PROLOGUE TO JULIUS CÆSAR

[This prologue was first printed in Covent Garden Drollery, 1672, a miscellany which contains several of Dryden's early poems: see headnotes on pages 51, 56, 64-66, 68. Mr. Bolton Corney, in Notes and Queries, series I. ix. 95, 96, assigns this prologue to Dryden, largely because the criticism of Shakespeare and Jonson here expressed greatly resembles that embodied in Dryden's Essay of Dramatic Poesy. The present editor finds much force in this argument and in that based on the general style of the prologue. On the other hand, it may be urged that Dryden never included the piece in any of his miscellany volumes. In a man of Dryden's careless habits, such reasoning has little weight compare headnotes on pages 51, 65, 68.]

IN country beauties as we often see
Something that takes in their simplicity;
Yet while they charm, they know not they are
fair,

And take without their spreading of the snare: Such artless beauty lies in Shakespeare's wit; 'T was well in spite of him whate'er he writ.

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His excellencies came and were not sought;
His words like casual atoms made a thought,
Drew up themselves in rank and file and writ,
He wond'ring how the devil it were such wit.
Thus, like the drunken tinker in his play,
He grew a prince and never knew which way.
He did not know what trope or figure meant,
But to persuade is to be eloquent;
So in this Cæsar which this day you see,
Tully ne'er spoke as he makes Anthony.
Those then that tax his learning are to blame;
He knew the thing, but did not know the name.
Great Jonson did that ignorance adore,
And, tho' he envied much, admir'd him more. 20
The faultless Jonson equally writ well;
Shakespeare made faults, but then did more
excel.

One close at guard like some old fencer lay;
T'other more open, but he shew'd more play.
In imitation Jonson's wit was shown;
Heaven made his men, but Shakespeare made
his own.

Wise Jonson's talent in observing lay,
But others' follies still made up his play.
He drew the like in each elaborate line,
But Shakespeare like a master did design.
Jonson with skill dissected humankind,
And show'd their faults that they their faults
might find;

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But then, as all anatomists must do,
He to the meanest of mankind did go,
And took from gibbets such as he would show.
Both are so great that he must boldly dare
Who both of 'em does judge and both com-
pare.

If amongst poets one more bold there be,
The man that dare attempt in either way, is he.

LINES ON SETTLE'S EMPRESS OF MOROCCO

[In 1673 Elkanah Settle, a dramatist seventeen years younger than Dryden, won great success by his heroic play, The Empress of Morocco, and seemed in a fair way to eclipse the fame of the author of The Conquest of Granada. The Empress of Morocco, when published, was decorated with engravings, then first used in a drama, and was sold for two shillings, double the ordinary price. Dryden, bitterly mortified, joined Crowne and Shadwell in writing a scurrilous pamphlet, published in 1674, entitled Notes and Observations on The Empress of Morocco; or, Some few Erratas to be Printed instead of the Sculptures with the Second Edi-tion of that Play. Settle, in a reply published in the same year, treated Dryden as the principal author of this pamphlet; but Crowne, in his epistle before Caligula (Works, 1874, iv. 353), claims three fourths of the piece as his own. From this least known of Dryden's works, which has never been reprinted in full, the following lines are taken. They parody a passage in The Empress of Morocco describing the approach of a fleet. Since they rise far above the general level of the pamphlet, they may be ascribed, though with some hesitation, to Dryden rather than to one of his collaborators.]

To jerk him a little the sharper, I will not trans-prose his verse, but by the help of his own words trans-nonsense sense, that by my stuff people may judge the better what his is.

GREAT boy, thy tragedy and sculptures done From press and plates in fleets do homeward

come,

And in ridiculous and humble pride

Their course in ballet-singers' baskets guide,
Whose greazy twigs do all new beauties take
From the gay shews thy dainty sculptures make.
Thy lines a mess of rhyming nonsense yield,
A senseless tale, with fluttering fustian fill'd.
No grain of sense does in one line appear;
Thy words big bulks of boist'rous bombast
bear;

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With noise they move, and from players' mouths rebound,

When their tongues dance to thy words' empty sound.

By thee inspir'd, thy rumbling verses roll,
As if that rhyme and bombast lent a soul;
And with that soul they seem taught duty too.
To huffing words does humble nonsense bow,
As if it would thy worthless worth enhance,
To the lowest rank of fops thy praise advance,
To whom by instinct all thy stuff is dear;
Their loud claps echo to the theater.
From breaths of fools thy commendation
spreads;

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Fame sings thy praise with mouths of logger

heads;

With noise and laughing each thy fustian

[This poem is here reprinted from Poems on Affairs of State, ed. 4, 1702. It was first printed early in 1680, being mentioned in the Term Catalogue for Hilary Term (February) of that year. According to the halftitle preceding the poem, in The Works of John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, Marquis of Normanby, and Duke of Buckingham, 1723, it was written in 1675. Dryden certainly had little share in writing this poem, perhaps no share at all. The evidence, which is inconsistent and perplexing, may be summarized as follows:

When the poem was circulated, apparently in manuscript, in 1679, Lord Rochester affected to believe Dryden the author, and in consequence of the attack on himself in lines 230-269 had him assaulted one evening in Rose Alley: see Biographical Sketch, pp. xxv, xxvi. The poem is assigned to Dryden in Poems on Affairs of State, ed. 4, 1702, and ed. 5, 1703. (The earlier editions have not been accessible to the present editor.) In Spence's Anecdotes there occurs the following passage, attributed to Dean Lockier, who knew Dryden well :

"Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham's famous essay, has certainly been cried up much more than it deserves, though corrected a good deal by Dryden. It was this which set him up for a poet; and he was resolved to keep up that character, if he could, by any means, fair or foul. Could anything be more impudent than his publishing that satire, for writing which Dryden was beat in Rose Alley (and which was so remarkably known by the name of the Rose Alley Satire), as his own! He made, indeed, a few alterations in it first; but these were only verbal, and generally for the worse."

On the other hand, the poem is attributed to Lord Mulgrave in A New Collection of Poems relating to State Affairs, 1705. More important, Mulgrave positively denied Dryden's authorship, in a passage of his own Essay on Poetry, first published in 1682. (For notice of publication, see the Term Catalogue for Michaelmas Term (November) of that year: this first edition of the Essay has not been accessible to the present editor.) In the second edition of the Essay on Poetry, 1691, he made the denial more emphatic by adding sidenotes: passage and notes are as follows:

The Laureat here [in satire] may justly claim our Praise,
Crown'd by Mac-Fleckno with immortal Bays;
Tho prais'd and punish'd for another's Rhimes,

His own deserve as great Applause sometimes;
But once his Pegasus has born dead Weight,
Rid by some lumpish Minister of State.

A Libel,

Mr. D-n. A famous Satyrical Poem of his. for which he was both applauded and wounded, tho intirely innocent of the whole matter.

In a later edition, 1713, of the Essay on Poetry (included by Tonson in one volume with Poems by the Earl of Roscomon, 1717), the last note becomes :

A Copy of Verses, call'd An Essay on Satyr, for which Mr. Dryden was both Applauded and Beaten, tho' not only Innocent but Ignorant, of the whole matter.

Finally, the Essay upon Satire appears in Mulgrave's Works, 1723.

Thus the evidence for Dryden's having a share in the authorship of the Essay upon Satire is extremely slender. The ascriptions of authorship in Poems on Affairs of State doubtless rested only on current gossip, and are of no authority. Lockier's testimony is emphatically at secondhand; moreover, the first part of it seems inconsistent with the conclusion. Still, Mulgrave's vanity would lead him to minimize any aid he may have received from Dryden; and even his footnote of 1713 does not state that Dryden was "ignorant of the poem as a whole, but only of the attack on Rochester contained in it. The present editor, however, thinks it certain that Mulgrave was the real author of this poem, which is here reprinted because of its bearing on Dryden's biography, and because of the possibility that some parts of it may have been his work.]

How dull, and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove
In every age the lumpish mass to move:
But those were pedants, when compar'd with
these,

Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey

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In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer
thoughts.

In satire too the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into
shame;

But of these two, the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. 20
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd':

Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 't is the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 't is labor lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil,
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the fore'd scenes of our declining stage:
Above all censure, too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit;
Who, judging better, tho' concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers too must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her name in a lampoon.
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear,
Nor fluttering officers who never fight:

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Of such a wretched rabble who would write? Much less half wits: that's more against our

rules;

For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar;
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr ?
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Esop's fox becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a
pother,

They are as common that way as the other: Yet sauntering Charles between his beastly brace

Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humor, or a painted face.

In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him :
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep; »
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Ayles-y, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At council set as foils on D-by's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

But there's no meddling with such nauseons

men;

Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen: 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse.

First, let 's behold the merriest man alive Against his careless genius vainly strive; Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay, 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day:

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Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reason or at rule,
He turns himself the best in ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with
wit;

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That shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd,
Tho' he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transform'd sat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But soon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find, [E. of S-y.
That nimblest creature of the busy kind.
His limbs are crippled and his body shakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about?
Like hounds ill-coupled, Jowler lugs him still
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill. 110
"T were crime in any man but him alone,
To use a body so, tho' 't is one's own :
Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er,
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can

soar.

Alas! that soaring, to those few that know,
Is but a busy groveling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilst on the ground th' intranced wretches

lie:

So modern fops have fancied they could fly, }
Whilst 't is their heads alone are in the air, 120
And for the most part building castles there;
As the new earl, with parts deserving [E. of E-x.
praise,

And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a busy man.

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And what is that at best, but one whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if some odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittily contrives?
Will any dog that hath his teeth and stones
Refin'dly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel? and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Tho' satire nicely writ no humor stings
But those who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos' sake;
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd,
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
From railing smoothly, and from reasoning

wrong.

139

160

For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay sometimes the wittiest speaker.
But 't is prodigious so much eloquence
Should be acquir'd by such a little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, tho' this man be:
At bar abusive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolsack, fop at council table.
These are the grievances of such fools as would
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excess of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease:
To live dissolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Tho' their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of surfeits, headaches, claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between :
Well-meaning men, who make this gross mis-
take,

170

180

And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake.
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.
Thus D-et, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Married, but wiser puss ne'er thought of that:
And first he worried her with railing rhyme,
Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife.
Swell'd by contact of such a fulsome toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till Fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would use in all his sneaking way, 190
Drinking all night and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes.

Mul-ve had much ado to scape the snare,
Tho' learn'd in those ill arts that cheat the fair:
For after all his vulgar marriage mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes,
To see him catch his Tartar for his prize;
Th' impatient town waited the wish'd-for
change,

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And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see,
As his estate, his person too was free.
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.

And little Sid, for simile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought but never found;
Tho' all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all.

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