A s 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.
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.
T he 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.
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]
EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
W hether 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.
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.
EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.
W hen 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.
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.
}
{ S o 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.
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.
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE,
TO THE
EARL OF MIDDLETON.[35]
S ince 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.
EPISTLE THE NINTH.
T o 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.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers every king is crowned;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,[41]
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is sunk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk.
These Dutch delights, I mentioned last,
Suit not, I know, your English taste:
For wine to leave a whore or play,
Was ne'er your Excellency's way.[42]
Nor need this title give offence,
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,
{ 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 denied,
You would be pleased in humble way
To write a trifle called a Play.
}
{ This truly is a degradation,
{ But would oblige the crown and nation
{ Next to your wise negotiation.
}
{ If you pretend, as well you may,
{ Your high degree, your friends will say,
{ The duke St Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
His grace of Bucks has made a farce,
And you, whose comic 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,
Has writ without a ten years warning.[43]
TO
MR SOUTHERNE,
ON HIS COMEDY
CALLED
THE WIVES' EXCUSE,
ACTED IN 1692.
Southerne,—well known to the present age as a tragic writer,
for his Isabella has been ranked among the first-rate parts of our
inimitable Siddons,—was also distinguished by his contemporaries
as a successful candidate for the honours of the comic muse.
Two of his comedies, "The Mother in Fashion," and "Sir Anthony
Love," had been represented with success, when, in 1692,
the "Wives' Excuse, or Cuckolds make Themselves," was brought
forward. The tone of that piece approaches what we now call
genteel comedy: but, whether owing to the flatness into which
such plays are apt to slide, for want of the vis comica which
enlivens the more animated, though coarser, effusions of the lower
comedy, or to some strokes of satire directed against music meetings,
and other places of fashionable resort, "The Wives' Excuse"
was unfortunate in the representation. The author, in the dedication
of the printed play,[44] has hinted at the latter cause as that
of his defeat; and vindicates himself from the idea of reflecting
upon music meetings, or any other resort of the people of fashion,
by urging, that although a billet doux is represented as being there
delivered, "such a thing has been done before now in a church,
without the place being thought the worse of." But Southerne
consoles himself for the disapprobation of the audience with the
favour of Dryden, who, says he, "speaking of this play, has publicly
said, the town was kind to 'Sir Anthony Love;' I needed
them only to be just to this." And, after mentioning that Dryden
had intrusted to him, upon the credit of this play, the task of
completing "Cleomenes,"[45] he triumphantly adds,—"If modesty
be sometimes a weakness, what I say can hardly be a crime: in a
fair English trial, both parties are allowed to be heard; and without
this vanity of mentioning Mr Dryden, I had lost the best evidence
of my cause." Dryden, not satisfied with a verbal exertion
of his patronage, consoled his friend under his discomfiture,
by addressing to him the following Epistle, in which his failure is
ascribed to the taste for bustling intrigue, and for low and farcical
humour.
It is not the Editor's business to trace Southerne's life, or poetical
career. He was born in the county of Dublin, in 1659;
and produced, in his twenty-third year, the tragedy of "The
Loyal Brother," which Dryden honoured with a prologue. On
this occasion, Southerne's acquaintance with our bard took place,
under the whimsical circumstances mentioned Vol. X. p. 372.
The aged bard furnished also a prologue to Southerne's "Disappointment,
or Mother in Fashion;" and as he had repeatedly
ushered him to success, he presented him with the following lines
to console him under disappointment. The poets appear to have
continued on the most friendly terms until Dryden's death.
Southerne survived him many years, and lived to be praised by
the rising generation of a second century, for mildness of manners,
and that cheerful and amiable disposition, which rarely is
found in old age, unless from the happy union of a body at
ease, and a conscience void of offence. When this dramatist was
sixty-five, his last play, called "Money the Mistress," was acted,
with a prologue by Welsted, containing the following beautiful
lines:[46]