1 PROLOGUE TO AURENG-ZEBE, OR THE GREAT Our author by experience finds it true, 'Tis much more hard to please himself than you; Damns his laborious trifle of a play; Not that it's worse than what before he writ, And, to confess a truth, though out of time, The first of this and hindmost of the last. All southern vices, Heaven be praised, are here; But wit's a luxury you think too dear. Aureng-Zebe, the last of Dryden's tragedies in rhyme, was produced at the Theatre Royal. Our neighbours' in line 37 refers to the rival house m Dorset Garden, When you to cultivate the plant are loth, TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW1, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING. AN ODE. 1686. Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse, She was of a 1 Anne Killigrew, maid of honour to the Duchess of York, died of the small-pox in 1685, in the twenty-fifth year of her age. literary family, and herself a poetess as well as a painter. was prefixed to a posthumous edition of her poems. But such as thy own voice did practise here, And candidate of Heaven. If by traduction' came thy mind, Was formed at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. Than was the beautious frame she left behind: May we presume to say that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And even the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, Might know a poetess was born on earth; 1 traduction Had heard the music of the spheres. = derivation from one of the same kind (Johnson). 'trine, the conjunction of three planets in the three angles of a triangle. And if no clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miraclēs Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love O gracious God! how far have we (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) To increase the steaming ordures of the stage ? What can we say to excuse our second fall? Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all: Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. Art she had none, yet wanted none, So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born. Her morals too were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test and every light her Muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest), Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast; Light as the vapours of a morning dream, So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content But what can young ambitious souls confine? A plenteous province and alluring prey. And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed. For poets frequent inroads there had made, The shape, the face, with every lineament, And all the large domains which the dumb Sister swayed; Received in triumph whereso'er she went. And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind. The ruins too of some majestic piece, And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye; 1 Painture (peinture) and picture are both used in the sense of ‘ 'painting' by Dryden. |