A COMEDY WRITTEN BY MR. J. DRYDEN, JUNIOR.
THIS year has been remarkable two ways,
For blooming poets and for blasted plays.
We've been by much appearing plenty mock'd,
At once both tantaliz'd and overstock'd.
Our authors, too, by their fuccefs of late,
Begin to think third days are out of date.
What can the cause be that our plays wont keep,
Unless they have a rot some years, like sheep?
For our parts, we confefs we're quite afham'd
To read fuch weekly bills of poets damn'd.
Each parish knows 't is but a mournful cafe
When christ'nings fall and funerals increase.
Thus 'tis, and thus 't will be when we are dead,
There will be writers which will ne'er be read.
Why will you be fuch wits, and write fuch things?
You're willing to be wasps, but want the stings. 16
Let not your fpleen provoke you to that height;
'Od's life! you don't know what you do, Sirs, when
you write.
You'll find that Pegasus has tricks when try'd,
Tho' you make nothing on't but up and ride; 20
Ladies, and all, i' faith, now get astride.
Contriving characters, and scenes, and plots,
Is grown as common now as knitting knots;
With the fame eafe and negligence of thought
The charming play is writ and fringe is wrought. 25
Tho' this be frightful, yet we're more afraid
When ladies leave, that beaus will take the trade.
Thus far 't is well enough, if here 't would stop,
But should they write we must e'en shut up shop.
How shall we make this mode of writing fink?
A mode, faid I! 't is a difeafe, I think,
A ftubborn tetter that 's not cur'd with ink;
For ftill it fpreads till each th' infection takes,
And feizes ten for one that it forfakes.
Our play to-day is fprung from none of these, 35
Nor fhould you damn it tho' it does not please,
Since born without the bounds of your four feas:
For if you grant no favour as 't is new,
Yet as a stranger there is fomething due.
From Rome (to try its fate) this play was fent; 40
Start not at Rome, for there's no Pop'ry meant:
Tho' there the poet may his dwelling chufe,
Yet ftill he knows his country claims his Muse.
Hither an off'ring his first-born he sends,
Whofe good or ill fuccefs, on you depends;
Yet he has hope fome kindness may be shown,
As due to greater merit than his own,
And begs the fire may for the fon atone.
There's his laft refuge; if the play don't take,
Yet fpare young Dryden for his father's fake.
ON THE QUEEN'S BIRTHDAY, 1704.
THE happy Mufe, to this high scene preferr'd,
Hereafter fhall in loftier ftrains be heard,
And, foaring to transcend her ufual theme,
Shall fing of virtue and heroick fame:
No longer fhall fhe toil upon the stage,
And fruitless war with vice and folly wage;
No more in mean difguife the fhall appear,
And fhapes fhe would reform be forc'd to wear;
While Ignorance and Malice join to blame,
And break the mirror that reflects their shame. IO Henceforth fhe fhall put fue a nobler taik,
Show her bright virgin-face, and fcorn the Satyr's
Happy her future days! which are defign'd
Alone to paint the beauties of the mind;
By juft originals to draw with care,
And copy from the Court a faultlefs fair:
Such labours with fuccefs her hopes may crown,
And fhame to manners an incorrigible Town.
While this defign her eager thought pursues,
Such various virtues all around fhe views,
She knows not where to fix or which to chufe;
Yet fill ambitious of the daring flight,
One only awes her with fuperiour light:
From that attempt the confcious Mufe retires
Nor to inimitable worth afpires,
But fecretly applauds, and filently admires.
Hence the reflects upon the genial ray
That firft enliven'd this aufpicious day;
On that bright ftar to whofe indulgent pow'r
We owe the bleffings of the prefent hour;
Concurring omens of propitious fate
Bore. with one facred birth an equal date;
Whence we derive whatever we poffefs
By foreign conqueft or domeftick peace.
Then, Britain! then thy dawn of bliss begun; 35 Then broke the morn that lighted up this fun; Then was it doom'd whofe councils fhould fucceed, And by whofe arm the Chriflian world be freed; Then the fierce foe was preordain'd to yield, And then the battle won at Blenheim's glorious field.
Queen's Theatre in the Hay-market with an Italian pafloral.
SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.
WHATEVER future fate our house may find,
At prefent we expect you should be kind;
Inconftancy itself can claim no right
Before enjoyment and the wedding-night.
You must be fix'd a little ere you range;
You must be true till you have time to change.
A week at leaft; one night is fure too foon,
But we pretend not to a honey-moon.
To novelty we know you can be true,
But what, alas! or who, is always new?
This day, without prefumption we pretend
With novelty entire you're entertain'd;
For not alone our house and scenes are new,
Our fong and dance, but ev`n our actors too.
Our play itself has fomething in 't uncommon,
Two faithful lovers, and one conftant woman.
In fweet Italian ftrains our fhepherds fing
Of harmless loves, our painted forests ring,
In notes, perhaps, lefs foreign than the thing. --
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