John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

By their Deserts or by the World’s Applause;

  Let Merit Crowns, and Justice Lawrels give, 15

  But let me happy by your Pity live.

  True Poets empty Fame and Praise despise;

  Fame is the Trumpet, but your Smile the Prize:

  You sit above, and see vain Men below

  Contend, for what you only can bestow; 20

  But those great actions others do by chance,

  Are, like your Beauty, your Inheritance:

  So great a Soul, such sweetness join’d in one,

  Cou’d only spring from Noble Grandison:

  You, like the Stars, not by Reflection bright, 25

  Are born to your own Heav’n, and your own light;

  Like them are good, but from a Nobler Cause,

  From your own Knowledge, not from Nature’s Laws.

  Your Pow’r you never use but for Defence,

  To guard your own, or others’ Innocence: 30

  Your Foes are such as they, not you, have made,

  And Vertue may repel, tho’ not invade.

  Such Courage did the Ancient heroes show,

  Who, when they might prevent, wou’d wait the blow;

  With such assurance as they meant to say, 35

  We will o’recome, but scorn the safest way.

  What further fear of danger can there be?

  Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free.

  Posterity will judge by my success

  I had the Grecian Poet’s happiness, 40

  Who, waving plots, found out a better way;

  Some God descended and preserv’d the Play.

  When first the Triumphs of your Sex were sung

  By those old Poets, Beauty was but young,

  And few admired the native Red and White, 45

  Till Poets dress’d them up, to charm the sight;

  So Beauty took on trust, and did engage

  For Sums of Praises till she came to Age.

  But this long growing Debt to Poetry

  You justly (Madam) have discharg’d to me, 50

  When your Applause and Favour did infuse

  New life to my condemn’d and dying Muse.

  To Mr. Lee, on his Alexander

  THE BLAST of common Censure cou’d I fear,

  Before your Play my Name shou’d not appear;

  For ‘twill be thought, and with some colour too,

  I pay the Bribe I first receiv’d from You:

  That mutual Vouchers for our Fame we stand, 5

  To play the Game into each other’s Hand;

  And as cheap Pen’orths to our selves afford

  As Bessus, and the Brothers of the Sword.

  Such Libels private Men may well endure,

  When States, and Kings themselves are not secure: 10

  For ill Men, conscious of their inward guilt,

  Think the best Actions on By-ends are built,

  And yet my silence had not scap’d their spight,

  Then envy had not suffer’d me to write,

  For, since I cou’d not Ignorance pretend, 15

  Such worth I must or envy or commend.

  So many Candidates there stand for Wit,

  A place in Court is scarce so hard to get;

  In vain they crowd each other at the Door;

  For ev’n Reversions are all beg’d before: 20

  Desert, how known so e’re, is long delay’d;

  And, then too, Fools and Knaves are better payd.

  Yet, as some Actions bear so great a Name

  That Courts themselves are just, for fear of Shame:

  So has the mighty Merit of your Play 25

  Extorted praise, and forc’d it self a Way.

  ’Tis here, as ’tis at Sea; who farthest goes,

  Or dares the most, makes all the rest his Foes;

  Yet when some Virtue much out-grows the rest,

  It shoots too fast, and high, to be opprest; 30

  As his Heroic worth struck Envy dumb,

  Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the Boom:

  Such praise is yours, while you the Passions move,

  That ’tis no longer feign’d; ’tis real Love:

  Where Nature Triumphs over wretched Art; 35

  We only warm the Head, but you the Heart,

  Alwayes you warm! and if the rising Year,

  As in hot Regions, bring the Sun too near,

  ’Tis but to make your Fragrant Spices blow,

  Which in our colder Climates will not grow. 40

  They only think you animate your Theme

  With too much Fire, who are themselves all Phle’me:

  Prizes wou’d be for Lags of slowest pace,

  Were Cripples made the Judges of the Race.

  Despise those Drones, who praise while they accuse 45

  The too much vigour of your youthful Muse:

  That humble Stile which they their Virtue make

  Is in your pow’r; you need but stoop and take.

  Your beauteous Images must be allow’d

  By all, but some vile Poets of the Crowd. 50

  But how shou’d any Sign-post-dawber know

  The worth of Titian, or of Angelo?

  Hard Features every Bungler can command;

  To draw true Beauty shews a Masters Hand.

  To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse

  WHETHER the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian Shore

  The seeds of Arts and Infant Science bore,

  ’Tis sure the noble Plant translated, first

  Advanced its head in Grecian Gardens nurst.

  The Grecians added Verse, their tuneful Tongue 5

  Made Nature first and Nature’s God their song.

  Nor stopt Translation here: For conquering Rome

  With Grecian Spoils brought Grecian Numbers home;

  Enrich’d by those Athenian Muses more

  Than all the vanquish’d World cou’d yield before. 10

  Till barb’rous Nations and more barb’rous Times

  Debas’d the majesty of Verse to Rhymes;

  Those rude at first: a kind of hobbling Prose:

  That limp’d along and tinckl’d in the close:

  But Italy, reviving from the trance 15

  Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,

  With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell’d Words,

  And all the Graces a good Ear affords,

  Made Rhyme an Art: and Dante’s polish’d page

  Restor’d a silver, not a golden Age: 20

  Then Petrarch follow’d, and in him we see,

  What Rhyme improv’d in all its height can be;

  At best a pleasing Sound, and fair barbarity:

  The French pursu’d their steps; and Brittain, last

  In Manly sweetness all the rest surpass’d. 25

  The Wit of Greece, the Gravity of Rome,

  Appear exalted in the Brittish Loome;

  The Muses Empire is restor’d agen,

  In Charles his reign, and by Roscomon’s Pen.

  Yet modestly he does his Work survey 30

  And calls a finish’d Poem an ESSAY;

  For all the needful Rules are scatter’d here;

  Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe;

  (So well is Art disguis’d, for Nature to appeare.)

  Nor need those Rules to give Translation light; 35

  His own example is a flame so bright;

  That he, who but arrives to copy well,

  Unguided will advance; unknowing will excel.

  Scarce his own Horace cou’d such Rules ordain;

  Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain. 40

  How much in him may rising Ireland boast,

  How much in gaining him has Britain lost!

  Their Island in revenge has ours reclaim’d,

  The more instructed we, the more we still are sham’d.

  ’Tis well for us his generous bloud did flow, 45

  Deriv’d from British Channels long
ago;

  That here his conquering ancestors were nurst,

  And Ireland but translated England first:

  By this Reprisal we regain our right;

  Else must the two contending Nations fight 50

  A nobler quarrel for his Native earth,

  Than what divided Greece for Homer’s birth.

  To what perfection will our Tongue arrive,

  How will Invention and Translation thrive

  When Authors nobly born will bear their part, 55

  And not disdain th’ inglorious praise of Art!

  Great Generals thus descending from command,

  With their own toil provoke the Souldiers hand.

  How will sweet Ovid’s Ghost he pleas’d to hear

  His Fame augmented by a Brittish Peer, 60

  How he embellishes His Helen’s loves,

  Out does his softness, and his sense improves?

  When these translate, and teach Translators too,

  Nor Firstling Kid nor any vulgar vow

  Shou’d at Apollo’s grateful Altar stand; 65

  Roscomon writes, to that auspicious hand,

  Muse feed the Bull that spurns the yellow sand.

  Roscomon, whom both Court and Camps commend,

  True to his Prince and faithful to his friend;

  Roscomon first in Fields of honour known, 70

  First in the peaceful Triumphs of the Gown;

  Who both Minerva’s justly makes his own.

  Now let the few belov’d by Jove, and they

  Whom infus’d Titan form’d of better Clay,

  On equal terms with ancient Wit ingage, 75

  Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil’s page;

  Our English Palace opens wide in state;

  And without stooping they may pass the Gate.

  To my Friend, Mr. Northleigh, Author of The Parallel, on his Triumph of the British Monarchy

  SO Joseph, yet a Youth, expounded well

  The boding Dream, and did th’ Event foretell,

  Judg’d by the past, and drew the Parallel.

  Thus early Solomon the truth explored,

  The Right awarded, and the Babe restor’d. 5

  Thus Daniel, ere to Prophecy he grew,

  The perjur’d Presbyters did first subdue,

  And freed Susanna from the canting Crew.

  Well may our Monarchy Triumphant stand,

  While warlike James protects both Sea and Land; 10

  And, under Covert of his sev’nfold Shield,

  Thou sendst thy Shafts to scour the distant Field.

  By law thy pow’rful Pen has set us free;

  Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.

  To my Ingenious Friend, Henry Higden, Esq., on his Translation of the Tenth Satyr of Juvenal

  THE Grecian Wits, who Satyr first began,

  Were Pleasant Pasquins on the Life of Man;

  At Mighty Villains, who the State opprest,

  They durst not Rail perhaps; they Laugh’d at least,

  And turn’d ‘em out of Office with a Jest. 5

  No Fool could peep abroad, but ready stand

  The Drolls to clap a Bauble in his hand:

  Wise Legislators never yet could draw

  A Fop, within the Reach of Common-Law;

  For Posture, Dress, Grimace, and Affectation. 10

  Tho’ Foes to Sence, are Harmless to the Nation.

  Our last Redress is Dint of Verse to try,

  And Satyr is our Court of Chancery.

  This Way took Horace to reform an Age,

  Not Bad enough to need an Author’s Rage: 15

  But Yours, who liv’d in more degen’rate Times,

  Was forc’d to fasten Deep, and worry Crimes:

  Yet You, my Friend, have temper’d him so well.

  You make him Smile in spight of all his Zeal:

  An Art peculiar to your Self alone, 20

  To joyn the Vertues of TWO stiles in One.

  Oh! were your Author’s Principle receiv’d,

  Half of the lab’ring World wou’d be reliev’d;

  For not to Wish, is not to be deceiv’d!

  Revenge wou’d into Charity be chang’d, 25

  Because it costs too Dear to be Reveng’d:

  It costs our Quiet and Content of Mind;

  And when ’tis compass’d leaves a Sting behind.

  Suppose I had the better End o’ th’ Staff,

  Why should I help th’ ill-natur’d World to laugh? 30

  ’Tis all alike to them who gets the Day;

  They Love the Spight and Mischief of the Fray.

  No; I have Cur’d my Self of that Disease,

  Nor will I be provok’d, but when I please:

  But let me half that Cure to You restore; 35

  You gave the Salve, I laid it to the Sore.

  Our kind Relief against a Rainy Day,

  Beyond a Tavern, or a tedious Play;

  We take your Book, and laugh our Spleen away,

  If all your Tribe, (too studious of Debate) 40

  Wou’d cease false Hopes and Titles to create,

  Led by the Rare Example you begun,

  Clyents wou’d fail and Lawyers be undone.

  A Letter to Sir George Etherege

  TO you who live in chill Degree,

  As Map informs, of Fifty three,

  And do not much for Cold atone

  By bringing thither Fifty one,

  Methinks all Climes shou’d be alike, 5

  From Tropick even to Pole Artique;

  Since you have such a Constitution

  As nowhere suffers Diminution.

  You can be old in grave Debate,

  And young in Love-affairs of State: 10

  And both to Wives and Husbands show

  The Vigour of a Plenipo.

  Like mighty Missioner you come

  Ad Partes Infidelium;

  A Work of wondrous Merit sure, 15

  So far to go, so much t’ indure;

  And all to Preach to German Dame,

  Where Sound of Cupid never came.

  Less had you done, had you been sent

  As far as Drake or Pinto went, 20

  For Cloves or Nutmegs to the line a,

  Or e’en for Oranges to China:

  That had indeed been Charity,

  Where Love-sick Ladies helpless lye,

  Chapt, and for want of Liquor dry. 25

  But you have made your Zeal appear

  Within the Circle of the Bear.

  What Region of the Earth’s so dull,

  That is not of your Labours full?

  Triptolemus, so sung the Nine, 30

  Strew’d Plenty from his Cart Divine.

  But spite of all these Fable-Makers,

  He never sow’d on Almain Acres:

  No, that was left by Fate’s Decree

  To be perform’d and sung by thee. 35

  Thou break’st thro’ Forms with as much ease

  As the French King thro’ Articles.

  In grand Affairs thy Days are spent,

  In waging weighty Complement

  With such as monarchs represent. 40

  They who such vast Fatigues attend,

  Want some soft Minutes to unbend,

  To show the World that now and then

  Great Ministers are mortal Men.

  Then Rhenish Rummers walk the Round, 45

  In Bumpers ev’ry King is crown’d,

  Besides three Holy miter’d Hectors,

  And the whole College of Electors.

  No Health of Potentate is sunk

  That pays to make his Envoy drunk. 50

  These 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, 55

  For here you were your Excellence;

  For Gaming, Writing, Speaking,
Keeping,

  His Excellence for all but Sleeping.

  Now if you tope in form, and treat,

  ’Tis the sour Sauce to the sweet Meat, 60

  The fine you pay for being great.

  Nay, here’s a harder Imposition,

  Which is indeed the Court’s Petition,

  That setting worldly Pomp aside,

  Which Poet has at Font deny’d, 65

  You wou’d be pleased in humble way

  To write a Trifle call’d a Play.

  This truly is a Degradation,

  But wou’d oblige the Crown and Nation

  Next to your wise Negotiation. 70

  If you pretend, as well you may,

  Your high Degree, your friends will say,

  The Duke St. Agnon made a play.

  If Gallick Wit convince you scarce,

  His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce; 75

  And you, whose Comick Wit is Terse all,

  Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.

  Then finish what you have began,

  But scribble faster if you can:

  For yet no George, to our discerning, 80

  Has writ without a ten Years Warning.

  To Mr. Southern, on his Comedy called The Wives Excuse

  SURE there’s a Fate in Plays; and ’tis in vain

  To write, while these malignant Planets Reign.

  Some very foolish Influence rules the Pit,

  Not always kind to Sence, or just to Wit.

  And whilst it lasts, let Buffoonry succeed 5

  To make us laugh; for never was more need.

  Farce in it self is of a nasty scent,

  But the gain smells not of the Excrement.

  The Spanish nymph, a Wit and Beauty too,

  With all her Charms bore but a single show: 10

  But let a Monster Muscovite appear,

  He draws a crowded Audience round the Year.

  May be thou hast not pleas’d the Box and Pit,

  Yet those who blame thy Tale, commend thy Wit;

  So Terence Plotted, but so Terence writ. 15

  Like his, thy Thoughts are true, thy Language clean;

  Ev’n Lewdness is made Moral, in thy Scene.

  The Hearers may for want of Nokes repine,

  But rest secure, the Readers will be thine.

  Nor was thy Labour’d Drama damn’d or hiss’d, 20

  But with a kind Civility dismiss’d;

  With such good manners, as the Wife did use,

  Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.

  There was a glance at parting; such a look

  As bids thee not give o’re, for one rebuke. 25

  But if thou wou’dst be seen as well as read;

  Copy one living Author and one dead:

  The Standard of thy Style, let Etherege be;