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With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,

Not ill they acted, what they could not spoil. 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. 40

EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.

TO MY FRIEND

Mr. MOTTE UX*,

ON HIS TRAGEDY CALLED,

BEAUTY IN DISTRESS.

'TIS hard, my friend, to write in such an

age,

As damns, not only poets, but the stage.

Peter Motteux, to whom this piece is addressed, was born iu Normandy, but fettled as a merchant in London very young, and lived in repute. He died in a houfe of ill fame near the Strand, and was fuppofed to have been murdered, in 1718. He produced eleven dramatic pieces, and his Beauty in Distress 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 matter of the English language as Peter Motteux. He has given a very good translation of Don Quixote, which my friend, Mr. Bowle, preferred to more mo dern 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.

5

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-
fend?

15

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 wise discern,
Their gloffes teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or prophanely, writ,
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, worse 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.

23.

22

Ver. 19. Rebellion, worse than witchcraft,] From 1 Sam. xv. "For rebellion is as the fin of witchcraft, &c."

TODD.

30

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 fo preferv'd by thee,
That e'en Cornëille 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 design, and Wycherly in wit.
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they
dare;

Contented to be thinly regular:

35.

40

Born there, but not for them, our fruitful foil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue, enfeebled, is retin'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 inspir'd, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?

50

It moves our wonder, that a foreign gueft Should over-match the moft, and match the

beft.

In under-praifing thy deferts, I wrong;

Here find the firft deficience of our tongue : Words, once my ftock, are wanting, to commend

So great a poet, and fo good a friend. 55

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