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Convinc'd, amaz'd, the guilty Poet stood,
And blush'd himself should ever think it good.

So Bacchus, when he drove his conquering car O’er sun-burnt climes, and urg'd the Indian war, Soon as the generous grape had reach'd his head, His troops to many

a rash adventure led ; Silenus saw the fault, by his advice The God allay'd his rage, and cool'd his cup with ice.

Long felt the Drama an inglorious dearth,
Nor wept the Tragic Muse, nor smild the Comic

At length his lyre harmonious Dryden strung,
Excell'd in both, and both alternate sung.
At first indeed he made his heroes rant,
Or quibbled Folly in his Wild Gallant :
But, as in music, when the artist long
Has try'd each note, and dwelt upon


song, The strings become familiar to his hand, Around his lute the Graces take their stand; He rises in his skill, the crowd controls, And robs his ravish'd audience of their souls. Our Author so, when perfect in his art, Alarm’d the brave, and seiz'd the fair-one's heart,

So Nature's workmanship, in paint display'd, By mellowing Time more beautiful is made.

So Nature's self, whom he so well could paint, Acts as at first she suffer'd some restraint : The tender babe of less than pigmy size, Wrapt up and jellying in the cradle lies, By just degrees his little limbs dilate, By just degrees improves his growing state, At length he stretches to his utmost span, And looks, and stalks, that lordly creature, Man.

But what so potent charm, what chain so strong, Can curb or silence the malicious tongue ? Superior merit on the Laureat drew A Blackmore, Milbourne, and a Montagu : Angred at last, he threw his pencil down, No- ctrove again to please a thankless town. Wrapp'd in the Prophet's robe arose his friend, Congreve alone the Hero's bow could bend, Congreve, his second-self, his Congreve rose, And spars like Dryden, and like Dryden flows,

Thus did Achilles from the dusty plain Laden with bays and injuries abstain ; But when Patroclus to the battle went, His golden panoply the Hero lent ; And him so well the mighty arms became, So like Achilles all his graceful frame, Both host a-gaze the raging war suspend, And none but Phoebus knows him from his friend, Thy Comic Muse, and trust me, Congreve, I With greater truth than Foresight prophecy, Far as thy Ben can sail, or waters flow, Receiv'd with praise thy Comic Muse shall go ; Bless her, ye Lovers, for from her the Fair Have learnt to prize the constant in despair, No more your sighs, no more your tears are scorn’d, But Love for Love shall ever be return'd.

Some know the sock and some the buskin's pace, But Congreve treads in both with equal grace : When dress'd in widow'd weeds his Muse appears, Who can refuse the Mourning Bride his tears

So when Adonis dy'd, her grief became, Well as her former mirth, the laughter-loving dame. Long would the labor be, and vain the toil, To sing the master-strokes of Otway's stile, Ev'n the most loyal must his Pierre commend, Nor can his Orphan ever want a friend.

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Read Etherege, you that would appear genteel; The friend, the father, and the mistress, Steele: How soft the scene where Cibber paints the beau? How manly Wycherley! how moving Rowe! The lays how strong! how passionate the page! When Granville's Agamemnon mounts the stage ! How loud the din when his magicians fight! When good Urganda battles for her knight, Spirits of air with Daemons dire engage,

Loud thunder bursts in volleys, lightnings rage, Shoots the blue ghastly gleam across the darken'd


And thou, O Addison, no more detain
The free-born Cato, struggling in his chain :
Tis Liberty he loves, disclose thy vast design,
And let us see that every Muse is thine.
And now the Isis proudly rears her head,
See o'er her flowery lawns the Goddess tread,
Thee, Heliconian Deity, I know,
Accept the verse thy streams have taught to flow.
But hark! she claims aloud the laurel wreath,
To bind the temples of her darling Smith,
Alas! to bind his temples !-he's no more,
But wanders silent on the Stygian shore;
Long since the promis'd Bard in all his pride,
In blooming beauty, like his Phaedra died.
O were the Youth, 'the Youth so long deplor'd,
Like his Hippolitus to life restor’d,
Myriads of heroes should with him revive,
And in his labor'd lays triumphant live.
But hold! to sing such Poets' praise, requirts
A genius great as Addison's or theirs.
Do thou, my Muse, describe the bright abodes
Of wits, of cits, of critics, beaux, and bawds,
Of venal emperors, and earthling gods.
Low lies the tribe, commanded by the box,
That damn a play, or sign it orthodox,
The pit they fill, the pit where punks patrol,

These look a luring leer, and those a gloomy scowl ;
Footman and 'prentice bawl in upper air,
Bright in the middle sits enthron'd the fair.
But neither footman's ideot laugh can please,
Nor wounds the fiercer critic's envious hiss;
Deign but, ye circles of the fair, to smile,
Well is the Poet paid for all his labor'd style.

Now turn, and see, where, loaden with her freight, A damsel stands, and orange-wench is hight; See! how her charge hangs dangling by the rim, See! how the balis blush o'er the basket-brim; But little those she minds, the cunning belle Has other fish to fry, and other fruit to sell : See! how she whispers yonder youthful peer ; See! how he smiles, and lends a greedy ear. At length 'tis done, the note o'er orange wrapt Has reach'd the box, and lies in lady's lap; Such Atalanta was, such golden fruit Gain’d the fair murderess in the hot pursuit. Poor pretty prostitute, thou kind relief To longing Lady, and to Gallant's grief : May that soft hand which both the boxes know, Plump as thy orange in their service grow; Still vend thy fruit, still give the billet right, So may both colors in thy cheeks unite, The fruit's vermillion, and the billet's white !

But hark, a fight! by some brisk spark indited, it is decreed the ladies must be frighted.

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