To Mr GRANVILLE *, on his excellent Tragedy called Heroic Love.
Aufpicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How cou'd I envy, what I must commend!
But fince 'tis Nature's law in love and wit,
That youth shou'd reign, and with'ring age submit,
With lefs regret thofe laurels I refign,
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, obftinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
Old monarchs, though fuccefsful, ftill in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wifely turn devout.
Thine be the laurel then; thy blooming age
Can beft, if any can, fupport the stage;
Which fo declines, that shortly we may fee
Players and plays reduc'd to fecond infancy.
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the stage, but on the town,
And, in defpair their empty pit to fill,
Set up fome foreign monster in a bill.
Thus they jog on, ftill tricking, never thriving,
And murd'ring plays, which they mifcal reviving.
Our fenfe is nonfenfe, through their pipes convey'd ;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made;
'Tis fo disguis'd in death; nor thinks 'tis he
That fuffers in the mangled tragedy.
Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after drefs'd
For his own fire, the chief invited guest.
I fay not this of thy fuccessful 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 cou'd not spoil.
Their setting-fun * still shoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay:
And better gleanings their worn foil can boast
Than the crab-vintage of the neighb'ring coast f.
This diff'rence yet the judging world will fee;
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.
To my Friend Mr MOTTEUX, on his Tragedy called Beauty in Distress.
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 praises into profe.
* Mr Betterton's company in Lincoln's-inn-Fields. Drury-Lane play-house.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of fraggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who, but a madman, would his thoughts defend?"
All would fubmit; for all but fools will mend.
But when to common fenfe they give the lye,
And turn distorted words to blafphemy,
They give the fcandal; and the wife difcern,
Their gloffes teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or profanely 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, worfe than witchcraft, they purfu'd;
The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people ru'd.
The ftage was filenc'd; for the faints would 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 plac'd 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, int'reft, avarice accufe:
These are the province of a tragic Mufe.
Thefe haft thou chofen; and the public voice
Has equal'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are so preferv'd by thee,
That e'en Corneille might with envy fee
Th' alliance of his tripled unity.
Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are fown;
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 darc;
Contented to be thinly regular:
Born there, but not for them, our fruitful foil
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
Should over-match the most, and match the best.
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 tranflation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal.
IE Grecian wits, who fatiré firft began,
Were picafant Pafquins on the life of man;
At mighty villains, who the ftate oppress'd,
They durft not rail, perhaps; they lafh'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.
Wife legiflators 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 laft redress is dint of verse to try,
And fatire 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 fasten 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 yourself alone,
To join the virtues of two ftiles in one.
Oh! were your author's principle receiv'd,
Half of the lab'ring world would be reliev'd:
For not to wifh is not to be deceiv'd.
Revenge would into charity be chang'd,
Because it costs too dear to be reveng’d. `
It cofts our quiet and content of mind,
And when 'tis compass'd leaves a sting behind.
Suppofe 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 reflore; the falve, I laid it to the fore,
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