No More Learning

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

SIR ROBERT HOWARD,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT POEMS.


This epistle was prefixed to Sir Robert Howard's poems, printed for
Herringman, 12mo, 1660, and entered in the Stationers' books on 16th
April that year. It was probably written about the commencement of
Dryden's intimacy with the author, whose sister he afterwards married.
Sir Robert Howard, son to the Earl of Berkshire, a man of quality, a
wit, and a cavalier, was able to extend effectual patronage to a rising
author; and so willing to do it, that he is even said to have received
Dryden into his own house. These lines, therefore, make part of Dryden's
grateful acknowledgments, of which more may be found in the prefatory
letter to the "Annus Mirabilis," addressed to Sir Robert Howard. [1] The
friendship of the brother poets was afterwards suspended for some time,
in consequence of Sir Robert's strictures on the "Essay on Dramatic
Poetry," and Dryden's contemptuous refutation of his criticism. But
there is reason to believe, that this interval of coldness was of short
duration; and that, if the warmth of their original intimacy was never
renewed, they resumed the usual kindly intercourse of relations and
friends.

The epistle itself is earlier in date than the poem called "Astrea
Redux," which was probably not published till the summer of 1660 was
somewhat advanced. This copy of verses, therefore, is the first avowed
production of our author after the Restoration, and may rank, in place
and merit, with "Astrea Redux," the "Poem on the Coronation," and the
"Address to the Chancellor. " There is the same anxiety to turn and point
every sentence, and the same tendency to extravagant and unnatural
conceit. Yet it is sometimes difficult to avoid admiring the strength of
the author's mind, even when employed in wresting ideas the wrong way.
It is remarkable, also, that Dryden ventures to praise the verses of his
patron, on account of that absence of extravagant metaphor, and that
sobriety of poetic composition, for which, to judge by his own immediate
practice, he ought rather to have censured them.

Those who may be induced to peruse the works of Sir Robert Howard, by
the high commendation here bestowed upon them, will have more reason to
praise the gratitude of our author, than the justice of his panegyric.
They are productions of a most freezing mediocrity.

[Footnote 1: "I am so many ways obliged to you, and so little able to
return your favours, that, like those who owe too much, I can only live
by getting farther into your debt. You have not only been careful of my
fortune, which was the effect of your nobleness, but you have been
solicitous of my reputation, which is that of your kindness. "]




EPISTLE THE SECOND.


As there is music uninformed by art
In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less;
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames composure,[2] and its art excells.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face. [3]
Yet as when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose them deep,
Such is your muse: no metaphor swelled high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Sampson's riddle meet.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your art hides art, as stoics feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain;
And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis some happiness, that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,[4]
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms, casually together hurled,
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world;
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier odes, which for delight were penned,
Yet our instruction make their second end;
We're both enriched and pleased, like them that woo
At once a beauty, and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauched their charge.
Like some brave captain, your successful pen
Restores the exiled to her crown again;
And gives us hope, that having seen the days
When nothing flourished but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,--
"A sober prince's government is best. "
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make improvement of the richest ground;
That soil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore. [5]
Eliza's griefs are so expressed by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obeyed
What Dido, rather than what Jove, had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your muse so justly has discharged those,
Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be obliged, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;
Who, dressed by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin robes he took. [6]
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view:
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure stiff, as if designed in buff;
His colours laid so thick on every place,
As only showed the paint, but hid the face.
But, as in perspective, we beauties see,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;
So here our sight obligingly mistakes
That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks, disguised,
More for their dressing than their substance prized.
Your curious notes[7] so search into that age,
When all was fable but the sacred page,
That, since in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But, what we most admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discerned the doubtful streak
Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break:[8]
So skilful seamen ken the land from far,
Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.
To Charles your muse first pays her duteous love,
As still the ancients did begin from Jove;
With Monk you end,[9] whose name preserved shall be,
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory;
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His country's interest, than the world to sway. [10]
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen;
Yet let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture, in your right, to prophecy:--
"This work, by merit first of fame secure,
Is likewise happy in its geniture;[11]
For since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne,
It shares at once his fortune and its own. "


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Used for _elaborate composition_. ]

[Footnote 3: Some of Sir Robert Howard's songs were set to music. One of
them, beginning, "O Charon, gentle Charon," is quoted as a popular air
in one of Shadwell's plays. ]

[Footnote 4: Rete Mirabile. DRYDEN. ]

[Footnote 5: Sir Robert Howard's collection contains a translation of
the Fourth Book of the Æneid, under the title of "The Loves of Dido and
Æneas. "]

[Footnote 6: Sir Robert also translated the Achilleis of Statius, an
author whom Dryden seldom mentions without censuring his turgid and
bombastic style of poetry. The story of this neglected epic turns on the
juvenile adventures of Achilles. ]

[Footnote 7: The annotations on the Achilleis. ]

[Footnote 8: Sir Robert Howard's poems contain a "Panegyric to the
King," concerning which he says, in the preliminary address to the
reader, "I should be a little dissatisfied with myself to appear public
in his praise just when he was visibly restoring to power, did not the
reading of the Panegyric vindicate the writing of it, and, besides my
affirmation, assure the reader, it was written when the king deserved
the praise as much as now, but was separated farther from the power;
which was about three years since, when I was prisoner in Windsor
Castle, being the best diversion I could then find for my own condition,
to think how great his virtues were for whom I suffered, though in so
small a measure compared to his own, that I rather blush at it, than
believe it meritorious. "]

[Footnote 9: The volume begins with the "Poem to the King," and ends
with a "Panegyric to General Monk. "]

[Footnote 10:

_Hic situs est Rufus qui pulso vindice quondam,
Imperium asseruit non sibi sed patriæ. _

DRYDEN.
]

[Footnote 11: The author speaks the language of astrology, in which
geniture signifies nativity. ]




EPISTLE THE THIRD.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

DR CHARLETON,

ON HIS

LEARNED AND USEFUL WORKS,

BUT MORE PARTICULARLY HIS TREATISE OF STONEHENGE,

BY HIM RESTORED TO THE TRUE

FOUNDER.


WALTER CHARLETON, M. D. was born in 1619, and educated at Oxford to the
profession of physic, in which he became very eminent. During the
residence of King Charles I. at Oxford, in the civil wars, Charleton
became one of the physicians in ordinary to his majesty. He afterwards
settled in London; and, having a strong bent towards philosophical and
historical investigation, became intimate with the most learned and
liberal of his profession, particularly with Ent and Harvey. He wrote
several treatises in the dark period preceding the Restoration, when,
the government being in the hands of swordsmen equally ignorant and
fanatical, a less ardent mind would have been discouraged from
investigations, attended neither by fame nor profit. These essays were
upon physical, philosophical, and moral subjects. After the Restoration,
Charleton published the work upon which he is here congratulated by our
author. Its full title is, "CHOREA GIGANTUM, or the most famous
antiquity of Great Britain, STONEHENGE, standing on Salisbury Plain,
restored to the Danes. By Walter Charleton, M. D. , and Physician in
Ordinary to his Majesty. London, 1663, 4to. " The opinion which Dr
Charleton had formed concerning the origin of this stupendous monument
is strengthened by the information which he received from the famous
northern antiquary, Olaus Wormius. But it is nevertheless hypothetical,
and inconsistent with evidence; for Stonehenge is expressly mentioned by
Nennius, who wrote two hundred years before the arrival of the Danes in
Britain. If it be true, which is alleged by some writers, that it was
anciently called Stan-Hengist, or, indeed, whether that be true or no,
the monument seems likely to have been a Saxon erection, during their
days of paganism; for it is neither mentioned by Cæsar nor Tacitus, who
were both likely to have noticed a structure of so remarkable an
appearance. Leaving the book to return to the author, I am sorry to add,
that this learned man, after being president of the College of
Physicians, and thus having attained the highest honours of his
profession, in 1691 fell into embarrassed circumstances, which forced
him shortly after to take refuge in the island of Jersey. It is
uncertain if Dr Charleton ever returned from this sort of exile; but his
death took place in 1707, at the advanced age of eighty-eight years.

Dr Charleton's hypothesis concerning Stonehenge was but indifferently
received. It was considered as a personal attack on Inigo Jones, who had
formed a much more fantastic opinion upon the subject, conceiving the
stones to form a temple, dedicated, by the Romans, to the god Cælus, or
Cælum. To the disgrace of that great architect's accuracy, it seems
probable that he never had seen the monument which he attempts to
describe; for he has converted an irregular polygon into a regular
hexagon, in order to suit his own system. Dryden sided with Charleton in
his theory; and, in the following elegant epistle, compliments him as
having discovered the long-forgotten cause of this strange monument. The
verses are not only valuable for the poetry and numbers, but for the
accurate and interesting account which they present of the learning and
philosophers of the age. It was probably written soon before the
publication of Charleton's book in 1663. Sir Robert Howard also favoured
Dr Charleton with a copy of recommendatory verses. Both poems are
prefixed to the second edition of the "Chorea Gigantum," which is the
only one I have seen. That of Dryden seems to have been afterwards
revised and corrected.




EPISTLE THE THIRD.


The longest tyranny that ever swayed,
Was that wherein our ancestors betrayed
Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite,
And made his torch their universal light.
So truth, while only one supplied the state,
Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
Still it was[12] bought, like emp'ric wares, or charms,
Hard words sealed up with Aristotle's arms.
Columbus was the first that shook his throne,
And found a temperate in a torrid zone:
The feverish air, fanned by a cooling breeze;
The fruitful vales, set round with shady trees;
And guiltless men, who danced away their time,
Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime.
Had we still paid that homage to a name,
Which only God and nature justly claim,
The western seas had been our utmost bound,
Where poets still might dream the sun was drowned;
And all the stars, that shine in southern skies,
Had been admired by none but savage eyes.
Among the assertors of free reason's claim,
Our nation's not[13] the least in worth or fame.
The world to Bacon[14] does not only owe
Its present knowledge, but its future too.
Gilbert[15] shall live, till loadstones cease to draw,
Or British fleets the boundless ocean awe.
And noble Boyle,[16] not less in nature seen,
Than his great brother, read in states and men.
The circling streams, once thought but pools, of blood,
(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food,)
From dark oblivion Harvey's[17] name shall save;
While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.
Nor are you, learned friend, the least renowned;
Whose fame, not circumscribed with English ground,
Flies like the nimble journies of the light,
And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.
Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,
Redeemed from error, or from ignorance,
Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,
Your works unite, and still discover more.
Such is the healing virtue of your pen,
To perfect cures on books, as well as men.
Nor is this work the least; you well may give
To men new vigour, who make stones to live.
Through you, the Danes, their short dominion lost,
A longer conquest than the Saxons boast.
Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found
A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crowned;
Where by their wondering subjects they were seen,
Joyed[18] with their stature, and their princely mien.
Our sovereign here above the rest might stand,
And here be chose again to rule the land.
These ruins sheltered once his sacred head,
When he from Wor'ster's fatal battle fled;
Watched by the genius of this royal place,
And mighty visions of the Danish race.
His refuge then was for a temple shown;
But, he restored, 'tis now become a throne. [19]


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: The copy prefixed to the "Chorea Gigantum" reads, _Until
'twas_. ]

[Footnote 13: First edition, _The English are not_. ]

[Footnote 14: Bacon, Lord Verulam, a name beyond panegyric. ]

[Footnote 15: William Gilbert, M. D. chief physician to Queen Elizabeth
and King James I. He published a treatise, "_De Magnete, magnetecisque
corporibus, et de magno magnete Tellure Physiologia Nova_. London, 1600,
folio. " This treatise on the magnet is termed by the great Bacon "a
painful and experimental work. " Gilbert also invented two instruments
for the use of seamen in calculating the latitude, without the aid of
the heavenly bodies. He died A. D. 1603. ]

[Footnote 16: The Hon. Robert Boyle, who so laudably distinguished his
name by his experimental researches, was a son of the great Earl of
Corke. He was about this time actively engaged in the formation of the
Royal Society, of which he may be considered as one of the principal
founders. This necessarily placed his merits under Dryden's eye, who was
himself an original member of that learned body. His _great brother_ was
Roger Lord Broghill, created upon the Restoration Earl of Orrery, to
whom Dryden dedicated the "Rival Ladies. " See Vol. II. p. 113. ]

[Footnote 17: William Harvey, the famous discoverer of the circulation
of the blood. His _Exercitatio Anatomica de motu cordis et sanguinis_,
was printed at Frankfort, 1627. He adhered to his master Charles I.
during the civil wars; and when his affairs became desperate, retired to
privacy in London. His last treatise, entitled, _Exercitatio de
generatione Animalium_, was published in 1651, at the request of Dr
George Ent, a learned physician, mentioned by Dryden in the next line.
This gentleman, in a dedication to the President and College of
Physicians, gives a detailed account of the difficulty which he had in
prevailing on the aged and retired philosopher to give his work to the
press, which he only consented to do on Dr Ent's undertaking the task of
editor. Harvey died in June 1667.

Ent himself was a physician of eminence, and received the honour of
knighthood from Charles II. He defended Dr Harvey's theory of
circulation against Parisanus, in a treatise, entitled, _Apologia pro
circulatione sanguinis contra Æmilianum Parisanum_. He was an active
member of the Royal Society, and died, according to Wood, 13th October,
1689. ]

[Footnote 18: First edit. _Chose by. _]

[Footnote 19: This conceit, turning on the ancient and modern
hypothesis, is founded on the following curious passage in Dr
Charleton's dedication of the "_Chorea Gigantum_" to Charles II. "Your
majesty's curiosity to survey the subject of this discourse, the so
much admired antiquity of Stone-Henge, hath sometime been so great and
urgent, as to find room in your royal breast, amidst your weightiest
cares; and to carry you many miles out of your way towards safety, when
any heart, but your fearless and invincible one, would have been wholly
filled with apprehensions of danger. For as I have had the honour to
hear from that oracle of truth and wisdom, your majesty's own mouth, you
were pleased to visit that monument, and for many hours together
entertain yourself with the delightful view thereof; when, after the
defeat of your loyal army at Worcester, Almighty God, in infinite mercy
to your three kingdoms, miraculously delivered you out of the bloody
jaws of those monsters of sin and cruelty, who, taking counsel only from
the heinousness of their crimes, sought impunity in the highest
aggravation of them; desperately hoping to secure rebellion by regicide,
and by destroying their sovereign, to continue their tyranny over their
fellow-subjects. "]




EPISTLE THE FOURTH.

TO THE

LADY CASTLEMAIN,

UPON HER ENCOURAGING HIS FIRST PLAY,

THE WILD GALLANT,

ACTED IN 1662-3.


Barbara Villiers, heiress of William Viscount Grandison, in Ireland, and
wife of Roger Palmer, Esq. , was the first favourite, who after the
Restoration of Charles II. enjoyed the power and consequence of a royal
mistress. It is even said, that the king took her from her husband, upon
the very day of his landing, and raised him, in compensation, to the
rank and title of Earl of Castlemain. The lady herself was created Lady
Nonsuch, Countess of Southampton, and finally Duchess of Cleveland. She
bore the king three sons and three daughters, and long enjoyed a
considerable share of his favour.

It would seem, that, in 1662-3, while Lady Castlemain was in the very
height of her reign, she extended her patronage to our author, upon his
commencing his dramatic career. In the preface to his first play, "The
Wild Gallant," he acknowledges, that it met with very indifferent
success, and had been condemned by the greater part of the audience. But
he adds, "it was well received at court, and was more than once the
divertisement of his majesty by his own command. "[20] These marks of
royal favour were doubtless owing to the intercession of Lady
Castlemain. If we can trust the sarcasm thrown out by a contemporary
satirist, our author piqued himself more on this light and gallant
effusion, than its importance deserved. [21] The verses abound with
sprightly and ingenious turns; and the conceits, which were the taste of
the age, shew to some advantage on such an occasion. There is, however,
little propriety in comparing the influence of the royal mistress to the
virtue of Cato.

[Footnote 20: Preface to "The Wild Gallant," Vol. II. p. 17. ]

[Footnote 21:

Dryden, who one would have thought had more wit,
The censure of every man did disdain;
Pleading some pitiful rhymes he had writ
In praise of the Countess of Castlemain.

_Session of the Poets_, 1670.
]




EPISTLE THE FOURTH.


As seamen, shipwrecked on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before;
And, what their art had laboured long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain:
So my much-envied muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose;
While they the victor, he the vanquished chose;
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquished, and restore him too.
Let others still triumph, and gain their cause
By their deserts, or by the world's applause;
Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praise despise,
Fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize. [22]
You sit above, and see vain men below
Contend for what you only can bestow;
But those great actions others do by chance,
Are, like your beauty, your inheritance:
So great a soul, such sweetness joined in one,
Could only spring from noble Grandison.
You, like the stars, not by reflection bright,
Are born to your own heaven, and your own light;
Like them are good, but from a nobler cause,
From your own knowledge, not from nature's laws.
Your power you never use, but for defence,
To guard your own, or others' innocence:
Your foes are such, as they, not you, have made,
And virtue may repel, though not invade.
Such courage did the ancient heroes show,
Who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow;
With such assurance as they meant to say,
We will o'ercome, 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,
Who, waving plots, found out a better way;
Some God descended, and preserved 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,
Till poets dressed 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 discharged to me,
When your applause and favour did infuse
New life to my condemned and dying muse.

[Footnote 22: This seems to be the passage sneered at in the "Session of
the Poets. "]




EPISTLE THE FIFTH.

TO

MR LEE,

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF

THE RIVAL QUEENS, OR ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

1677.


"The Rival Queens, or Alexander the Great," of Nathaniel Lee, has been
always deemed the most capital performance of its unfortunate author.
There is nothing throughout the play that is tame or indifferent; all is
either exquisitely good, or extravagantly bombastic, though some
passages hover between the sublime and the ludicrous. Addison has justly
remarked, that Lee's "thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy, but
frequently lost in such a crowd of words, that it is hard to see the
beauty of them. There is infinite fire in his works, but so involved in
smoke, that it does not appear in half its lustre. "

Lee and our author lived on terms of strict friendship, and wrote, in
conjunction, "Œdipus," and the "Duke of Guise. " Lee's madness and
confinement in Bedlam are well known; as also his repartee to a coxcomb,
who told him, it was easy to write like a madman:--"No," answered the
poet, "it is not easy to write like a madman, but it is very easy to
write like a fool. " Dryden elegantly apologizes, in the following
verses, for the extravagance of his style of poetry. Lee's death was
very melancholy: Being discharged from Bedlam, and returning by night
from a tavern, in a state of intoxication, to his lodgings in
Duke-street, he fell down somewhere in Clare-Market, and was either
killed by a carriage driving over him, or stifled in the snow, which was
then deep. Thus died this eminent dramatic poet in the year 1691, or
1692, in the 35th year of his age.




EPISTLE THE FIFTH.


The blast of common censure could I fear,
Before your play my name should not appear;
For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,
I pay the bribe I first received from you;
That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
And play the game into each others hand;
And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,
As Bessus and the brothers of the sword. [23]
Such libels private men may well endure,
When states and kings themselves are not secure;
For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
Think the best actions on by-ends are built.
And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;
Then, envy had not suffered me to write;
For, since I could not ignorance pretend,
Such merit I must envy or commend.
So many candidates there stand for wit,
A place at court is scarce so hard to get:
In vain they crowd each other at the door;
For e'en reversions are all begged before:
Desert, how known soe'er, is long delayed,
And then, too, fools and knaves are better paid.
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
Extorted praise, and forced itself 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 outgrows the rest,
It shoots too fast, and high, to be supprest;
As his heroic worth struck envy dumb,
Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom. [24]
Such praise is yours, while you the passions move,
That 'tis no longer feigned, 'tis real love,
Where nature triumphs over wretched art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart.
Always you warm; and if the rising year,
As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,
'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow.
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.
Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,
Were cripples made the judges of the race.
Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse,
The too much vigour of your youthful muse.
That humble style, which they your virtue make,
Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allowed
By all, but some vile poets of the crowd.
But how should any sign-post dauber know
The worth of Titian, or of Angelo?
Hard features every bungler can command;
To draw true beauty, shews a master's hand.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: Our author alludes to the copy of verses addressed to him
by Lee, on his drama, called the "State of Innocence," and which the
reader will find in Vol. V. p. 103. Dryden expresses some apprehension,
lest his friend and he should be considered as vouching for each other's
genius, in the same manner that Bessus and the two swordsmen, in "King
and no King," grant certificates of each others courage, after having
been all soundly beaten and kicked by Bacurius.

"_2 Swordsman. _ Captain, we must request your hand now to our honours.

_Bessus. _ Yes, marry shall ye; and then let all the world come, we are
valiant to ourselves, and there's an end. " _Act V. _]

[Footnote 24: The person thus distinguished seems to be the gallant Sir
Edward Spragge, noted for his gallantry in the two Dutch wars, and
finally killed in the great battle of 11th August, 1672. In 1671, he was
sent to the Mediterranean with a squadron, to chastise the Algerines. He
found seven vessels belonging to these pirates, lying in the bay of
Bugia, covered by the fire of a castle and forts, and defended by a
boom, drawn across the entrance of the bay, made of yards, top-masts,
and cables, buoyed up by casks. Nevertheless, Sir Edward bore into the
bay, silenced the forts, and, having broken the boom with his pinnaces,
sent in a fire-ship, which effectually destroyed the Algerine squadron;
a blow which was long remembered by these piratical states. ]




EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

TO THE

EARL OF ROSCOMMON,

ON HIS EXCELLENT

ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.


The Earl of Roscommon's "Essay on Translated Verse," a work which
abounds with much excellent criticism, expressed in correct, succinct,
and manly language, was first published in 4to, in 1680: a second
edition, corrected and enlarged, appeared in 1684. To both editions are
prefixed the following copy of verses by our author; and to the second
there is also one in Latin by his son Charles Dryden, afterwards
translated by Mr Needler.

The high applause which our author has here and elsewhere[25] bestowed
on the "Essay on Translated Verse," is censured by Dr Johnson, as
unmerited and exaggerated. But while something is allowed for the
partiality of a friend, and the zeal of a panegyrist, it must also be
remembered, that the rules of criticism, now so well known as to be even
trite and hackneyed, were then almost new to the literary world, and
that translation was but then beginning to be emancipated from the
fetters of verbal and literal versions. But Johnson elsewhere does
Roscommon more justice, where he acknowledges, that "he improved taste,
if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the
benefactors of English literature. "

Dryden has testified, in several places of his works, that he loved and
honoured Roscommon; particularly by inscribing and applying to him his
version of the Third Ode of the First Book of Horace. [26] Roscommon
repaid these favours by a copy of verses addressed to Dryden on the
"Religio Laici. "[27]


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 25: See Vol. XII. p. 264. ]

[Footnote 26: Vol. XII. p. 341. ]

[Footnote 27: Vol. X. p. 33. ]




EPISTLE THE SIXTH.


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
Made nature first, and nature's God their song.
Nor stopt translation here; for conquering Rome,
With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home;
Enriched by those Athenian muses more,
Than all the vanquished world could yield before.
Till barbarous nations, and more barbarous times,
Debased the majesty of verse to rhymes;
Those rude at first; a kind of hobbling prose,
That limped along, and tinkled in the close.
But Italy, reviving from the trance
Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowel'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,
Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polished page
Restored a silver, not a golden age.
Then Petrarch followed, and in him we see, }
What rhyme improved in all its height can be; }
At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity. }
The French pursued their steps; and Britain, last,
In manly sweetness all the rest surpassed.
The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,
Appear exalted in the British loom:
The Muses' empire is restored again,
In Charles his reign, and by Roscommon's pen.
Yet modestly he does his work survey,
And calls a finished poem an essay;
For all the needful rules are scattered here; }
Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe; }
So well is art disguised, for nature to appear. }
Nor need those rules to give translation light;
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 could such rules ordain,
Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain.
How much in him may rising Ireland boast,
How much in gaining him has Britain lost!
Their island in revenge has ours reclaimed;
The more instructed we, the more we still are shamed.
'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow,
Derived from British channels long ago,[28]
That here his conquering ancestors were nurst,
And Ireland but translated England first:
By this reprizal we regain our right,
Else must the two contending nations fight;
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,
And not disdain the inglorious praise of art!
Great generals thus, descending from command,
With their own toil provoke the soldier's hand.
How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear
His fame augmented by an English peer;[29]
How he embellishes his Helen's loves,
Outdoes his softness, and his sense improves?
When these translate, and teach translators too,
Nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow,
Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand: }
Roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand, }
Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand. }
Roscommon, whom both court and camps commend,
True to his prince, and faithful to his friend;
Roscommon, first in fields of honour known, }
First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown; }
Who both Minervas justly makes his own. }
Now let the few beloved by Jove, and they
Whom infused Titan formed of better clay,
On equal terms with ancient wit engage,
Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page:
Our English palace opens wide in state,
And without stooping they may pass the gate.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: Roscommon, it must be remembered, was born in Ireland,
where his property also was situated. But the Dillons were of English
extraction. ]

[Footnote 29: In this verse, which savours of the bathos, our author
passes from Roscommon to Mulgrave; another "author nobly born," who
about this time had engaged with Dryden and others in the version of
Ovid's Epistles, published in 1680. The Epistle of Helen to Paris,
alluded to in the lines which follow, was jointly translated by Mulgrave
and Dryden, although the poet politely ascribes the whole merit to his
noble co-adjutor. See Vol. XII. p. 26. ]




EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.

TO THE

DUCHESS OF YORK,

ON HER

RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, IN THE YEAR 1682.


These smooth and elegant lines are addressed to Mary of Este, second
wife of James Duke of York, and afterwards his queen. She was at this
time in all the splendour of beauty; tall, and admirably formed in her
person; dignified and graceful in her deportment, her complexion very
fair, and her hair and eye-brows of the purest black. Her personal
charms fully merited the encomiastic strains of the following epistle.

The Duchess accompanied her husband to Scotland, where he was sent into
a kind of honorary banishment, during the dependence of the Bill of
Exclusion. Upon the dissolution of the Oxford parliament, the Duke
visited the court in triumph; and after two months stay, returned to
Scotland, and in his voyage suffered the misfortune of shipwreck,
elsewhere mentioned particularly. [30] Having settled the affairs of
Scotland, he returned with his family to England; whence he had been
virtually banished for three years. His return was hailed by the poets
of the royal party with unbounded congratulation. It is celebrated by
Tate, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel;"[31] and by our
author, in a prologue spoken before the Duke and Duchess. [32] But, not
contented with that expression of zeal, Dryden paid the following
additional tribute upon the same occasion.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 30: Vol. IX. p. 402. ]

[Footnote 31: Vol. IX. p. 344. ]

[Footnote 32: Vol. X. p. 366. Otway furnished an epilogue on the same
night. ]





EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.


When factious rage to cruel exile drove
The queen of beauty, and the court of love,
The Muses drooped, with their forsaken arts,
And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts;
Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turned,
Like Eden's face, when banished man it mourned.
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great supporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay, }
But wandered northward to the verge of day, }
As if the sun and he had lost their way. }
But now the illustrious nymph, returned again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,
Foreslowed her passage, to behold her form:
Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis past;
But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
And Envy did but look on her, and died.
Whate'er we suffered from our sullen fate,
Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were set;
But this one mighty sum has cleared the debt:
Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,
The famine past, the plenty still to come.
For her, the weeping heavens become serene;
For her, the ground is clad in cheerful green;
For her, the nightingales are taught to sing,
And Nature has for her delayed the spring.
The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, }
And Love restored his ancient realm surveys, }
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays, }
His waste dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his second reign.
But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,
Dispensing what she never will admit;
Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Distempered zeal, sedition, cankered hate,
No more shall vex the church, and tear the state;
No more shall faction civil discords move,
Or only discords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best shall love the duke, and serve the king.




EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.

TO MY FRIEND,

MR J. NORTHLEIGH,

AUTHOR OF

THE PARALLEL;

ON HIS

TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH MONARCHY.


These verses have been recovered by Mr Malone, and are transferred, from
his life of Dryden, into the present collection of his works. John
Northleigh was by profession a student of law, though he afterwards
became a physician; and was in politics a keen Tory. He wrote "The
Parallel, or the new specious Association, an old rebellious Covenant,
closing with a disparity between a true Patriot and a factious
Associator. " London, 1682, folio. This work was anonymous; but attracted
so much applause among the High-churchmen, that, according to Wood, Dr
Lawrence Womack called the author "an excellent person, whose name his
own modesty, or prudence, as well as the iniquity of the times, keeps
from us. "

Proceeding in the same track of politics, Northleigh published two
pamphlets on the side of the Tories, in the dispute between the
petitioners and abhorrers; and finally produced, "The Triumph of our
Monarchy, over the Plots and Principles of our Rebels and Republicans,
being remarks on their most eminent Libels. London, 1685. " This last
publication called forth the following lines from our author.

Northleigh was the son of a Hamburgh merchant, and born in that city. He
became a student in Exeter College, in 1674, aged 17 years; and was, it
appears, studying law in the Inner Temple in 1685, when his book was
published. He was then, consequently, about 28 years old; so that his
genius was not peculiarly premature, notwithstanding our author's
compliment. He afterwards took a medical degree at Cambridge, and
practised physic at Exeter. --WOOD, _Athenæ Oxon_. Vol. II. p. 962.

These verses, like the address to Hoddesdon, are ranked among the
Epistles, because Dryden gave that title to other recommendatory verses
of the same nature.




EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.


So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well }
The boding dream, and did the event foretell; }
Judged by the past, and drew the Parallel. }
Thus early Solomon the truth explored,
The right awarded, and the babe restored.
Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew, }
The perjured 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;
And, under covert of his seven-fold shield,
Thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field.
By law thy powerful pen has set us free;
Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.




EPISTLE THE NINTH.

A

LETTER

TO

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.


Sir George Etherege, as a lively and witty companion, a smooth
sonnetteer, and an excellent writer of comedy, was in high reputation in
the seventeenth century. He lived on terms of intimacy with the men of
genius, and with those of rank, at the court of Charles the Second, and
appears to have been particularly acquainted with Dryden. Etherege
enjoyed in a particular manner the favour of Queen Mary of Este, through
whose influence he was sent envoy to Hamburgh, and afterwards became
resident minister at Ratisbon. In this situation, he did not cease to
interest himself in the progress of English literature; and we have
several of his letters, both in prose and verse, written with great wit
and vivacity, to the Duke of Buckingham, and other persons of wit and
honour at the court of London. Among others, he wrote an epistle in
verse to the Earl of Middleton, who engaged Dryden to return the
following answer to it. As Sir George's verses are lively and pleasing,
I have prefixed them to Dryden's epistle. Both pieces, with a second
letter from Etherege to Middleton, appeared in Dryden's Miscellanies.

Our poet's epistle to Sir George Etherege affords an example how easily
Dryden could adapt his poetry to the style which the moment required;
since, although this is the only instance in which he has used the
verse of eight syllables, it flows as easily from his pen as if he had
never written in another measure. This is the more remarkable, as, in
the "Essay on Satire," Dryden speaks very contemptuously of the eight
syllable, or Hudibrastic measure, and the ornaments proper to it, as a
little instrument, unworthy the use of a great master. [33] Here,
however, he happily retorts upon the witty knight, with his own weapons
of gallant and courtly ridicule, and acquits himself, as well in the
light arms of a polite and fashionable courtier, as when he wields the
trenchant brand of his own keen satire.

Our author had formerly favoured Sir George Etherege with an excellent
epilogue to his popular play, called "The Man of Mode," acted in 1676,
and he occasionally speaks of him in his writings with great respect.
The date of this epistle is not easily ascertained. From a letter of
Etherege to the Duke of Buckingham, it appears, that Sir George was at
Ratisbon when Dryden was engaged in his controversial poetry;[34] but
whether that letter be previous or subsequent to the epistle to the Earl
of Middleton, seems uncertain.

Considering the high reputation which Sir George Etherege enjoyed, and
the figure which he made as a courtier and a man of letters, it is
humbling to add, that we have no accurate information concerning the
time or manner of his death. It seems certain, that he never returned
from the Continent; but it is dubious, whether, according to one report,
he followed the fortunes of King James, and resided with him at the
court of St Germains till his death, or whether, as others have said,
that event was occasioned by his falling down the stairs of his own
house at Ratisbon, when, after drinking freely with a large company, he
was attempting to do the honours of their retreat. From the date of the
letter to the Duke of Buckingham, 21st October, 1689, it is plain he was
then at Ratisbon; and it is somewhat singular, that he appears to have
retained his official situation of Resident, though nearly twelve months
had elapsed since the Revolution. This seems to give countenance to the
latter report of his having died at Ratisbon. The date of that event was
probably about 1694.

[Footnote 33: Vol. XIII. p. 108. ]

[Footnote 34: "They tell me my old acquaintance, Mr Dryden, has left off
the theatre, and wholly applies himself to the study of the
controversies between the two churches. Pray heaven, this strange
alteration in him portends nothing disastrous to the state; but I have
all along observed, that poets do religion as little service by drawing
their pens for it, as the divines do poetry, by pretending to
versification. " This letter is dated 21st October, 1689. ]




SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE,

TO THE

EARL OF MIDDLETON. [35]


Since love and verse, as well as wine,
Are brisker where the sun does shine,
'Tis something to lose two degrees,
Now age itself begins to freeze:
Yet this I patiently could bear, }
If the rough Danube's beauties were }
But only two degrees less fair }
Than the bright nymphs of gentle Thames,
Who warm me hither with their beams:
Such power they have, they can dispense
Five hundred miles their influence.
But hunger forces men to eat,
Though no temptation's in the meat.
How would the ogling sparks despise
The darling damsel of my eyes,
Should they behold her at a play,
As she's tricked up on holiday,
When the whole family combine,
For public pride, to make her shine!
Her locks, which long before lay matted,
Are on this day combed out and plaited;
A diamond bodkin in each tress,
The badges of her nobleness;
For every stone, as well as she,
Can boast an ancient pedigree.
These formed the jewel erst did grace
The cap of the first Grave[36] o' the race,
Preferred by Graffin[37] Marian
To adorn the handle of her fan;
And, as by old record appears,
Worn since in Kunigunda's years,
Now sparkling in the froein's hair;[38] }
No rocket breaking in the air }
Can with her starry head compare. }
Such ropes of pearl her arms encumber,
She scarce can deal the cards at omber;
So many rings each finger freight,
They tremble with the mighty weight.
The like in England ne'er was seen,
Since Holbein drew Hal[39] and his queen:
But after these fantastic flights,
The lustre's meaner than the lights.
The thing that bears this glittering pomp
Is but a tawdry ill-bred romp,
Whose brawny limbs and martial face
Proclaim her of the Gothic race,
More than the mangled pageantry
Of all the father's heraldry.
But there's another sort of creatures,
Whose ruddy look and grotesque features
Are so much out of nature's way,
You'd think them stamped on other clay,
No lawful daughters of old Adam.
'Mongst these behold a city madam,
With arms in mittins, head in muff,
A dapper cloak, and reverend ruff:
No farce so pleasant as this maukin,
And the soft sound of High-Dutch talking.
Here, unattended by the Graces,
The queen of love in a sad case is.
Nature, her active minister,
Neglects affairs, and will not stir;
Thinks it not worth the while to please,
But when she does it for her ease.
Even I, her most devout adorer,
With wandering thoughts appear before her,
And when I'm making an oblation, }
Am fain to spur imagination }
With some sham London inclination: }
The bow is bent at German dame,
The arrow flies at English game.
Kindness, that can indifference warm,
And blow that calm into a storm,
Has in the very tenderest hour
Over my gentleness a power;
True to my country-women's charms,
When kissed and pressed in foreign arms.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 35: Charles, 2d Earl of Middleton, a man of some literary
accomplishment. He had been Envoy Extraordinary to the Emperor of
Germany, and was now one of the secretaries of state for Scotland. ]

[Footnote 36: Graf, or Count. ]

[Footnote 37: Countess. ]

[Footnote 38: _Quere_, Did Pope think of this passage in his famous
account of Belinda's bodkin? ]

[Footnote 39: Henry VIII. ]




EPISTLE THE NINTH.


To you, who live in chill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,[40]
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From tropic even to pole artique;
Since you have such a constitution
As no where suffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a plenipo.
Like mighty missioner you come
_Ad Partes Infidelium_.
A work of wonderous merit sure,
So far to go, so much t'endure;
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,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or even for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity, }
Where love-sick ladies helpless lie, }
Chapt, and, for want of liquor, dry. }
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)
Strewed plenty from his cart divine;
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never sowed on Almain acres.
No, that was left by fate's decree
To be performed and sung by thee.
Thou break'st through forms with as much ease
As the French king through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent, }
In waging weighty compliment, }
With such as monarchs represent. }
They, whom such vast fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To shew the world that, now and then,
Great ministers are mortal men.