it to her eyes."
Such are thy pictures, Kneller; such thy skill,
That Nature seems obedient to thy will;
Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught;
Lives there, and wants but words to speak her
thought.

At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
Imagine sounds, deceiv'd to that degree,
We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.
Shadows are but privations of the light;
Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;
With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life
So near, they almost conquer in the strife;
And from their animated canvass came,
Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would cast away
His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise ;
This is the least attendant on thy praise:
From hence the rudiments of art began;
A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:
Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original;

Ere canvass yet was strain'd, before the grace
Of blended colours found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.

By slow degrees the godlike art advanc'd;
As man grew polish'd, picture was enhanc'd:
Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;
And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view:
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart,
But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did strive:
Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchless monuments deface.
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And rhyme began t' enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,
The pen and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,
Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep,
A heavy sabbath did supinely keep:
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.
Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line:
One colour'd best, and one did best design.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.
Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,
Postures unfore'd, and lively colours join.
Likeness is ever there; but still the best,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest;
Where light, to shades descending, plays, not
strives,

Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.
Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight:
With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write ;
With reverence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.
His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight.

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless

breast

Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.
Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost:
When most they rail, know then, they envy most.
In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth:
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth:
But oh, the painter Muse, though last in place,
Has seiz'd the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold bound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.

A graceful truth thy peneil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though Nature there her true resemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.
So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,
When on wild Nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place:
The painter widely stretches his command;
Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;
And not seven cities, but the world would strive.
Sure some propitious planet then did smile,
When first you were conducted to this isle:
Our genius brought you here, t' enlarge our fame;
For your good stars are every where the same.
Thy matchless hand, of every region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th' examples of their wondrous art.
Those masters then, but seen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood:
For what in Nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir'd.
If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,
'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design
A more exalted work, and more divine,
For what a song, or senseless opera,
Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a single piece to history,

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live:
Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;
And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:
Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool:
But so his follies in thy posture sink,

The senseless ideot seems at last to think.

Good Heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain,

To wish their vile resemblance may remain!
And stand recorded, at their own request,
To future days, a libel or a jest!

Else should we see your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place:

A whole compos'a of parts, and those the best.
With every various character exprest;
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view:
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew,
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design.
More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age shall add the rest.
For Time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which Time alone can grant;
To future ages shall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.

ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

I.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM.

FAREWELL, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own:
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out, the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
Whilst his young friend perform'd, and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what Nature never gives the young)
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble errour, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betray'd.
Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,
Still show'd a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of
rhyme.

Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

II, AN ODE.

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY MRS. ANNE KILLEGREW, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER-ARTS OF POESY AND

PAINTING.

If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find