Revenge would into charity be chang'd,
Because it cofts 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 reftore
You give the falve, I laid it to the fore.
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.

EPISTLE

THE TENTH.

To my dear Friend Mr CONGREVE, on his Comedy call'd, The DOUBLE DEALER.

WELL

ELL then, the promis'd hour is come at last, The prefent age of wit obfcures the past : Strong were our fires, 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 ftood.

Like

Like Janus he the stubborn foil 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 indued.
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 fecond 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 ftrength, and all above is grace.
In eafy dialogue is Fletcher's praise ;

He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raife.
Great Jonfon did by ftrength of judgment please ;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his eafe.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the ftudy, t' other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,

One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we fee,
Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity,

The fatire, wit, and strength, of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have atchiev'd:
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd.
So much the fweetnefs of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardlefs conful made against the law,

And

And join his fufferage 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 defcended for the fon

For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus, when the state one Edward did depofe,
A greater Edward in his room arofe.
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 defert.
Yet this I prophefy; thou shalt be seen,
(Though with feme fhort parenthefis between)
High on the throne of wit, and, feated there,
Not mine, that 's little, but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promife made;
That early promife this has more than paid.
So bold, yet fo judiciously you dare,
That your leaft praife 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 ftore;
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,

To Shakespeare gave as much; fhe could not give

him more.

Maintain your post: That's all the fame you need ; For 'tis impoffible you fhould proceed.

Already

Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at heaven's expence,

I live a rent-charge on his providence :

whom

every

But
you,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and O defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th' infulting foe my fame pursue,
But fhade thofe laurels which defcend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines exprefs:
You merit more; nor could my love do lefs.

Muse and Grace adorn,

1

EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.

To Mr. GRANVILLE, on his excellent Tragedy called, HEROIC LOVE.

Aufpicious poet, were thou not my friend,

How could I envy, what I muft commend!

But fince 'tis nature's law in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and withering age fubmit,
With less regret those 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 caft,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lofe at last.
Young princes, obftinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rife:

Old

Old monarchs, though successful, still 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 fhortly we may fee
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 fome foreign monster in a bill.

Thus they jog on, ftill tricking, never thriving,
And murdering plays, which they mifcall reviving.
Our fenfe is nonfenfe, through their pipes convey'd;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made;

'Tis fo difguis'd in death; nor thinks 'tis he
That fuffers in the mangled tragedy,
Thus Itys firft 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 could not spoil.
Their fetting-fun ftill fhoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay :

And better gleanings their worn foil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coaft.
This difference yet the judging world will fee;
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.