Smiles unconcern'd, as Socrates is said

T' have sat at Athens when the Clouds were play'd. Sometimes the Tragic Muse destruction breathes, And strews th' embattled scene with bloodless deaths;

Sometimes a merrier garb the Drama wears,

And every vice and every folly sneers.

His judgment great, and great must be his craft,
That undertakes to make his audience laugh;
'Tis not a natural ninny must be shown,
Expose the coxcomb, not the simpleton.
The barbarous wretch, that toils to ridicule
An honest, harmless, unconceited fool,
As well, with Hamlet in the play, might slave
To prove a villain is an errant knave.
When Shadwell gives his ideot clown a miss,
Gorg'd with the nauseous ass, true critics hiss,
Hiss, and with reason bid the scribbling nisy,
Go read Quintilian de movendo risu.

Nothing can more provoke a righteous spleen (Like that of Collier) than an impious scene. In Spain their martyr'd Saints (a sight preposterous) Kneel on the stage, and sing their Pater Nosters. This error claims the contrary extreme, Religion is for plays too great a theme, A theme that asks a more respected coat, A tongue that does not only move by rote.

Let those who dare attempt the Tragic Muse,
Some standard author for their pattern choose;
The man who Nature reconciles with Art,
Who knows each pass, each folding of the heart,

Who tyrannizes o'er the soul, is he:
Such Shakspere was, such Addison will be.

Such Shakspere was indeed; for who can guard

His inmost soul, when Shakspere plies it hard?
Can he that has a child, an only child,
As Hotspur headstrong, and as Falstaff wild,
See Bolingbroke in anguish for his son,
See the king's sorrows, and forget his own?
And can that child behold Lear's good old age,
All dropping wet, come frantic on the stage,
Or hear that impious pair his daughters play'd,
Yet not his own ingratitude upbraid?
He must, he must, 'tis Shakspere reprimands;
What guilt so bold his pious pen withstands ?

All hail, immortal Bard! thy Muse disarms Each vice, and even when a slattern charms. Thou canst celestial sentiments express, Or necromantic rites in all their horrors dress, So the fam'd God of Eloquence (who smil'd On thy great birth, and chose thee for his child) In either region's language did excell, At once th' interpreter of Heaven and Hell.

Immortal Bard, all hail! may every Spring Around thy tomb the Nymphs of Avon bring ! Around, ye grateful Nymphs, around him tread, Record his beauties, and bemoan him dead.

All hail, immortal Bard! thee witlings damn, For errors scarce enough to prove thee man: Errors there are, for who so partial sees The Prince of Playwrights in his Pericles ? But when the youthful Dane to raptures swells At the sad tale his poison'd father tells; When Caesar triumphs, when his murderers plot, When Hecate deceives the valiant Scot; When Fairies round the ring, when Spirits fly, Compell'd by magic from their native sky, I know him then, I know the Muse's shrine, 'Tis he, 'tis he himself, 'tis Shakspere, 'tis divine.

None may attempt the next great Poet's fame, Whilst Denham's numbers blazon Jonson's name; 'Twas he first methodis'd the Muse's rage, To him we owe correctness on the stage : By tracing Jonson's humorists and lays, Even blundering Shadwell now and then can please.

Apollo thus to bend his bow, 'tis said,
Upon a senseless stone his lyre had laid;
Th' infectious harmony the marble caught,
His instrument a new one strait begot;

The stone when struck on imitating still
In feeble sounds the master godhead's skill.

Shadwell perhaps may coast along the shore, But fears the dangerous ugly deep t'explore. Jonson alone with wit and judgment braves The rising storm, and quells the raging waves; Here distant twinkling beauties rarely meet, There's a bright galaxy of dazzling wit.

But like the Graces, moving hand in hand, Fletcher and Beaumont next the crown command: The first too far presuming on his wit, His lavish lays luxuriantly writ; Whilst Beaumont modell'd every darling thought, And interpos'd his beautifying blot, Taught him to manage the Pierian steed, Or curb him close, or urge his utmost speed.

Minerva thus, to rout the Thracian God, In the same chariot with Tydides rode; She wields the whip, his forward courage chides, His fiery self and fiery coursers guides, Now checks their haste, now thunders o'er the plain, The Hero darts the spear, the Goddess rules the rein.

Fletcher, when fir'd with a poetic heat,
Was ever rambling after rant and wit;
'Twas then his friend, all fortify'd with rules,
Show'd him the scene could tickle none but fool's.

Convinc'd, amaz'd, the guilty Poet stood,
And blush'd himself should ever think it good..

So Bacchus, when he drove his conquering car
O'er sun-burnt climes, and urg'd the Indian war,
Soon as the generous grape had reach'd his head,
His troops to many a rash adventure led;
Silenus saw the fault, by his advice

The God allay'd his rage, and cool'd his cup with ice.

Long felt the Drama an inglorious dearth, Nor wept the Tragic Muse, nor smil'd the Comic

Mirth.

At length his lyre harmonious Dryden strung,
Excell'd in both, and both alternate sung.
At first indeed he made his heroes rant,
Or quibbled Folly in his Wild Gallant :
But, as in music, when the artist long
Has try'd each note, and dwelt upon the song,
The strings become familiar to his hand,
Around his lute the Graces take their stand;
He rises in his skill, the crowd controls,
And robs his ravish'd audience of their souls.
Our Author so, when perfect in his art,
Alarm'd the brave, and seiz'd the fair-one's heart.

So Nature's workmanship, in paint display'd, By mellowing Time more beautiful is made.