Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,
Imputed to the times, and not to thee.
Some scions shot from this immortal root,
Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit:
Jonson the tribute of my verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespear's name.
But, like the radiant twins that gild the sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear;
The first, a fruitful vine, in blooming pride,
Had been by superfluity destroy'd,
But that his friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant boughs with artful care;
On various sounding harps the muses play'd,
And sung, and quaff'd their nectar in the shade.
Few moderns in the list with these may stand,
For in those days were giants in the land:
Suffice it now by lineal right to claim,
And bow with filial awe to Shakespear's fame;
The second honours are a glorious name.
Achilles dead, they found no equal lord
To wear his armour, or to wield his sword.
An age most odious and accurs'd ensu❜d, Discolour'd with a pious monarch's blood; Whose fall, when first the tragic virgin saw, She fled, and left her province to the law. Her merry sister still pursu'd the game, Her garb was alter'd, but her gifts the same. She first reform'd the muscles of her face, And learnt the solemn screw for signs of grace; Then circumcis'd her locks, and form'd her tone, By humming to a tabor and a drone;
Her eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white:
'Thus banish'd from the stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a cloke, and quibbled o'er a text.
But when by miracles of mercy shown,
Much-suffering Charles regain'd his father's throne;
When peace and plenty overflow'd the land,
She straight pull'd off her satin cap and baud;
Bade Wycherley be bold in her defence,
With pointed wit, and energy of sense :
Etherege and Sedley join'd him in her cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd applause.
Restor❜d with less success, the tragic muse
Had quite forgot her style by long disuse;
She taught her Maximius to rant in rhyme,
Mistaking rattling nonsense for sublime;
"Till witty Buckingham reform'd her taste,
And sneering shap'd her into sense at last.
But now relaps'd, she dwindles to a song,
And weakly warbles on an eunuch's tongue;
And with her minstrelsy may still remain,
"Till Southerne court her to be great again.
Perhaps the beauties of thy Spartan dame,
Who (long defrauded of the public fame)
Shall, with superior majesty avow'd,
Shine like a goddess breaking from a cloud;
Once more may reinstate her on the stage,
Her action graceful, and divine her rage.
Pardon me, friend! I own my muse too free,
To write so long on such a theme to thee:
To play the critic here-with equal right
Bid her pretend to teach Argyll to fight;
Instruct the unerring sun to guide the year,
And Harley by what schemes he ought to steer;
Give Harcourt e'oquence t' adorn the seal,
Maxims of state to Leeds, to Beaufort zeal;
Try to correct what Orrery shall write,
And make harmonious St. John more polite;
Teach law to Isla for the crown's support,
And Jersey how to serve and grace a court;
Dictate soft warbling airs to Sheffield's hand,
When Venus and her Loves around him stand;
In sage debates to Rochester impart
A searching head, and ever faithful heart;
Make Talbot's finish'd virtue more complete,
High without pride, and amiably great,
Where nature all her powers with fortune join'd,
At once to please and benefit mankind.
When cares were to my blooming youth unknown, My fancy free, and all my hours my own;
I lov'd along the laureat grove to stray,
The paths were pleasant, and the prospect gay:
But now my genius sinks, and hardly knows
To make a couplet tinkle in the close.
Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,
And quit the town to b.eathe a purer air;
Retiring from the crowd to taste the sweets
Of
easy life in Twysden's calm retreats,
As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come,
And in Campania scorn'd the pomp of Rome;
Where Lambard, form'd for business, and to please,'
By sharing, will improve your happiness;
In both their souls imperial reason sways,
In both the patriot and the friend diplays;
Belov'd, and prais'd by all, who merit love and praise With bright ideas there inspir'd anew,
By them excited, and inform'd by you,
I may with happier skill essay to sing
Sublimer notes, and strike a bolder string.
Languid and dull, when absent from her cave,
No oracles of old the Sibyl gave; .
But when beneath her sacred shrine she stood,
Her fury soon confess'd the coming god;
Her breast began to heave, her eyes to roll,
And wondrous visions fill'd her labouring soul.
TO THOMAS LAMBARD, ESQ.
Slow though I am to wake the sleeping lyre,
Yet should the muse some happy song inspire,
Fit for a friend to give, and worthy thee,
That favourite verse to Lambard I decree:
Such the muse inspire; and may it prove
A pledge and monument of lasting love!
Meantime intent the fairest plan to find,
To form the manners, and improve the mind;
Me the fam'd wits of Rome and Athens please,
By Orrery's indulgence wrapt in ease;
Whom all the rival muses strive to grace
With wreaths familiar to his letter'd race.
Now truth's bright charms employ my serious thought,
In flowing eloquence by Tully taught:
Then from the shades of Tusculum I rove,
And studious wander in the Grecian grove;
While wonder and delight the soul engage
To sound the depths of Plato's sacred page;
Where science in attractive fable lies,
And, veil'd, the more invites her lover's eyes.
Transported thence, the flowery heights I gain
Of Pindus, and admire the warbling train,
Whose wings the muse in better ages prun'd,
And their sweet harps to moral airs attun'd.
As night is tedious while, in love betray'd,
The wakeful youth expects the faithless maid;
As weary'd hinds accuse the lingering sun,
And heirs impatient wish for twenty-one :
So dull to Horace * did the moments glide,
"Till his free muse her sprightly force employ'd
To combat vice, and follies to expose,
numbers near ally'd to prose ;
Guilt blush'd and trembled when she heard him sing,
He smil❜d reproof, and tickled with his sting.
With such a graceful negligence exprest,
Wit, thus applied, will ever stand the test;
But he, who blindly led by whimsy strays,
And from gross images would merit praise,
When nature sets the noblest stores in view,
Affects to polish copper in Peru:
So while the seas on barren sands are cast,
The saltness of their waves offends the taste;
But when to heaven exhal'd, in fruitful rain,
In fragrant dews they fall to cheer the swain,
Revive the fainting flow'rs, and swell the meagre grain.
Be this their care, who, studious of renown,
Toil up the Aonian steep to reach the crown;
Suffice it me, that having spent my prime
In picking epithets, and yoking rhyme,
To steadier rule my thoughts I now compose,
And prize ideas clad in honest prose.
Old Dryden, emulous of Cæsar's praise,
Cover'd his baldness with immortal bays;
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