That yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,

Seems only wanting to this age, not thee. Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,

Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design

150

A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a song, or senseless opera
Is to the living labor of a play;
Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a single piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live;

Kings cannot reign unless their subjects give;

And they who pay the taxes bear the rule: Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool;

But so his follies in thy posture sink,
The senseless idiot seems at least to think.
Good Heav'n! that sots and knaves should

Our unities of action, time, and place;
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the
best,

With ev'ry various character express'd;
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view; 170
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew;
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art express'd,
But venerable age shall add the rest:
For Time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening
hand;

Mellow your colors, and imbrown the teint; Add every grace, which Time alone can

grant;

To future ages shall your fame convey, 190 And give more beauties than he takes away.

AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY PURCELL

LATE SERVANT TO HIS MAJESTY, AND ORGANIST OF THE CHAPEL ROYAL, AND OF ST. PETER'S, WESTMINSTER

[Henry Purcell, the greatest musician of his time, died on November 21, 16.5, at the age of thirty-seven. Dryden's ode was published in the next year, in a broadside, where it is twice printed, first by itself, and then with music written for it by Dr. John Blow. It also appeared as one of several poems prefixed to Orpheus Britannicus, a collection of Purcell's music published in 1698.]

I HAVE thought convenient to acquaint the reader with somewhat concerning this comedy, tho' perhaps not worth his knowledge. It was sent me from Italy some years since, by my second son, to try its fortune on the stage; and being the essay of a young unexperienc'd author, to confess the truth, I thought it not worthy of that honor. 'Tis true, I was not willing to discourage him so far as to tell him plainly my opinion, but it seems he guess'd somewhat of my mind, by my long delays of his expectation; and therefore, in my absence from the town last summer, took the boldness to dedicate his play to that person of honor whose name you will find before his epistle. It was receiv'd by that noble gentleman with so much candor and generosity, as neither my son nor I could deserve from him. Then the play was no longer in my power; the patron demanding it in his own right, it was deliver'd to him. And he was farther pleas'd, during my sickness. to put it into that method in which you find it; the loose scenes digested into order. and knit into a tale.

As it is, I think it may pass amongst the rest of our new plays: I know but two authors, and they are both my friends, who have done better

since the Revolution. This I dare venture to maintain, that the taste of the age is wretchedly deprav'd in all sorts of poetry; nothing almost but what is abominably bad can please. The young hounds, who ought to come behind, now lead the pack; but they miserably mistake the scent. Their poets, worthy of such an audience, know not how to distinguish their characters; the manners are all alike, inconsistent and interfering with each other. There is scarce a man or woman of God's making in all their farces: yet they raise an unnatural sort of laughter, the common effect of buffoon'ry; and the rabble, which takes this for wit, will endure no better, because 't is above their understanding. This account I take from the best judges; for I thank God, I have had the grace hitherto to avoid the seeing or reading of their gallimaufries. But 't is the latter end of a century, and I hope the next will begin better.

This play, I dare assure the reader, is none of those; it may want beauties, but the faults are neither gross nor many. Perfection in any art is not suddenly obtain'd: the author of this, to his misfortune, left his country at a time when he was to have learn'd the language. The story he has treated was an accident which happen'd at Rome, tho' he has transferr'd the scene to England. If it shall please God to restore him to me, I may perhaps inform him better of the rules of writing; and if I am not partial, he has already shewn that a genius is not wanting to him. All that I can reasonably fear is, that the perpetual good success of ill plays may make him endeavor to please by writing worse, and by accommodating himself to the wretched capacity and liking of the present audience, from which, Heaven defend any of my progeny! A poet, indeed. must live by the many; but a good poet will make it his business to please the few. I will not proceed farther on a subject which arraigns so many of the readers.

For what remains, both my son and I are extremely oblig'd to my dear friend, Mr. Congreve, whose excellent prologue was one of the greatest ornaments of the play. Neither is my epilogue the worst which I have written; tho' it seems, at the first sight, to expose our young clergy with too much freedom. It was on that consideration that I had once begun it otherwise, and deliver'd the copy of it to be spoken, in case the first part of it had given offense. This I will give you, partly in my own justification, and partly too because I think it not unworthy of your sight; only rememb`ring you that the last line connects the sense to the ensuing part of it. Farewell, reader: if you are a father, you will forgive me; if not, you will when you are a father.

Time was, when none could preach without degrees,

And seven years' toil at universities;

But when the canting saints came once in play,
The spirit did their business in a day:
A zealous cobbler, with the gift of tongue,
If he could pray six hours, might preach as long.
Thus, in the primitive times of poetry,
The stage to none but men of sense was free.
But thanks to your judicious taste, my masters,
It lies in common, now, to poetasters.
You set them up, and till you dare condemn,
The satire lies on you, and not on them.
When mountebanks their drugs at market cry,
Is it their fault to sell, or yours to buy?
'Tis true, they write with ease, and well they may;
Flyblows are gotten every summer's day;
The poet does but buzz, and there's a play.
Wit's not his business, &c.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE

}

But has as little as the very parson. Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;

But 't is for a third day, and for induction.

The difference is, that tho' you like the play,

The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day; But with the parson 't is another case; He, without holiness, may rise to grace. The poet has one disadvantage more, That if his play be dull, he 's damn'd all o'er,

Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd

20

poor. But dulness well becomes the sable garment;

I warrant that ne'er spoil'd a priest's pre

ferment:

PASTORALS

TO THE

RIGHT HONORABLE HUGH, LORD CLIFFORD

MY LORD,

BARON OF CHUDLEIGH

I HAVE found it not more difficult to translate Virgil, than to find such patrons as I desire for my translation. For, tho' England is not wanting in a learned nobility, yet such are my unhappy circumstances, that they have confin'd me to a narrow choice. To the greater part I have not the honor to be known; and to some of them I cannot shew at present, by any public act, that grateful respect which I shall ever bear them in my heart. Yet I have no reason to complain of fortune, since in the midst of that abundance I could not possibly have chosen better than the worthy son of so illustrious a father. He was the patron of my manhood, when I flourish'd in the opinion of the world; tho' with small advantage to my fortune, till he awaken'd the remembrance of my royal master. He was that Pollio, or that Varus, who introduc'd me to Augustus; and, tho' he soon dismiss'd himself from state affairs, yet in the short time of his administration he shone so powerfully upon me, that, like the heat of a Russian summer, he ripen'd the fruits of poetry in a cold climate, and gave me wherewithal to subsist, at least, in the long winter which succeeded. What I now offer to your Lordship is the wretched remainder of a sickly age, worn out with study, and oppress'd by fortune; without other support than the constancy and patience of a Christian. You, my Lord, are yet in the flower of your youth, and may live to enjoy the benefits of the peace which is promis'd Europe: I can only hear of that blessing; for years, and, above all things, want of health, have shut me out from sharing in the happiness. The poets, who condemn their Tantalus to hell, had added to his torments if they had plac'd him in Elysium, which is the proper emblem of my condition. The fruit and the water may reach my lips, but cannot enter; and, if they could, vet I want a palate as well as a digestion. But it is some kind of pleasure to me, to please

those whom I respect. And I am not altogether out of hope that these Pastorals of Virgil may give your Lordship some delight, tho' made English by one who scarce remembers that passion which inspir'd my author when he wrote them. These were his first essay in poetry, (if the Ceiris was not his,) and it was more excusable in him to describe love when he was young, than for me to translate him when I am old. He died at the age of fifty-two; and I began this work in my great climacteric. But having perhaps a better constitution than my author, I have wrong'd him less, considering my circumstances, than those who have attempted him before, either in our own, or any modern language. And, tho' this version is not void of errors, yet it comforts me that the faults of others are not worth finding. Mine are neither gross nor frequent in those eclogues wherein my master has rais'd himself above that humble style in which pastoral delights, and which I must confess is proper to the education and converse of shepherds; for he found the strength of his genins betimes, and was even in his youth preluding to his Georgics and his Eneis. He could not forbear to try his wings, tho' his pinions were not harden'd to maintain a long laborious flight. Yet sometimes they bore him to a pitch as lofty as ever he was able to reach afterwards. But, when he was admonish'd by his subject to descend, he came down gently circling in the air, and singing, to the ground; like a lark, melodious in her mounting, and continuing her song till she alights, still preparing for a higher flight at her next sally, and tuning her voice to better music. The Fourth, the Sixth, and the Eighth Pastorals are clear evidences of this truth. In the three first he contains himself within his bounds; but, addressing to Pollio, his great patron, and himself no vulgar poet, he no longer could restrain the freedom of his spirit, but began to assert his native character, which is sublimity-putting himself under the conduct of the same Cumæan Sibyl whom afterwards he gave for a guide to his Æneas. T is true he was sensible of his own boldness; and we know it by the paulo majora which begins his Fourth Eclogue. He remember'd, like young Manlius, that he was forbidden to engage; but what avails an express command to a youthful courage which presages victory in the at