With better grace an ancient chief
The long contended honors of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lofe at last.
Young princes, obftinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise :
Old monarchs, though fuccessful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wifely turn devout.
Thine be the laurel then; thy blooming age 15
Can beft, if any can, fupport the stage;
Which fo declines, that shortly we may
Players and plays reduc'd to fecond infancy.
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the stage, but on the town, 20
And, in despair their empty pit to fill,
Set up fome foreign monster in a bill.
Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving, And murdering plays, which they miscal reviving.
Our fenfe is nonfenfe, through their pipes con
Scarce can a poet know the play he made;
'Tis fo difguis'd in death; nor thinks 'tis he
That fuffers in the mangled tragedy.
Thus Itys firft was kill'd, and after drefs'd
For his own fire, the chief invited guest.
I fay not this of thy fuccessful scenes,
Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains.
With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,
Not ill they acted, what they could not fpoil. Their fetting-fun ftill fhoots a glimmering ray, 35 Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay :
And better gleanings their worn foil can boast, Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coaft.
This difference yet the judging world will fee; Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.
"TIS hard, my friend, to write in such an
As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
Peter Motteux, to whom this piece is addreffed, was born in Normandy, but fettled as a merchant in London very young, and lived in repute. He died in a house of ill fame near the Strand, and was fuppofed to have been murdered, in 1718. He produced eleven dramatic pieces, and his Beauty in Diftrefs is thought much the beft of them: it was played in Lincoln's-innfields by Betterton's company in 1698. DERRICK.
Ver. 1. 'Tis hard, my friend,] No French refugee feems to have made himself fo perfect a master of the English language as Peter Motteux. He has given a very good tranflation of Don Quixote, which my friend, Mr. Bowle, preferred to more modern ones. By trading in a large Eaft India warehouse, and by a place in the poft-office, he gained a confiderable income. It was fuppofed he was murdered in a houfe of ill fame. He wrote fifteen plays; this of Beauty in Diftrefs was acted in 1698. Dryden feems to have felt a particular regard for him. Dr. J. WARTON.
That facred art, by heaven itself infus'd,
Which Mofes, David, Solomon have us'd,
Is now to be no more: the mufes' foes
Would fink their Maker's praises into profe.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of ftraggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who, but a madman, would his thoughts de-
All would fubmit; for all but fools will mend.
But when to common fenfe they give the lye, 11
And turn diftorted words to blafphemy.
They give the fcandal; and the wife difcern,
Their gloffes teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or prophanely, writ, 15
Let them to fires, their due defert, commit:
Nor, when accus'd by me, let them complain:
Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.
Rebellion, worfe than witchcraft, they purfu'd;
The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people ru'd.
The ftage was filenc'd; for the faints would fee
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy.
But let us firft reform, and then fo live,
That we may teach our teachers to forgive:
Our defk be plac'd below their lofty chairs; 25
Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs.
Ver. 19. Rebellion, worse than witchcraft,] From 1 Sam. xv. "For rebellion is as the fin of witchcraft, &c."
The moral part, at least, we may divide,
Humility reward, and punish pride;
Ambition, intereft, avarice, accufe:
These are the province of a tragic muse.
These haft thou chofen ; and the public voice
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are so preserv'd by thee,
That e'en Corneille might with envy fee
The alliance of his Tripled Unity.
Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown;
But too much plenty is thy fault alone.
At least but two can that good crime commit,
Thou in defign, and Wycherly in wit.
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they
dare;
Contented to be thinly regular:
Born there, but not for them, our fruitful foil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue, enfeebled, is refin'd too much;
And, like pure gold, it bends at ev'ry touch: 45
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,
More fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd
with allay.
But whence art thou infpir'd, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?
It moves our wonder, that a foreign gueft 50 Should over-match the moft, and match the
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