| |
| THE BLAST 1 of common Censure cou’d I fear, | |
| Before your Play my Name shou’d not appear; | |
| For ’twill be thought, and with some colour too, | |
| I pay the Bribe I first receiv’d from You: | |
| That mutual Vouchers for our Fame we stand, | 5 |
| To play the Game into each other’s Hand; | |
| And as cheap Pen’orths to our selves afford | |
| As Bessus, and the Brothers of the Sword. | |
| Such Libels private Men may well endure, | |
| When States, and Kings themselves are not secure: | 10 |
| For ill Men, conscious of their inward guilt, | |
| Think the best Actions on By-ends are built, | |
| And yet my silence had not scap’d their spight, | |
| Then envy had not suffer’d me to write, | |
| For, since I cou’d not Ignorance pretend, | 15 |
| Such worth I must or envy or commend. | |
| So many Candidates there stand for Wit, | |
| A place in Court is scarce so hard to get; | |
| In vain they crowd each other at the Door; | |
| For ev’n Reversions are all beg’d before: | 20 |
| Desert, how known so e’re, is long delay’d; | |
| And, then too, Fools and Knaves are better payd. | |
| Yet, as some Actions bear so great a Name | |
| That Courts themselves are just, for fear of Shame: | |
| So has the mighty Merit of your Play | 25 |
| Extorted praise, and forc’d it self a Way. | |
| ’Tis here, as ’tis at Sea; who farthest goes, | |
| Or dares the most, makes all the rest his Foes; | |
| Yet when some Virtue much out-grows the rest, | |
| It shoots too fast, and high, to be opprest; 2 | 30 |
| As his Heroic worth struck Envy dumb, | |
| Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the Boom: | |
| Such praise is yours, while you the Passions move, | |
| That ’tis no longer feign’d; ’tis real Love: | |
| Where Nature Triumphs over wretched Art; | 35 |
| We only warm the Head, but you the Heart, | |
| Alwayes you warm! and if the rising Year, | |
| As in hot Regions, bring the Sun too near, | |
| ’Tis but to make your Fragrant Spices blow, | |
| Which in our colder Climates will not grow. | 40 |
| They only think you animate your Theme | |
| With too much Fire, who are themselves all Phle’me: | |
| Prizes wou’d be for Lags of slowest pace, | |
| Were Cripples made the Judges of the Race. | |
| Despise those Drones, who praise while they accuse | 45 |
| The too much vigour of your youthful Muse: | |
| That humble Stile which they their Virtue make | |
| Is in your pow’r; you need but stoop and take. | |
| Your beauteous Images must be allow’d | |
| By all, but some vile Poets of the Crowd. | 50 |
| But how shou’d any Sign-post-dawber know | |
| The worth of Titian, or of Angelo? | |
| Hard Features every Bungler can command; | |
To draw true Beauty shews a Masters Hand.
JOHN DRYDEN. | |
