hopes of having it in my power ever to make him
It is impoffible for me to come near your Lordfhip, in any kind, and not to receive fome favour; and while in appearance I am only making an acknowledgment (with the ufual underhand dealing of the world) I am, at the fame time, infinuating my own intereft. I cannot give your Lordship your due, without tacking a bill of my own privileges. It is true, if a man never committed a folly, he would never stand in need of a protection: but then power would have nothing to do, and goodnature no occafion to fhew itself; and where those qualities are, it is pity they fhould want objects to fhine upon. I must confefs this is no reason why a man fhould do an idle thing, nor indeed any good excufe for it, when done'; yet it reconciles the uses of fuch authority and goodness, to the neceffities of our follies; and is a fort of poetical logic, which, at this time, I would make use of, to argue your Lordship into a protection of this play. It is the first offence I have committed in this kind, or indeed, in any kind of poetry, though not the first made public; and therefore, I hope, will the more eafily be pardoned: but had it been acted, when it was first written, more might have been faid in its behalf; ignorance of the town and stage would then have been excufes in a young writer, which now, almost four years experience, will fcarce allow of. Yet I muft declare myself fenfible of the goodnature of the town, in receiving this play fo kindly, with all its faults, which I must own were, for the
moft part, very induftriously covered by the care of the players; for I think, scarce a character but received all the advantage it would admit of, from the juftness of the action.
As for the critics, my Lord, I have nothing to say to, or against, any of them of any kind; from those who make just exceptions, to those who find fault in the wrong place. I will only make this general answer in behalf of my play, (an anfwer which Epictetus advises every man to make for himself to his cenfurers) viz. That if they who find fome faults in it were as intimate with it as I am, This is a conthey would find a great many more. feffion which I needed not to have made; but however, I can draw this ufe from it, to my own advantage, that I think there are no faults in it but what I do know; which, as I take it, is the first step to an amendment.
Thus I may liye in hopes (fome time or other) of making the town amends; but you, my Lord, I never can, though I am ever
Your Lordship's moft obedient,
W HEN virtue in pursuit of fame appears,
And forward fhoots the growth beyond the years,
We timely court the rifing hero's cause ;
And on his fide, the poet wifely draws;
Befpeaking him hereafter, by applause.
The days will come, when we fhall all receive
Returning interest, from what now we give;
Inftructed, and fupported by that praise,
And reputation, which we strive to raise.
Nature fo coy, fo hardly to be woo'd,
Flies, like a mistress, but to be purfu'd.
O Congreve! boldly follow on the chace;
She looks behind, and wants thy ftrong embrace;
She yields, fhe yields, furrenders all her charms,
Do you but force her gently to your arms :
Such nerves, fuch graces, in your lines appear,
As you were made to be her ravisher.
Dryden has long extended his command,
By right divine, quite through the mufes land;
Abfolute lord; and holding now from none,
But great Apollo, his undoubted crown;
(That empire fettled, and grown old in pow'r)
Can with for nothing, but a fucceffor:
Not to enlarge his limits, but maintain
Thofe provinces, which he alone could gain.
His eldest Wycherly, in wife retreat,
Thought it not worth his quiet to be great.
Loofe, wand'ring Etherege, in wild pleasures toft,
And foreign int'refts, to his hopes long loft:
Poor Lee and Otway dead! Congreve appears,
The darling, and last comfort of his years:
May'st thou live long in thy great Master's smiles,
And growing under him, adorn these ifles:
when part of him (be that but late)
His body yielding must fubmit to fate,
Leaving his deathless works, and thee behind,
(The natural fucceffor of his mind)
Then may'st thou finish what he has begun;
Heir to his merit, but in fame his fon.
What thou hast done, fhews all is in thy pow'r ;
And to write better, only must write more.
'Tis fomething to be willing to commend;
But my best praife is, that I am your friend.
'HE danger's great in these cenforious days,
When critics are fo rife, to venture praise :
When the infectious and ill-natur'd brood
Behold, and damn the work because 'tis good;
And with a proud, ungenerous spirit, try
To pafs an oftracifm on poetry.
But you, my friend, your worth does fafely bear
Above their spleen; you have no caufe for fear;
Like a well-meatled hawk, you took your flight
Quite out of reach, and almost out of fight,
As the strong fun, in a fair summer's day,
You rife, and drive the mists and clouds away,
The owls and bats, and all the birds of prey.
Each line of yours like polish'd steel's fo hard,
In beauty fafe it wants no other guard :
Nature herfelf's beholden to your dress,
Which though ftill like, much fairer you exprefs.
Some vainly striving honour to obtain,
Leave to their heirs the traffic of their brain,
Like China under ground, the ripening ware,
In a long time, perhaps grows worth our care:
But you now reap the fame, fo well you've fown;
The planter taftes his fruit to ripeness grown.
As a fair orange-tree at once is feen,
Big with what's ripe, yet fpringing still with green;
So at one time my worthy friend appears,
With all the fap of youth, and weight of years.
Accept my pious love, as forward zeal,
Which, though it ruins me, I can't conceal:
Expos'd to cenfure for my weak applause,
I'm pleas'd to fuffer in so just a caufe:
And though my offering may unworthy prove,
Take, as a friend, the wishes of my love.
WIT, like true gold, refin'd from all allay,
Immortal is, and never can decay;
"Tis in all times and languages the fame ;
Nor can an ill translation quench the flame :
For though the form and fashion don't remain,
Th' intrinfic value ftill it will retain.
Then let each studied fcene be writ with art;
And judgment sweat to form the labour'd part;
Each character be just, and Nature seem;
Without th' ingredient, wit, 'tis all but phlegm :
For that's the foul, which all the mass mut move,
And wake our passions into grief, or love.
But you, too bounteous, fow your wit so thick,
We are furpriz'd, and know not where to pick:
And while with clapping, we are just to you,
Ourselves we injure, and lofe fomething new.
What mayn't we then, great youth, of thee prefage!
Whofe art and wit fo much tranfcend thy age?
How wilt thou fhine at thy meridian height,
Who, at thy rifing, giv'st so vast a light?
When Dryden dying shall the world deceive,
Whom we immortal, as his works, believe ;
Thou shalt fuccced, the glory of the stage,
Adorn and entertain the comic age.
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