Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, All of old cut with a new dye: How soon have you restor'd her charms And rid her of her lumber and her books, Drest her again genteel and neat, And rather tight than great! How fond we are to court her to our arms X. Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, And To fan th' unhappy fire. Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for friend! your Rather forgive what my first transport said: May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, Lie upon you and on your children's head! Have ev'n increas'd their pride and cruelty. Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, Or the vast charges of a smile; Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, And which they've now the consciences to weigh In the same balance with our tears, And with such scanty wages pay The bondage and the slavery of years, Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; And had they common generosity, They would not use thus. Well-though you've rais'd her to this high Ourselves are rais'd as well as she; XI. Alas, how fleeting and how vain, Is ev'n the nobler man, our learning and our wit! I sigh whene'er I think of it: As at the closing of an unhappy scene Of some great king and conqueror's death, When the sad melancholy Muse Stays but to catch his utmost breath. I grieve, this nobler work most happily begun Which still the sooner it arrives, Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. No No conquest ever yet begun, And by one mighty hero carried to its height, E'er flourish'd under a successor or a son; It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it past, Nor e'er call back again) The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare With what unhappy men shall dare To be successors to these great unknown, On Learning's high establish'd throne. Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth From Ignorance's universal North, And with blind rage break all this peaceful govern ment: Yet shall these traces of your wit remain, How strange a paradox is true, That men who liv'd and died without a name Are the chief heroes in the sacred list of fame. VOL. XVI. D то TO MR. CONGREVE. WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER 1693. THRICE, with a prophet's voice and prophet's pow'r, The Muse was called in a poetic hour, Then with that grief we form in spirits divine mine: Once highly honour'd! false is the pretence You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down The most ungen'rous vices of the town; Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before Thus did the muse severe unkindly blame This off ring long design'd to Congreve's fame; First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; Then Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, The greatest compliment she ever made, And wisely judge, no pow'r beneath divine For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd Nor tax the goddess of a mean design There to surmount what bears me up and sing Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing; This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; Thus I look down with mercy on the age, Produce a richer vein or cleaner ore; The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind With indignation I behold your wit Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain From broken scraps and filings of your brain. D 2 Through |