Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious surmise,
But I am now convinced, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a share.
Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper dost omit ;
So that no room is here for writers left,
But to detect their ignorance or theft.
That majesty which thro' thy work doth reign
Draws the devout, deterring the profane.
And things divine thou treat'st of in such state
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us seize,
Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease;
And above human flight dost soar aloft,
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft:
The bird named from that paradise you sing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where could'st thou words of such a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expense of mind?
Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.
Well might thou scorn thy readers to allure
With tinkling rime, of thy own sense secure ;
While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and
spells,
And like a pack-horse tires without his bells.
Their fancies like our bushy points appear,
The poets tag them; we for fashion wear.
I too, transported by the mode, offend,
And while I meant to praise thee, miscommend.
Thy verse created like thy theme sublime,
In number, weight, and measure, needs not rime.
To Sir William D'Avenant upon
WELL, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen
Poets shall live, when princes die like men.
Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill,
Of late years clouded with imputed ill,
And the soft, youthful couples there may move,
As chaste as stars converse and smile above.
Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow
Calm as rose-leaves, and pure as virgin-snow,
Which doubly feasts us, being so refined
They both delight, and dignify the mind;
Like to the watery music of some spring,
Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.
And where before heroic poems were
Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear,
And shew'd-through all the melancholy flight-
Like some dark region overcast with night,
As if the poet had been quite dismay'd,
While only giants and enchantments sway'd;
Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise
Hast chased them hence, and with discoveries
So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we
Those famed grandezas find out-done by thee,
And under-foot see all those vizards hurl'd,
Which bred the wonder of the former world.
'Twas dull to sit as our forefathers did,
At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid,
Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire
Break through the ashes of thy aged sire,
To lend the world such a convincing light
As shews his fancy darker than his sight.
Nor was 't alone the bars and lengths of days
-Though those gave strength and stature to his
bays-
Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint
And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint ;
How could'st thou mured in solitary stones
Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou might'st
her groans?
And, strangely eloquent, thy self divide
'Twixt sad misfortunes, and a bloomy bride?
Through all the tenour of thy ample song
Spun from thy own rich store, and shared among
Those fair adventurers, we plainly see
The imputed gifts, inherent are in thee.
Then live for ever-and by high desert-
In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert,
And in bright Birtha leave thy love inshrined
Fresh as her emrauld, and fair as her mind,
While all confess thee-as they ought to do—
The prince of poets and of lovers too.
THE bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,
Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song:
Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:
He match'd their beauties where they most excel;
Of love sung better, and of arms as well.
From The Art of Poetry.
IN all he writes appears a noble fire;
To follow such a master then desire.
Chaucer alone, fix'd on this solid base,
In his old style conserves a modern grace:
Too happy, if the freedom of his rimes
Offended not the method of our times.
Under Mr. Milton's picture before his
Paradise Lost.
THREE Poets in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next, in majesty; in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third she join'd the former two.
From Prologue to Aurengzebe. [1672
OUR author by experience, finds it true,
'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
Damns his laborious trifle of a play:
Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of wit;
And to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rime.
Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
What verse can do he has perform'd in this,
Which he presumes the most correct of his ;
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name:
Awed when he hears his god-like Romans rage,
He, in a just despair would quit the stage;
And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does with disdain the foremost honours yield.
As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verse with those who live :
Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
From Prologue to Troilus and Cressida.
The ghost of Shakespeare log. [1679
SEE, my loved Britons, see your Shakespeare rise,
An awful ghost confess'd to human eyes!
Unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd I had been
From other shades by this eternal green,
About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,
And with a touch their wither'd bays revive.
Untaught, unpractised, in a barbarous age,
I found not, but created first the stage.
And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store,
'Twas that my own abundance gave me more.
On foreign trade I needed not rely,
Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.
In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold
Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold,
That he who meant to alter, found 'em such,
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