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

"T

IS hard, my Friend, to write in fuch an Age,
As damns, not only Poets, but the Stage.
That facred Art, by Heav'n itself infus'd,
Which Mofes, David, Solomon have us'd,
Is now to be no more: The Mufes' Foes
Wou'd fink their Maker's Praifes into Profe.
Were they content to prune the lavish Vine
Of fraggling Branches, and improve the Wine,
Who, but a Madman, wou'd his thoughts defend ?`
All wou'd fubmit; for all but Fools will mend.
But when to common Senfe they give the lye,
And turn diftorted words to blafphemy,
They give the Scandal ; and the Wise discern,
Their Gloffes teach an Age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or prophanely, writ,
Let them to Fires, their due defert, commit:
Nor, when accus'd by me, let them complain :
Their Faults, and not their Function, I arraign.
Rebellion, worse than Witchcraft, they purfu'd;
The Pulpit preach'd the Crime, the People ru'd.
The Stage was filenc'd; for the Saints wou'd fee-
In Fields perform'd their plotted Tragedy.
But let us firft reform, and then fo 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 leaft, we may divide,
Humility reward, and punish Pride;
Ambition, Int'reft, Avarice accuse :
Thefe are the Province of a Tragick Mufe.

Thefe

These haft thou chofen ; and the publick Voice
Has equal'd thy Performance with thy Choice.
Time, Action, Place, are so preserv'd by thee,
That e'en Corneille might with Envy fee
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 defign, 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, enfeebl'd, is refin'd too much ;
And, like pure Gold, it bends at ev'ry touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will Art obey,

More fit for manly Thought, and strengthen'd with Allay.
But whence art thou infpir'd, and Thou alone,
To flourish in an Idiom not thy own?
It moves our wonder, that a foreign Guest
Shou'd over-match the most, and match the bef.
In under-praifing thy Deferts, I wrong;
Here find the first Deficience of our Tongue:
Words, once my Stock, are wanting, to commend
So great a Poet, and fo good a Friend.

TO HENRY HIGDEN, Efq; on his Tranf lation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal.

T

HE Grecian Wits, who Satire first began,
Were pleasant Pafquins on the Life of Man;

At mighty Villains, who the State oppreft,
They durft not Rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least,
And turn'd them out of Office with a Jeft.

1

}

No

No Fool could peep abroad, but ready stand
The Drolls to clap a Bauble in his Hand.
Wife Legiflators never yet could draw
A Fop within the Reach of Common Law ;
For Posture, Drefs, Grimace and Affectation,
Tho' Foes to Senfe, are harmless to the Nation.
Our laft Redress is dint of Verfe 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 liv'd in more degenerate Times,
Was forc'd to faften deep, and worry Crimes.
Yet you, my Friend, have temper'd him fo well,
You make him fmile in fpite of all his Zeal:
An Art peculiar to your felf alone,

To join the Virtues of two Styles in one.

Oh! were your Author's Principle receiv'd,
Half of the lab'ring World would be relicv'd:
For not to wish is not to be deceiv'd.
Revenge wou'd 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 compafs'd leaves a Sting behind.
Suppofe I had the better End o'th Staff,
Why fhould 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 my felf of that Difeafe;
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.

+ Juvenal.

Our

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 ftudious of Debate,
Would ceafe falfe Hopes and Titles to create,
Led by the Rare Example you begun,
Clients would fail, and Lawyers be undone.

To Sir GODFREY KNELLER, Principal Painter to His Majefty.

And ftill the fweet Idea charms my Mind: True, fhe was dumb; for Nature gaz'd fo long, Pleas'd with her Work, that the forgot her Tongue; But, fmiling, faid, 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 feems 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 fomewhat more than just to fee. Shadows are but Privations of the Light; Yet, when we walk, they thoot before the Sight; With us approach, retire, arife, and fall; Nothing themselves, and yet expreffing all. Such are thy Pieces, imitating Life

So near, they almoft conquer in the ftrife;

And from their animated Canvaís came,
Demanding Souls, and loofen'd from the Frame.

Pro

Prometheus, were he here, wou'd caft away
His Adam, and refuse a Soul to Clay;
And either wou'd thy noble Work inspire,
Or think it warm enough, without his Fire.
But vulgar Hands may vulgar Likeness raise;
This is the leaft Attendant on thy Praise :
From hence the Rudiments of Art began ;
A Coal, or Chalk, firft imitated Man :
Perhaps, the Shadow, taken on a Wall,
Gave Out-lines to the rude Original;
Ere Canvass yet was ftrain'd, before the Grace
Of blended Colours found their use and place,
Or Cypress Tablets first receiv'd a Face.

By flow degrees the Godlike Art advanc'd ;
As Man grew polish'd, Picture was inhanc'd:
Greece added Pofture, Shade, and Perspective;
And then the Mimick Piece began to Live.
Yet Perspective was lame, no diftance 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 infenfibly 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 matchlefs Monuments deface.
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And Rhime began t'enervate Poetry.
Thus, in a ftupid Military State,
The Pen and Pencil find an equal Fate.

Flat Faces, fuch as wou'd disgrace a Skreen,
Such as in Bantam's Embaffy were seen,

Un