Well, Sir, 'tis granted, I said Dryden's Rhimes
Were stoll'n, unequal, nay, dull many Times:
What foolish Patron is there found of his
So blindly partial to deny me this?
But that his Plays embroider'd up and down }
With Wit and Learning, justly please the Town, }
In the same Paper I as freely own. }
Yet having this allow'd, the heavy Mass
That stuffs up his loose Volumes, must not pass:
For by that Rule, I might as well admit
Crown's tedious Sense for Poetry and Wit.
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false Sense
Hits the false Judgment of an Audience
Of clapping Fools assembling, a vast Crowd,
Till the throng'd Play-House crack with the dull Load;
Tho' ev'n that Talent merits, in some sort,
That can divert the Rabble and the Court;
Which blund'ring Settle never could attain,
And puzz'ling Otway labours at in vain:
But within due Proportion circumscribe
Whate'er you write, that with a flowing Tide
The Stile may rise, yet in its Rise forbear
With useless Words t'oppress the weary'd Ear.
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
Your Rhet'rick with your Poetry unite:
For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the Force
Of Epithets, 'twill soften the Discourse
A Jest in Scorn points out, and hits the Thing
More home, than the morosest Satyr's Sting.
Shakespear and Johnson did in this excel,
And might herein be imitated well;
Whom refin'd Etherege copies not at all,
But is himself a meer Original;
Nor that slow Drudge in swift Pindarick Strains, }
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with Pains, }
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose Reins. }
When Lee makes temp'rate Scipio fret and rave,
And Hannibal a whining am'rous Slave,
I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd Fustian Fool
In Busby's Hands, to be well lash'd at School.
Of all our modern Wits, none seem to me }
Once to have touch'd upon true Comedy, }
But hasty Shadwell, and slow Wycherley. }
Shadwell's unfinish'd Works do yet impart
Great Proofs of Force of Nature, none of Art;
With just bold Stokes he dashes here and there,
Shewing great Mastery with little Care;
Scorning to varnish his good Touches o'er,
To make the Fools and Women praise him more:
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains;
He wants no Judgment, and he spares no Pains:
He frequently excells, and at the least,
Makes fewer Faults than any of the rest.
Waller, by Nature for the Bays design'd, }
With Force, and Fire, and Fancy, unconfin'd, }
In Panegyrick do's excel Mankind: }
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,
To praise great Conquerors, and flatter Kings.
For pointed Satyr I would Buckhurst choose,
The best Good Man with the worst-natur'd Muse.
For Songs and Verses mannerly obscene, }
That can stir Nature up by Springs unseen, }
And, without forcing Blushes, warm the Queen; }
Sedley has that prevailing, gentle Art, }
That can with a resistless Pow'r impart }
The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart; }
Raise such a Conflict, kindle such a Fire
Betwixt declining Virtue and Desire,
Till the poor vanquish'd Maid dissolves away
In Dreams all Night, in Sighs and Tears all Day.
Dryden in vain try'd this nice Way of Wit,
For he to be a tearing Blade thought fit;
But when he would be sharp, he still was blunt,
To frisk and frolick Fancy he'd cry ——
Wou'd give the Ladies a dry bawdy Bob;
And thus he got the Name of Poet Squab:
But to be just, 'twill to his Praise be found,
His Excellences more than Faults abound;
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear
The Laurel, which he best deserves to wear;
But do's not Dryden find ev'n Johnson dull?
Beaumont and Fletcher incorrect and full
Of Lewd Lines, as he calls 'em? Shakespear's Stile
Stiff and affected? To his own the while,
Allowing all the Justice that his Pride
So arrogantly had to these deny'd?
And may not I have Leave impartially
To search and censure Dryden's Works, and try
If those gross Faults his choice Pen doth commit,
Proceed from Want of Judgment, or of Wit?
Or if his lumpish Fancy do's refuse
Spirit and Grace to his loose slattern Muse?
Five Hundred Verses ev'ry Morning writ
Prove him no more a Poet than a Wit:
Such scribb'ling Authors have been seen before, }
Mustapha, the Island Princess, Forty more, }
Were things, perhaps, compos'd in Half an Hour. }
To write, what may securely stand the Test
Of being well read over, thrice at least;
Compare each Phrase, examine ev'ry Line,
Weigh ev'ry Word, and ev'ry Thought refine;
Scorn all Applause the vile Rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain mistaken Thing,
To wish thy Works might make a Play-house ring
With the unthinking Laughter and poor Praise
Of Fops and Ladies factious for thy Plays?
Then send a cunning Friend to learn thy Doom
From the shrewd Judges in the Drawing Room.
I've no Ambition on that idle Score, }
But say with Betty Morris heretofore, }
When a Court Lady call'd her Buckhurst's Whore: }
I please one Man of Wit, am proud on't too,
Let all the Coxcombs dance to Bed to you.
Should I be troubled when the purblind Knight, }
Who squints more in his Judgment, than his Sight, }
Picks silly Faults, and censures what I write? }
Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Town,
For Scraps and Coach-room cry my Verses down?
I loath the Rabble; 'tis enough for me;
If Sedley, Shadwell, Sheppard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham, }
And some few more, whom I omit to name, }
Approve my Sense, I count their Censure Fame. }