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As needy gallants in the scriveners' hands, Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands, The first fat buck of all the season's sent, And keeper takes no fee in compliment: The dotage of some Englishmen is such To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch. They shall have all, rather than make a war With those who of the same religion are. The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too, Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. Some are resolved not to find out the cheat, But, cuckold like, love him who does the feat: What injuries soe'er upon us fall, Yet, still, The same religion, answers all: Religion wheedled you to civil war, Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare: Be gulled no longer, for you'll find it true, They have no more religion, faith--than you; Interest's the god they worship in their state; And you, I take it, have not much of that. Well, monarchies may own religion's name, But states are atheists in their very frame. They share a sin, and such proportions fall, That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. How they love England, you shall see this day; No map shews Holland truer than our play: Their pictures and inscriptions well we know; We may be bold one medal sure to show. View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty; And think what once they were, they still would be: But hope not either language, plot, or art; 'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart: And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be As much improper, as would honesty.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

AMBOYNA.

You are not ignorant of our business with you: the cries of your accomplices have already reached your ears; and your own consciences, above a thousand summons, a thousand tortures, instruct you what to do. No farther juggling, nothing but plain sincerity and truth to be delivered now; a free confession will first atone for all your sins above, and may do much below to gain your pardons. Let me exhort you, therefore, be you merciful, first to yourselves and make acknowledgment of your conspiracy.

Footnotes: 1. The situation of Venice renders it impossible to bring horses into the town; accordingly, the Venetians are proverbially bad riders.

THE

STATE OF INNOCENCE,

AND

FALL OF MAN.

OPERA.

THE STATE OF INNOCENCE, &c.

The "Paradise Lost" of Milton is a work so extraordinary in conception and execution, that it required a lapse of many years to reconcile the herd of readers, and of critics, to what was almost too sublime for ordinary understandings. The poets, in particular, seemed to have gazed on its excellencies, like the inferior animals on Dryden's immortal Hind; and, incapable of fully estimating a merit, which, in some degree, they could not help feeling, many were their absurd experiments to lower it to the standard of their own comprehension. One author, deeming the "Paradise Lost" deficient in harmony, was pleased painfully to turn it into rhyme; and more than one, conceiving the subject too serious to be treated in verse of any kind, employed their leisure in humbling it into prose. The names of these well-judging and considerate persons are preserved by Mr Todd in his edition of Milton's Poetical Works.

The structure and diction of this opera, as it is somewhat improperly termed, being rather a dramatic poem, strongly indicate the taste of Charles the Second's reign, for what was ingenious, acute, and polished, in preference to the simplicity of the true sublime. The judgment of that age, as has been already noticed, is always to be referred rather to the head than to the heart; and a poem, written to please mere critics, requires an introduction and display of art, to the exclusion of natural beauty.--This explains the extravagant panegyric of Lee on Dryden's play:

--Milton did the wealthy mine disclose, And rudely cast what you could well dispose; He roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground, A chaos; for no perfect world was found, Till through the heap your mighty genius shined: He was the golden ore, which you refined. He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid, And to a place of strength the prize conveyed: You took her thence; to Court this virgin brought, Dressed her with gems, new-weaved her hard-spun thought, And softest language sweetest manners taught; Till from a comet she a star did rise, Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes.

Doubtless there were several critics of that period, who held the heretical opinion above expressed by Lee. And the imitation was such as to warrant that conclusion, considering the school in which it was formed. The scene of the consultation in Pandemonium, and of the soliloquy of Satan on his arrival in the newly-created universe, would possess great merit, did they not unfortunately remind us of the majestic simplicity of Milton. But there is often a sort of Ovidian point in the diction which seems misplaced. Thus, Asmodeus tells us, that the devils, ascending from the lake of fire,

And, with Dryden's usual hate to the poor Dutchmen, the council of Pandemonium are termed,

There is one inconvenience, which, as this poem was intended for perusal only, the author, one would have thought, might have easily avoided. This arises from the stage directions, which supply the place of the terrific and beautiful descriptions of Milton. What idea, except burlesque, can we form of the expulsion of the fallen angels from heaven, literally represented by their tumbling down upon the stage? or what feelings of terror can be excited by the idea of an opera hell, composed of pasteboard and flaming rosin? If these follies were not actually to be produced before our eyes, it could serve no good purpose to excite the image of them in our imaginations. They are circumstances by which we feel, that scenic deception must be rendered ridiculous; and ought to be avoided, even in a drama intended for perusal only, since they cannot be mentioned without exciting ludicrous combinations.--Even in describing the primitive state of our first parents, Dryden has displayed some of the false and corrupted taste of the court of Charles. Eve does not consent to her union with Adam without coquettish apprehensions of his infidelity, which circumstances rendered rather improbable; and even in the state of innocence, she avows the love of sway and of self, which, in a loose age, is thought the principal attribute of her daughters. It may be remembered that the Adam of Milton, when first experiencing the powers of slumber, thought,

I then was passing to my former state Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve.

The Eve of Dryden expresses the same apprehensions of annihilation upon a very different occasion. These passages form a contrast highly favourable to the simplicity and chastity of Milton's taste. The school logic, employed by Adam and the angels in the first scene of the fourth act, however misplaced, may be paralleled if not justified, by similar instances in the "Paradise Lost."

On the other hand, the "State of Innocence" contains many passages of varied and happy expression peculiar to our great poet; and the speech of Lucfier in Paradise , approaches in sublimity to his prototype in Milton, Indeed, altered as this poem was from the original, in order to accommodate it to the taste of a frivolous age, it still retained too much fancy to escape the raillery of the men of wit and fashion, more disposed to "laugh at extravagance, than to sympathise with feelings of grandeur." The "Companion to the Theatre" mentions an objection started by the more nice and delicate critics, against the anachronism and absurdity of Lucifer conversing about the world, its form and vicissitudes, at a time previous to its creation, or, at least, to the possibility of his knowing any thing of it. But to this objection, which applies to the "Paradise Lost" also, it is sufficient to reply, that the measure of intelligence, competent to supernatural beings, being altogether unknown to us, leaves the poet at liberty to accommodate its extent to the purposes in which he employs them, without which poetic license, it would be in vain to introduce them. Dryden, moved by this, and similar objections, has prefixed to the drama, "An Apology for Heroic Poetry," and the use of what is technically called "the machinery" employed in it.

Upon the whole, it may be justly questioned, whether Dryden shewed his judgment in the choice of a subject which compelled an immediate parallel betwixt Milton and himself, upon a subject so exclusively favourable to the powers of the former. Indeed, according to Dennis, notwithstanding Dryden's admiration of Milton, he evinced sufficiently by this undertaking, what he himself confessed twenty years afterwards, that he was not sensible of half the extent of his excellence. In the "Town and Country Mouse," Mr Bayes is made to term Milton "a rough unhewen fellow;" and Dryden himself, even in the dedication to the Translation from Juvenal, a work of his advanced life, alleges, that, though he found in that poet a true sublimity, and lofty thoughts, clothed with admirable Grecisms, he did not find the elegant turn of words and expression proper to the Italian poets and to Spenser. In the same treatise, he undertakes to excuse, but not to justify Milton, for his choice of blank verse, affirming that he possessed neither grace nor facility in rhyming. A consciousness of the harmony of his own numbers, and a predilection for that kind of verse, in which he excelled, seemed to have encouraged him to think he could improve the "Paradise Lost." Baker observes but too truly, that the "State of Innocence" recals the idea reprobated by Marvell in his address to Milton:

Or if a work so infinite be spanned, Jealous I was, lest some less skilful hand, Such as disquiet always what is well, And by ill-imitating would excel, Might hence presume the whole creation's day To change in scenes, and shew it in a play.

The "State of Innocence" seems to have been undertaken by Dryden during a cessation of his theatrical labours, and was first published in 1674, shortly after the death of Milton, which took place on the 8th of November in the same year.

Let the rainbow be the fiddle-stick to the fiddle of heaven, Let the spheres be the strings, and the stars the musical notes; Let the new-born breezes make the pauses and sharps, And let time be careful to beat the measure.

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,

THE

DUCHESS.

MADAM,

Ambition is so far from being a vice in poets, that it is almost impossible for them to succeed without it. Imagination must be raised, by a desire of fame, to a desire of pleasing; and they whom, in all ages, poets have endeavoured most to please, have been the beautiful and the great. Beauty is their deity, to which they sacrifice, and greatness is their guardian angel, which protects them. Both these, are so eminently joined in the person of your royal highness, that it were not easy for any but a poet to determine which of them outshines the other. But I confess, madam, I am already biassed in my choice. I can easily resign to others the praise of your illustrious family, and that glory which you derive from a long-continued race of princes, famous for their actions both in peace and war: I can give up, to the historians of your country, the names of so many generals and heroes which crowd their annals, and to our own the hopes of those which you are to produce for the British chronicle. I can yield, without envy, to the nation of poets, the family of Este, to which Ariosto and Tasso have owed their patronage, and to which the world has owed their poems. But I could not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme of your beauty to another hand. Give me leave, madam, to acquaint the world, that I am jealous of this subject; and let it be no dishonour to you, that, after having raised the admiration of mankind, you have inspired one man to give it voice. But, with whatsoever vanity this new honour of being your poet has filled my mind, I confess myself too weak for the inspiration: the priest was always unequal to the oracle: the god within him was too mighty for his breast: he laboured with the sacred revelation, and there was more of the mystery left behind, than the divinity itself could enable him to express. I can but discover a part of your excellencies to the world; and that, too, according to the measure of my own weakness. Like those who have surveyed the moon by glasses, I can only tell of a new and shining world above us, but not relate the riches and glories of the place. 'Tis therefore that I have already waved the subject of your greatness, to resign myself to the contemplation of what is more peculiarly yours. Greatness is indeed communicated to some few of both sexes; but beauty is confined to a more narrow compass: 'tis only in your sex, 'tis not shared by many, and its supreme perfection is in you alone. And here, madam, I am proud that I cannot flatter; you have reconciled the differing judgments of mankind; for all men are equal in their judgment of what is eminently best. The prize of beauty was disputed only till you were seen; but now all pretenders have withdrawn their claims: there is no competition but for the second place; even the fairest of our island, which is famed for beauties, not daring to commit their cause against you to the suffrage of those, who most partially adore them. Fortune has, indeed, but rendered justice to so much excellence, in setting it so high to public view; or, rather, Providence has done justice to itself, in placing the most perfect workmanship of heaven, where it may be admired by all beholders. Had the sun and stars been seated lower, their glory had not been communicated to all at once, and the Creator had wanted so much of his praise, as he had made your condition more obscure: but he has placed you so near a crown, that you add a lustre to it by your beauty. You are joined to a prince, who only could deserve you; whose conduct, courage, and success in war; whose fidelity to his royal brother, whose love for his country, whose constancy to his friends, whose bounty to his servants, whose justice to merit, whose inviolable truth, and whose magnanimity in all his actions, seem to have been rewarded by heaven by the gift of you. You are never seen but you are blest; and I am sure you bless all those who see you. We think not the day is long enough when we behold you; and you are so much the business of our souls, that while you are in sight, we can neither look nor think on any else. There are no eyes for other beauties; you only are present, and the rest of your sex are but the unregarded parts that fill your triumph. Our sight is so intent on the object of its admiration, that our tongues have not leisure even to praise you: for language seems too low a thing to express your excellence; and our souls are speaking so much within, that they despise all foreign conversation. Every man, even the dullest, is thinking more than the most eloquent can teach him how to utter. Thus, madam, in the midst of crowds, you reign in solitude; and are adored with the deepest veneration, that of silence. 'Tis true, you are above all mortal wishes; no man desires impossibilities, because they are beyond the reach of nature. To hope to be a god, is folly exalted into madness; but, by the laws of our creation, we are obliged to adore him, and are permitted to love him too at human distance. 'Tis the nature of perfection to be attractive, but the excellency of the object refines the nature of the love. It strikes an impression of awful reverence; 'tis indeed that love which is more properly a zeal than passion. 'Tis the rapture which anchorites find in prayer, when a beam of the divinity shines upon them; that which makes them despise all worldly objects; and yet 'tis all but contemplation. They are seldom visited from above, but a single vision so transports them, that it makes up the happiness of their lives. Mortality cannot bear it often: it finds them in the eagerness and height of their devotion; they are speechless for the time that it continues, and prostrate and dead when it departs. That ecstacy had need be strong, which, without any end, but that of admiration has power enough to destroy all other passions. You render mankind insensible to other beauties, and have destroyed the empire of love in a court which was the seat of his dominion. You have subverted even our fundamental laws; and reign absolute over the hearts of a stubborn and free-born people, tenacious almost to madness of their liberty. The brightest and most victorious of our ladies make daily complaints of revolted subjects, if they may be said to be revolted, whose servitude is not accepted; for your royal highness is too great, and too just a monarch, either to want or to receive the homage of rebellious fugitives. Yet, if some few among the multitude continue stedfast to their first pretensions, 'tis an obedience so lukewarm and languishing, that it merits not the name of passion; their addresses are so faint, and their vows so hollow to their sovereigns, that they seem only to maintain their faith out of a sense of honour: they are ashamed to desist, and yet grow careless to obtain. Like despairing combatants, they strive against you as if they had beheld unveiled the magical shield of your Ariosto, which dazzled the beholders with too much brightness. They can no longer hold up their arms; they have read their destiny in your eyes:

And yet, madam, if I could find in myself the power to leave this argument of your incomparable beauty, I might turn to one which would equally oppress me with its greatness; for your conjugal virtues have deserved to be set as an example, to a less degenerate, less tainted age. They approach so near to singularity in ours, that I can scarcely make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satire on many others. But your person is a paradise, and your soul a cherubim within, to guard it. If the excellence of the outside invite the beholders, the majesty of your mind deters them from too bold approaches, and turns their admiration into religion. Moral perfections are raised higher by you in the softer sex; as if men were of too coarse a mould for heaven to work on, and that the image of divinity could not be cast to likeness in so harsh a metal. Your person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive addition, when it shall be glorified: and your soul, which shines through it, finds it of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an age within it, and to be confined to such a palace.

I know not how I am hurried back to my former theme; I ought and purposed to have celebrated those endowments and qualities of your mind, which were sufficient, even without the graces of your person, to render you, as you are, the ornament of the court, and the object of wonder to three kingdoms. But all my praises are but as a bull-rush cast upon a stream; if they sink not, 'tis because they are borne up by the strength of the current, which supports their lightness; but they are carried round again, and return on the eddy where they first began. I can proceed no farther than your beauty; and even on that too I have said so little, considering the greatness of the subject, that, like him who would lodge a bowl upon a precipice, either my praise falls back, by the weakness of the delivery, or stays not on the top, but rolls over, and is lost on the other side. I intended this a dedication; but how can I consider what belongs to myself, when I have been so long contemplating on you! Be pleased then, madam, to receive this poem, without entitling so much excellency as yours, to the faults and imperfections of so mean a writer; and instead of being favourable to the piece, which merits nothing, forgive the presumption of the author; who is, with all possible veneration,

Your Royal Highness's Most obedient, most humble, Most devoted servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

And now, my muse, a nobler flight prepare, And sing so loud, that heaven and earth may hear. Behold from Italy an awful ray Of heavenly light illuminates the day; Northward she bends, majestically bright, And here she fixes her imperial light. Be bold, be bold, my muse, nor fear to raise Thy voice to her who was thy earliest praise. What though the sullen fates refuse to shine, Or frown severe on thy audacious line; Keep thy bright theme within thy steady sight, The clouds shall fly before thy dazzling light, And everlasting day direct thy lofty flight. Thou, who hast never yet put on disguise, To flatter faction, or descend to vice, Let no vain fear thy generous ardour tame, But stand erect, and sound as loud as fame. As when our eye some prospect would pursue, Descending from a hill looks round to view, Passes o'er lawns and meadows, till it gains Some favourite spot, and fixing there remains; With equal ardour my transported muse Flies other objects, this bright theme to chuse. Queen of our hearts, and charmer of our sight! A monarch's pride, his glory and delight! Princess adored and loved! if verse can give A deathless name, thine shall for ever live; Invoked where'er the British lion roars, Extended as the seas that guard the British shores. The wise immortals, in their seats above, To crown their labours still appointed love; Phoebus enjoyed the goddess of the sea, Alcides had Omphale, James has thee. O happy James! content thy mighty mind, Grudge not the world, for still thy queen is kind; To be but at whose feet more glory brings, Than 'tis to tread on sceptres and on kings. Secure of empire in that beauteous breast, Who would not give their crowns to be so blest? Was Helen half so fair, so formed for joy, Well chose the Trojan, and well burned was Troy. But ah! what strange vicissitudes of fate, What chance attends on every worldly state! As when the skies were sacked, the conquered gods, Compelled from heaven, forsook their blessed abodes; Wandering in woods, they hid from den to den, And sought their safety in the shapes of men; As when the winds with kindling flames conspire, The blaze increases as they fan the fire; From roof to roof the burning torrent pours, Nor spares the palace nor the loftiest towers; Or as the stately pine, erecting high Her lofty branches shooting to the sky, If riven by the thunderbolt of Jove, Down falls at once the pride of all the grove; Level with lowest shrubs lies the tall head, That, reared aloft, as to the clouds was spread, So-- But cease, my muse, thy colours are too faint; Shade with a veil those griefs thou can'st not paint. That sun is set!--

The beauty, which inspired the romantic and unchanging admiration of Granville, may be allowed to justify some of the flights of Dryden's panegyric. I fear enough will still remain to justify the stricture of Johnson, who observes, that Dryden's dedication is an "attempt to mingle earth and heaven, by praising human excellence in the language of religion."

At the date of this address, the Duchess of York was only in her sixteenth year.

Footnote: a. He had written verses to the Earl of Peterborough, on the Duke of York's marriage with the Princess of Modena, before he was twelve years old.

MR DRYDEN,

ON HIS

POEM OF PARADISE.

Forgive me, awful poet, if a muse, Whom artless nature did for plainness chuse, In loose attire presents her humble thought, Of this best poem that you ever wrought. This fairest labour of your teeming brain I would embrace, but not with flatt'ry stain. Something I would to your vast virtue raise, But scorn to daub it with a fulsome praise; That would but blot the work I would commend, And shew a court-admirer, not a friend. To the dead bard your fame a little owes, For Milton did the wealthy mine disclose, And rudely cast what you could well dispose: He roughly drew, on an old fashioned ground, A chaos; for no perfect world was found, Till through the heap your mighty genius shined: He was the golden ore, which you refined. He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid, And to a place of strength the prize conveyed: You took her thence; to court this virgin brought, Drest her with gems, new weaved her hard-spun thought, And softest language sweetest manners taught; Till from a comet she a star doth rise, Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes. Betwixt you both is trained a nobler piece, Than e'er was drawn in Italy or Greece. Thou from his source of thoughts even souls dost bring, As smiling gods from sullen Saturn spring. When night's dull mask the face of heaven does wear, 'Tis doubtful light, but here and there a star, Which serves the dreadful shadows to display, That vanish at the rising of the day; But then bright robes the meadows all adorn, And the world looks as it were newly born. So, when your sense his mystic reason cleared, The melancholy scene all gay appeared; Now light leapt up, and a new glory smiled, And all throughout was mighty, all was mild. Before this palace, which thy wit did build, Which various fancy did so gaudy gild, And judgment has with solid riches filled, My humbler muse begs she may sentry stand, Amongst the rest that guard this Eden land. But there's no need, for ev'n thy foes conspire Thy praise, and, hating thee, thy work admire. On then, O mightiest of the inspired men! Monarch of verse! new themes employ thy pen. The troubles of majestic Charles set down; Not David vanquished more to reach a crown. Praise him as Cowley did that Hebrew king: Thy theme's as great; do thou as greatly sing. Then thou may'st boldly to his favour rise, Look down, and the base serpent's hiss despise; From thund'ring envy safe in laurel sit, While clam'rous critics their vile heads submit, Condemned for treason at the bar of wit.

NAT. LEE.

THE

FOR

HEROIC POETRY, AND POETIC LICENCE.

To satisfy the curiosity of those, who will give themselves the trouble of reading the ensuing poem, I think myself obliged to render them a reason why I publish an opera which was never acted. In the first place, I shall not be ashamed to own, that my chiefest motive was, the ambition which I acknowledged in the Epistle. I was desirous to lay at the feet of so beautiful and excellent a princess, a work, which, I confess, was unworthy her, but which, I hope, she will have the goodness to forgive. I was also induced to it in my own defence; many hundred copies of it being dispersed abroad without my knowledge, or consent: so that every one gathering new faults, it became at length a libel against me; and I saw, with some disdain, more nonsense than either I, or as bad a poet, could have crammed into it, at a month's warning; in which time it was wholly written, and not since revised. After this, I cannot, without injury to the deceased author of "Paradise Lost," but acknowledge, that this poem has received its entire foundation, part of the design, and many of the ornaments, from him. What I have borrowed will be so easily discerned from my mean productions, that I shall not need to point the reader to the places: And truly I should be sorry, for my own sake, that any one should take the pains to compare them together; the original being undoubtedly one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced. And though I could not refuse the partiality of my friend, who is pleased to commend me in his verses, I hope they will rather be esteemed the effect of his love to me, than of his deliberate and sober judgment. His genius is able to make beautiful what he pleases: Yet, as he has been too favourable to me, I doubt not but he will hear of his kindness from many of our contemporaries for we are fallen into an age of illiterate, censorious, and detracting people, who, thus qualified, set up for critics.

In the first place, I must take leave to tell them, that they wholly mistake the nature of criticism, who think its business is principally to find fault. Criticism, as it was first instituted by Aristotle, was meant a standard of judging well; the chiefest part of which is, to observe those excellencies which should delight a reasonable reader. If the design, the conduct, the thoughts, and the expressions of a poem, be generally such as proceed from a true genius of poetry, the critic ought to pass his judgement in favour of the author. It is malicious and unmanly to snarl at the little lapses of a pen, from which Virgil himself stands not exempted. Horace acknowledges, that honest Homer nods sometimes: He is not equally awake in every line; but he leaves it also as a standing measure for our judgments,

And Longinus, who was undoubtedly, after Aristotle the greatest critic amongst the Greeks, in his twenty-seventh chapter, , has judiciously preferred the sublime genius that sometimes errs, to the middling or indifferent one, which makes few faults, but seldom or never rises to any excellence. He compares the first to a man of large possessions, who has not leisure to consider of every slight expence, will not debase himself to the management of every trifle: Particular sums are not laid out, or spared, to the greatest advantage in his economy; but are sometimes suffered to run to waste, while he is only careful of the main. On the other side, he likens the mediocrity of wit, to one of a mean fortune, who manages his store with extreme frugality, or rather parsimony; but who, with fear of running into profuseness, never arrives to the magnificence of living. This kind of genius writes indeed correctly. A wary man he is in grammar, very nice as to solecism or barbarism, judges to a hair of little decencies, knows better than any man what is not to be written, and never hazards himself so far as to fall, but plods on deliberately, and, as a grave man ought, is sure to put his staff before him. In short, he sets his heart upon it, and with wonderful care makes his business sure; that is, in plain English, neither to be blamed nor praised.--I could, says my author, find out some blemishes in Homer; and am perhaps as naturally inclined to be disgusted at a fault as another man; but, after all, to speak impartially, his failings are such, as are only marks of human frailty: they are little mistakes, or rather negligences, which have escaped his pen in the fervour of his writing; the sublimity of his spirit carries it with me against his carelessness; and though Apollonius his "Argonauts," and Theocritus his "Idyllia," are more free from errors, there is not any man of so false a judgment, who would chuse rather to have been Apollonius or Theocritus, than Homer.

It is worth our consideration a little, to examine how much these hypercritics in English poetry differ from the opinion of the Greek and Latin judges of antiquity; from the Italians and French, who have succeeded them; and, indeed, from the general taste and approbation of all ages. Heroic poetry, which they condemn, has ever been esteemed, and ever will be, the greatest work of human nature: In that rank has Aristotle placed it; and Longinus is so full of the like expressions, that he abundantly confirms the other's testimony. Horace as plainly delivers his opinion, and particularly praises Homer in these verses:

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