Firm Doric pillars found your folid base:
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space:
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In eafy dialogue is Fletcher's praise ;
He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Johnson did by ftrength of judgment please;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In diff'ring 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 see,
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 scholar to the youth he taught became.
O that your brows my laurel had fuftain'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 prophefy; thou shalt be seen,
(Tho with some short parenthesis between)
High on the throne of wit, and, seated 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 fo judiciously you dare,
That your least 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
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespear gave as much; fhe could not
Maintain your post: That's all the fame you
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 muse 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'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.
Excellent Tragedy call'd, HEROIC Love.
Aufpicious 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 withering age submit,
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 honors of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a caft,
And fight, like Hannibal, 'to lose at last.
Young princes, obftinate to win the prize,
Tho yearly beaten, yearly yet they rife:
Old monarchs, tho fuccessful, 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 despair 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 miscal reviving.
Our fenfe is nonfenfe, thro their pipes convéy'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 setting-fun ftill shoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majeftic in decay:
And better gleanings their worn foil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighb'ring coast.
This diff'rence yet the judging world will fee;
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.
IS hard, my friend, to write in fuch an age, As damns, not only poets, but the stage. That facred art, by heaven itself infus'd, Which Mofes, David, Solomon have us'd,
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