As when some treasurer lays down the stick,
Warrants are sign'd for ready money thick,
And many desperate debentures paid,
Which never had been, had his lordship
stay'd;

So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage,
Intends to gratify the present age.
One warrant shall be sign'd for every man;
All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can:
Provided still, this warrant be not shown,
And you be wits but to yourselves alone;
Provided, too, you rail at one another,
For there's no one wit will allow a brother;
Provided, also, that you spare this story,
Damn all the plays that e'er shall come be-

fore ye.

If one by chance prove good in half a score, Let that one pay for all, and damn it more. For if a good one scape among the crew, And you continue judging as you do, Every bad play will hope for damning too. You might damn this, if it were worth your pains;

20

Here's nothing you will like; no fustian

No double-entendres, which you sparks allow,
To make the ladies look they know not how;
Simply as 't were, and knowing both to-
gether,

Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather.
But here's a story, which no books relate,
Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate.
The fable has a moral, too, if sought;
But let that go; for, upon second thought,
He fears but few come hither to be taught.
Yet if you will be profited, you may;
And he would bribe you too, to like his play.
He dies, at least to us, and to the stage,
And what he has he leaves this noble age.
He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing,
The whole estate which he has got by writ-
ing.

The beaux may think this nothing but
vain praise;

They'll find it something, the testator

32

To his worst foes he leaves his honesty,
That they may thrive upon 't as much as he.
He leaves his manners to the roaring boys,
Who come in drunk, and fill the house with
noise.

He leaves to the dire critics of his wit,
His silence and contempt of all they writ.
To Shakespeare's critic, he bequeaths the

I fear there are few Sanchos in the pit, 20
So good as to forgive, and to forget;
That will, like him, restore us into favor,
And take us after on our good behavior.
Few, when they find the money-bag is
rent,

Will take it for good payment on content.
But in the telling, there the difference is,
Sometimes they find it more than they could
wish.

Therefore be warn'd, you misses and you masks,

Look to your hits, nor give the first that asks.

Tears, sighs, and oaths, no truth of passion

SONG OF JEALOUSY

I

WHAT state of life can be so blest
As love, that warms a lover's breast?
Two souls in one, the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require !
But if in heav'n a hell we find,
'Tis all from thee,

O Jealousy!
"Tis all from thee,
O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind!

II

All other ills, tho' sharp they prove,
Serve to refine, and perfect love:
In absence, or unkind disdain,
Sweet Hope relieves the lover's pain.
But, ah! no cure but death we find,
To set us free
From Jealousy:

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind!

:

[This play by Congreve was first acted in November, 1693 (Malone, I, 1, 229; on the authority of Motteux's Gentleman's Journal). Of it Dryden writes as follows in a letter to Walsh: "His [Congreve's] Double Dealer is much censurd by the greater part of the Town and is defended onely by the best judges, who, you know, are commonly the fewest yet it gets ground daily, and has already been acted Eight times." (Scott-Saintsbury edition, xviii, 189, 190.) To the first edition of the play, published in 1694, he prefixed the following fine poem, which shows his critical appreciation of the comedy and his personal affection for its author. Congreve fulfilled the charge laid upon him in the last lines, by editing an edition of Dryden's dramatic works, published in 1717.]

WELL then, the promis'd hour is come at last;

The present age of wit obscures the past: Strong were our sires, 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 soil manur'd, With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd;

Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude;

And boist'rous English wit with art indued.

Our age was cultivated thus at length,

10

Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.

In differing 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 see, Etherege his courtship, Southerne's purity,

The satire, wit, and strength of Manly Wycherley.

30 J All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd,

Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev❜d. So much the sweetness of your manners

other writers for the volume were Addison, Congreve, Prior, Dennis, Yalden, and Charles Dryden, the poet's son. A second edition of the volume, with the same title, but with many changes in the contents, appeared in 1708; and a third, with title-page reading, The Fourth Part of Miscellany Poems . . . Publish'd by Mr. Dryden, and with further changes in the contents, in 1716. Tonson did not carry out his plan of an Annual Miscellany, perhaps because Dryden, now busy with his Virgil, was unable to give him further help. A fifth part of the series appeared, however, in 1704, after Dryden's death; and a sixth in 1709: second editions of these last two volumes were printed in 1716.

Dryden reprinted his version of The Third Book of Virgil's Georgics, with very slight changes, in his complete Virgil. It is therefore omitted at this point.

The epistle To Sir Godfrey Kneller was probably written as an acknowledgment of a painting of Shakespeare, copied from the well-known Chandos portrait, which Kneller had presented to Dryden see line 73 below. It was reprinted in the folio Poems and Translations, 1701, with the omission of lines 91-94, 115–123, 164, 165 of the Miscellany text, and with some minor changes of reading. It is at least doubtful whether these alterations were due to Dryden himself. The present text follows that of the Miscellany.]

20

So near, they almost conquer'd in the strife; And from their animated canvas came, Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.

Prometheus, were he here, would cast away

His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.
But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness
raise;

This is the least attendant on thy praise:
From hence the rudiments of art began;
A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:
Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original;
Ere canvas yet was strain'd, before the
grace

Of blended colors found their use and place,

Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.

30

By slow degrees, the godlike art advanc'd; As man grew polish'd, picture was inhanc'd: Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;

And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view: 40
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart,
But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languish'd and insensibly decay'd.

50

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive, And with old Greece unequally did strive; Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race, Did all the matchless monuments deface. Then all the Muses in one ruin lie, And rhyme began t' enervate poetry. Thus, in a stupid military state, The pen and pencil find an equal fate. Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen, Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen, Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep, A heavy sabbath did supinely keep: At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,

Stretch all their limbs, and open all their

Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,

Postures unfore'd, and lively colors join. Likeness is ever there; but still the best, Like proper thoughts in lofty language dress'd:

Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives,

Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. 70 Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought: Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shakespeare, thy gift, I Shakespeare's place before my sight; picture, drawn With awe, I ask his bless- by Sir Godfrey ing ere I write;

Kneller and given to

With reverence look on his author. majestic face;

the

Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:

Bids thee, thro' me, be bold; with dauntless breast

Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. so Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost: When most they rail, know then, they envy

most.

But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine,
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy

hand.

Likeness appears in every lineament;