John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  For Wit, th’ Immortal Spring of Wycherly.

  Learn, after both, to draw some just Design, 30

  And the next Age will learn to Copy thine.

  To my Dear Friend, Mr. Congreve, on his Comedy called The Double-Dealer

  WELL then, the promis’d Hour is come at last;

  The present Age of Wit obscures the past:

  Strong were our Syres, and as they fought they Writ,

  Conqu’ring with Force of Arms and Dint of Wit:

  Theirs was the Giant Race before the Flood; 5

  And thus, when Charles Return’d, our Empire stood.

  Like Janus, he the stubborn Soil manur’d,

  With Rules of Husbandry the Rankness cur’d:

  Tam’d us to Manners, when the Stage was rude,

  And boistrous English Wit with Art indu’d. 10

  Our Age was cultivated thus at length,

  But what we gain’d in Skill we lost in Strength.

  Our Builders were with Want of Genius curst;

  The second Temple was not like the first;

  Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, 15

  Our Beauties equal, but excel our Strength.

  Firm Dorique Pillars found Your solid Base,

  The fair Corinthian crowns the higher Space;

  Thus all below is Strength, and all above is Grace.

  In easie Dialogue is Fletcher’s Praise: 20

  He mov’d the Mind, but had no Pow’r to raise.

  Great Johnson did by Strength of Judgment please,

  Yet, doubling Fletcher’s Force, he wants his Ease.

  In diff’ring Talents both adorn’d their Age,

  One for the Study, t’other for the Stage. 25

  But both to Congreve justly shall submit,

  One match’d in Judgment, both o’er-match’d in Wit.

  In Him all Beauties of this Age we see,

  Etherege his Courtship, Southern’s Purity,

  The Satyre, Wit, and Strength of Manly Wycherly. 30

  All this in blooming Youth you have Atchiev’d;

  Nor are your foil’d Contemporaries griev’d;

  So much the Sweetness of your Manners move,

  We cannot Envy you, because we Love.

  Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw 35

  A Beardless Consul made against the Law,

  And join his Suffrage to the Votes of Rome,

  Though he with Hannibal was overcome.

  Thus old Romano bow’d to Raphael’s Fame,

  And Scholar to the Youth he taught, became. 40

  O that your Brows my Lawrel had sustain’d,

  Well had I been depos’d, if you had reign’d!

  The Father had descended for the Son,

  For only Your are lineal to the Throne.

  Thus, when the State one Edward did depose, 45

  A greater Edward in his Room arose:

  But now, not I, but Poetry is curst;

  For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the First.

  But let ‘em not mistake my Patron’s Part

  Nor call his Charity their own Desert. 50

  Yet this I Prophesie; Thou shalt be seen,

  (Tho’ with some short Parenthesis between:)

  High on the Throne of Wit; and, seated there,

  Nor mine (that’s little) but thy Lawrel wear,

  Thy first Attempt an early Promise made; 55

  That early Promise this has more than paid.

  So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,

  That your least Praise, is to be Regular.

  Time, Place, and Action may with Pains be wrought,

  But Genius must be born, and never can be taught. 60

  This is Your Portion, this Your Native Store:

  Heav’n, that but once was Prodigal before,

  To Shakespear gave as much; she cou’d not give him more.

  Maintain your Post: that’s all the Fame you need;

  For ’tis impossible you shou’d proceed. 65

  Already I am worn with Cares and Age,

  And just abandoning th’ ungrateful Stage:

  Unprofitably kept at Heav’n’s Expence,

  I live a Rent-charge on his Providence:

  But You, whom ev’ry Muse and Grace adorn, 70

  Whom I foresee to better Fortune born,

  Be kind to my Remains; and oh defend,

  Against your Judgment, your departed Friend!

  Let not th’ insulting Foe my Fame pursue;

  But shade those Lawrels which descend to You: 75

  And take for Tribute what these Lines express;

  You merit more; nor cou’d my Love do less.

  To Sir Godfrey Kneller, principal Painter to His Majesty

  ONCE I beheld the fairest of her Kind,

  (And still the sweet Idea charms my Mind:)

  True, she was dumb; for Nature gaz’d so long,

  Pleas’d with her Work, that she forgot her Tongue,

  But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the Prize; 5

  I only have transferr’d it to her Eyes.

  Such are thy Pictures, Kneller, Such thy Skill,

  That Nature seems obedient to thy Will;

  Comes out, and meets thy Pencil in the Draught,

  Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. 10

  At least thy Pictures look a Voice; and we

  Imagine Sounds, deceiv’d to that degree,

  We think ’tis somewhat more than just to see.

  Shadows are but Privations of the Light;

  Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the Sight, 15

  With us approach, retire, arise, and fall,

  Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.

  Such are thy Pieces, imitating Life

  So near, they almost conquer’d in the strife;

  And from their animated Canvass came, 20

  Demanding Souls; and loosened from the Frame.

  Prometheus, were he here, wou’d cast away

  His Adam, and refuse a Soul to Clay,

  And either wou’d thy Noble Work Inspire

  Or think it warm enough without his Fire. 25

  But vulgar Hands may vulgar Likeness raise;

  This is the least Attendant on thy Praise:

  From hence the Rudiments of Art began;

  A Coal, or Chalk, first imitated Man:

  Perhaps, the Shadow, taken on a Wall, 30

  Gave out-lines to the rude Original;

  Ere Canvass yet was strain’d: before the Grace

  Of blended Colours found their use and place:

  Or Cypress Tablets first receiv’d a Face.

  By slow degrees the Godlike Art advanc’d; 35

  As man grew polish’d, Picture was inhanc’d:

  Greece added Posture, Shade, and Perspective,

  And then the Mimick Piece began to Live.

  Yet Perspective was lame, no distance true,

  But all came forward in one common View: 40

  No point of Light was known, no bounds of Art;

  When Light was there, it knew not to depart,

  But glaring on remoter Objects play’d;

  Not languish’d and insensibly decay’d.

  Rome rais’d not Art, but barely kept alive, 45

  And with Old Greece unequally did strive:

  Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude Northern race,

  Did all the matchless Monuments deface.

  Then all the Muses in one ruine lye,

  And Rhyme began t’ enervate Poetry. 50

  Thus, in a stupid Military State,

  The Pen and Pencil find an equal Fate.

  Flat Faces, such as wou’d disgrace a Skreen,

  Such as in Bantam’s Embassy were seen,

  Unrais’d, unrounded, were the rude delight 55

  Of Brutal Nations only born to Fight.

  Long time the Sister Arts, in Iron Sleep,

  A heavy Sabbath did supinely keep;

  At length, in Raphael�
�s Age, at once they rise,

  Stretch all their Limbs and open all their Eyes. 60

  Thence rose the Roman and the Lombard Line;

  One colour’d best, and one did best design.

  Raphael’s, like Homer’s, was the Nobler part,

  But Titian’s Painting looked like Virgil’s Art.

  Thy Genius gives thee both; where true Design, 65

  Postures unforc’d, and lively Colours joyn,

  Likeness is ever there; but still the best,

  Like proper Thoughts in lofty Language drest,

  Where Light, to Shades descending, plays, not strives,

  Dyes by degrees, and by degrees revives. 70

  Of various Parts a perfect whole is wrought;

  Thy Pictures think, and we Divine their Thought.

  Shakespear, thy Gift, I place before my Sight;

  With awe I ask his Blessing e’re I write;

  With Rev’rence look on his Majestick Face; 75

  Proud to be less, but of his Godlike Race.

  His Soul Inspires me, while thy Praise I write,

  And I like Teucer, under Ajax Fight;

  Bids thee thro’ me, be bold; with dauntless breast

  Contemn the bad and Emulate the best. 80

  Like his, thy Criticks in th’ attempt are lost:

  When most they rail, know then they envy most.

  In vain they snarl a-loof; a noisie Crowd,

  Like Womens Anger, impotent and loud.

  While they their barren Industry deplore, 85

  Pass on secure, and mind the Goal before.

  Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,

  Bear off the Blast, and intercept the Wind.

  Our Arts are Sisters, though not Twins in Birth,

  For Hymns were sung in Edens happy Earth 90

  By the first Pair; while Eve was yet a Saint;

  Before she fell with Pride and learn’d to paint.

  Forgive th’ Allusion; ’twas not meant to bite;

  But Satire will have Room, where e’re I write.

  For oh, the Painter Muse, though last in place, 95

  Has seiz’d the Blessing first, like Jacob’s Race.

  Apelles Art an Alexander found,

  And Raphael did with Leo’s Gold abound,

  But Homer was with barren Lawrel crown’d.

  Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I, 100

  But pass we that unpleasing Image by.

  Rich in thy self, and of thy self Divine,

  All Pilgrims come and offer at thy Shrine.

  A graceful Truth thy Pencil can Command;

  The Fair themselves go mended from thy Hand. 105

  Likeness appears in every Lineament;

  But Likeness in thy Work is Eloquent.

  Though Nature there her true Resemblance bears,

  A nobler Beauty in thy Piece appears.

  So warm thy Work, so glows the gen’rous Frame, 110

  Flesh looks less living in the Lovely Dame.

  Thou paint’st as we describe, improving still,

  When on wild Nature we ingraft our Skill,

  But not creating Beauties at our Will.

  Some other Hand perhaps may reach a Face; 115

  But none like thee a finish’d Figure place:

  None of this Age, for that’s enough for thee,

  The first of these Inferiour Times to be;

  Not to contend with Heroes Memory.

  Due Honours to those mighty Names we grant, 120

  But Shrubs may live beneath the lofty Plant;

  Sons may succeed their greater Parents gone;

  Such is thy Lott; and such I wish my own.

  But Poets are confin’d in Narr’wer space,

  To speak the Language of their Native Place; 125

  The Painter widely stretches his Command;

  Thy Pencil speaks the Tongue of ev’ry Land.

  From hence, my Friend, all Climates are your own,

  Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.

  All Nations all Immunities will give 130

  To make you theirs, where e’re you please to live;

  And not sev’n Cities, but the World, wou’d strive.

  Sure some propitious Planet then did smile

  When first you were conducted to this Isle;

  (Our Genius brought you here, t’ inlarge our Fame) 135

  (For your good Stars are ev’ry where the same.)

  Thy matchless Hand, of ev’ry Region free,

  Adopts our Climate, not our Climate thee.

  Great Rome and Venice early did impart

  To thee th’ Examples of their wondrous Art. 140

  Those Masters, then but seen, not understood,

  With generous Emulation fir’d thy Blood;

  For what in Nature’s Dawn the Child admir’d,

  The Youth endeavour’d, and the Man acquir’d.

  That yet thou hast not reach’d their high Degree, 145

  Seems only wanting to this Age, not thee.

  Thy Genius, bounded by the Times, like mine,

  Drudges on petty Draughts, nor dare design

  A more exalted Work, and more Divine.

  For what a Song or senceless Opera 150

  Is to the living Labour of a Play,

  Or what a Play to Virgil’s Work wou’d be,

  Such is a single Piece to History.

  But we, who Life bestow, our selves must live:

  Kings cannot Reign unless their Subjects give; 155

  And they who pay the Taxes bear the Rule:

  Thus thou, sometimes, art forc’d to draw a Fool:

  But so his Follies in thy Posture sink,

  The senceless Ideot seems at last to think.

  Good Heav’n! that Sots and Knaves shou’d be so vain, 160

  To wish their vile Resemblance may remain!

  And stand recorded at their own Request,

  To future Days, a Libel or a Jeast.

  Mean time while just Incouragement you want,

  You only Paint to Live, not Live to Paint. 165

  Else shou’d we see your noble Pencil trace

  Our Unities of Action, Time, and Place;

  A Whole compos’d of Parts, and those the best,

  With ev’ry various Character exprest;

  Heroes at large, and at a nearer View; 170

  Less, and at distance, an Ignobler Crew;

  While all the Figures in one Action joyn,

  As tending to Compleat the main Design.

  More cannot be by Mortal Art exprest;

  But venerable Age shall add the rest. 175

  For Time shall with his ready Pencil stand;

  Retouch your Figures with his ripening Hand,

  Mellow your Colours, and imbrown the Teint,

  Add every Grace, which Time alone can grant;

  To future Ages shall your Fame convey; 180

  And give more Beauties, than he takes away.

  To Mr. Granville, on his excellent Tragedy, called Heroick Love

  AUSPICIOUS Poet, wert thou not my Friend,

  How could I envy, what I must commend!

  But since ’tis Natures Law in Love and Wit,

  That Youth shou’d reign and with ‘ring Age submit,

  With less regret those Lawrels I resign, 5

  Which dying on my Brows, revive on thine.

  With better Grace an Ancient Chief may yield

  The long contended Honours of the Field

  Than venture all his Fortune at a Cast,

  And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. 10

  Young Princes Obstinate to win the Prize,

  Thô Yearly beaten, Yearly yet they rise:

  Old Monarchs though successful, still in Doubt,

  Catch at a Peace; and wisely turn Devout.

  Thine be the Lawrel then; thy blooming Age 15

  Can best, if any can, support the Stage:

  Which so declines, that shortly we may see

 
; Players and Plays reduc’d to second 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 some Foreign Monster in a Bill:

  Thus they jog on; still tricking, never thriving;

  And Murd’ring Plays, which they miscal Reviving.

  Our Sense is Nonsense, through their Pipes convey’d; 25

  Scarce can a Poet know the Play He made,

  ’Tis so disguis’d in Death: nor thinks ’tis He

  That suffers in the Mangled Tragedy.

  Thus Itys first was kill’d, and after dress’d

  For his own Sire, the Chief Invited Guest. 30

  I say not this of thy successful 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 cou’d not spoil.

  Their Setting Sun still shoots a Glim’ring Ray, 35

  Like Ancient Rome, Majestick in Decay;

  And better gleanings their worn Soil can boast,

  Than the Crab-Vintage of the Neighb’ring Coast.

  This difference yet the judging World will see;

  Thou Copiest Homer, and they Copy thee.

  JOHN DRYDEN. 40

  To Peter Antony Motteux, on his Tragedy, called Beauty in Distress

  To my Friend, the AUTHOR.

  ‘TIS hard, my Friend, to write in such an Age

  As damns not only Poets, but the Stage.

  That sacred art, by Heav’n itself infus’d,

  Which Moses, David, Salomon have us’d,

  Is now to be no more: The Muses’ Foes 5

  Wou’d sink their Maker’s Praises into Prose.

  Were they content to prune the lavish Vine

  Of straggling Branches, and improve the Wine,

  Who but a mad Man wou’d his Faults defend?

  All wou’d submit, for all but Fools will mend. 10

  But, when to common sense they give the Lie,

  And turn distorted Words to Blasphemy,

  They give the Scandal; and the Wise discern

  Their Glosses teach an Age, too apt to learn.

  What I have loosly, or profanely writ, 15

  Let them to Fires (their due desert) commit:

  Nor, when accus’d by me, let them complain:

  Their Faults, and not their Function, I arraign.

  Rebellion, worse than Witchcraft, they pursu’d:

  The Pulpit preach’d the Crime, the People ru’d. 20

  The Stage was silenc’d; for the Saints wou’d see

  In fields perform’d their plotted Tragedy.

  But let us first reform: and then so live,

  That we may teach our Teachers to forgive.