TO MY DEAR FRIEND
Mr. CONGREVE,
COMEDY call'd, The DOUBLE DEALER.
WELL then, the promis'd hour is come at last,
The present age of wit obscures the past :
Strong were our fires, and as they fought they writ,
Conqu'ring with force of arms, and dint of wit :
Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
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 boistrous English wit with art indu'd.
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 second temple was not like the first :
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
VOL. II.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base :
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space:
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praife;
He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Johnfon did by strength of judgment please;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In diff'ring talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, 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 his courtship, Southern's purity,
The fatire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly.
All this in blooming youth you have atchiev'd:
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd.
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless conful made against the law,
And join his fuffrage to the votes of Rome;
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,
And fcholar to the youth he taught became.
O that your brows my laurel had fustain'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 depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose.
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 prophesy; thou shalt be seen,
(Tho with fome short parenthesis between)
High on the throne of wit, and, feated there,
Not mine, that's little, but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise 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 store; Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespear gave as much; the could not
Maintain your post: That's all the fame you
For 'tis impoffible you should proceed,
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:
But you, whom every mufe and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and O defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th'insulting foe my fame pursue,
But fhade those laurels which defcend to you :
And take for tribute what these lines express:
You merit more; nor could my love do less.
Excellent Tragedy call'd, HEROIC LOVE.
A-Ufpicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But fince 'tis nature's law in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and witheringage submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honors of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Tho yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise :
Old monarchs, tho successful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.'
Thine be the laurel then; thy blooming age
Can best, if any can, support the stage;
Which so declines, that shortly 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, still tricking, never thriving,
And murd'ring plays, which they miscal reviving.
Our sense is nonsense, thro their pipes convey'd;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made ;
'Tis so disguis'd in death; nor thinks 'tis he
That suffers in the mangled tragedy.
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