| |
| WELL 1 then, the promis’d Hour is come at last; | |
| The present Age of Wit obscures the past: | |
| Strong were our Syres, and as they fought they Writ, | |
| Conqu’ring with Force of Arms and Dint of Wit: | |
| Theirs was the Giant Race 2 before the Flood; | 5 |
| 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 boistrous English Wit 3 with Art indu’d. | 10 |
| Our Age was cultivated thus at length, | |
| But what we gain’d in Skill we lost in Strength. | |
| Our Builders were with Want of Genius curst; | |
| The second Temple was not like the first; | |
| Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, | 15 |
| Our Beauties equal, but excel our Strength. | |
| Firm Dorique Pillars found Your solid Base, | |
| The fair Corinthian crowns the higher Space; | |
| Thus all below is Strength, and all above is Grace. | |
| In easie Dialogue is Fletcher’s Praise: | 20 |
| He mov’d the Mind, but had no 4 Pow’r to raise. | |
| Great Johnson did by Strength of Judgment please, | |
| Yet, doubling Fletcher’s Force, he wants his Ease. | |
| In diff’ring Talents both adorn’d their Age, | |
| One for the Study, t’other for the Stage. | 25 |
| But both to Congreve justly shall submit, | |
| One match’d in Judgment, both o’er-match’d in Wit. | |
| In Him all Beauties of this Age we see, | |
| Etherege his Courtship, Southern’s Purity, | |
| The Satyre, Wit, and Strength of Manly Wycherly. | 30 |
| 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 | 35 |
| A Beardless Consul made against the Law, | |
| And join his Suffrage 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. | 40 |
| O that your Brows my Lawrel had sustain’d, | |
| Well had I been depos’d, if you had reign’d! | |
| The Father had descended for the Son, | |
| For only Your are lineal to the Throne. | |
| Thus, when the State one Edward did depose, | 45 |
| A greater Edward in his Room arose: | |
| But now, not I, but Poetry is curst; | |
| For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the First. | |
| But let ’em not mistake my Patron’s Part | |
| Nor call his Charity their own Desert. | 50 |
| Yet this I Prophesie; Thou shalt be seen, | |
| (Tho’ with some short Parenthesis between:) | |
| High on the Throne of Wit; and, seated there, | |
| Nor mine (that’s little) but thy Lawrel wear, | |
| Thy first Attempt an early Promise made; | 55 |
| That early Promise this has more than paid. | |
| So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, | |
| That your least Praise, is to be Regular. | |
| Time, Place, and Action may with Pains be wrought, | |
| But Genius must be born, and never can be taught. | 60 |
| This is Your Portion, this Your Native Store: | |
| Heav’n, that but once was Prodigal before, | |
| To Shakespear gave as much; she cou’d not give him more. | |
| Maintain your Post: that’s all the Fame you need; | |
| For ’tis impossible you shou’d proceed. | 65 |
| Already I am worn with Cares and Age, | |
| And just abandoning th’ ungrateful Stage: | |
| Unprofitably kept at Heav’n’s Expence, | |
| I live a Rent-charge on his Providence: | |
| But You, whom ev’ry Muse and Grace adorn, | 70 |
| Whom I foresee to better Fortune born, | |
| Be kind to my Remains; and oh defend, | |
| Against your Judgment, your departed Friend! | |
| Let not th’ insulting Foe my Fame pursue; | |
| But shade those Lawrels which descend to You: | 75 |
| And take for Tribute what these Lines express; | |
You merit more; nor cou’d my Love do less.
John Dryden. | |
