You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of ftate;
And both to wives and hufbands fhow
The vigor of a plenipo.
Like mighty miffioner you come
A work of wond'rous merit fure,
So far to go, fo much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came,
Lefs had you done, had you
been fent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or e'en for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity;
Where love-fick ladies helpless lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's fo dull,
That is not of your labors full?
Triptolemus (fo fung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never fow'd on Almain acres :
No, that was left by fate's decree,
To be perform'd and fung by thee.
Thou break'st through forms with as much ease
As the French king through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With fuch as monarchs reprefent.
They, whom fuch vaft fatigues attend,
Want fome foft minutes to unbend,
To fhew the world that now and then
Great minifters are mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers every king is crown'd;
Befides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is funk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk.
Thefe Dutch delights, I mention'd last
Suit not, I know, your English taste :
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your Excellency's way,
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your Excellence,
For gaming, writing, fpeaking, keeping,
His Excellence for all but fleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat,
"Tis the four fauce to the fweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder impofition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That fetting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wife negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will fay,
The duke St. Aignon made a play,
If Gallic wit convince you fcarce,
His grace of Bucks has made a farce,
And
you, whofe comic wit is terfe all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But fcribble fafter if you can:
For yet no George, to our difcerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning.
SURE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in
To write, while these malignant planets reign.
* The fuccefs of this play was but indifferent; but fo high was our author's opinion of its merit, that, on this very ac count, he bequeathed to this poet the writing of the last act of his Cleomenes; which, Southerne fays, "when it comes into the world, will appear fo confiderable a truft, that all the town will pardon me for defending this play, that preferred me to it." DERRICK
Ver. 1. Sure there's a fate] No two writers were ever of more diffimilar geniufes than Southerne and Dryden, the latter having no turn for, nor idea of the pathetic, of which the former was fo perfect a mafter, and of which his Oronooko and Ifabella will remain lafting and ftriking examples. But Dryden used to confefs that he had no relish for Euripides, and affected to defpife Otway. Of all our poets, Southerne was distinguished by three remarkable circumftances, for the purity of his morals and irreproachable conduct, for the length of his life, and for gaining more by his dramatic labours than certainly any of his predeceffors, or perhaps of his fucceffors.
Some very foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to fenfe, or just to wit:
And whilft it lafts, let buffoonry fucceed,
To make us laugh; for never was more need.
Farce, in itself, is of a nafty scent;
But the gain fmells not of the excrement.
The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,
With all her charms, bore but a fingle fhow: 10
But let a monfter Mufcovite appear,
He draws a crowded audience round the year. May be thou haft not pleas'd the box andpit;
Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy
So Terence plotted, but fo Terence writ. 15. Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language
E'en lewdness is made moral in thy scene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
But reft fecure, the readers will be thine.
Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd,
But with a kind civility difmifs'd;
With fuch good manners, as the Wife did ufe,
Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.
There was a glance at parting; fuch a look,
As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.
But if thou wouldst be feen, as well as read,
Copy one living author, and one dead:
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