While you, great patron of mankind! sustain The balanced world, and open all the main;Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend, At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;How shall the muse from such a monarch, steal An hour, and not defraud the public weal?
Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame, And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name, After a life of generous toils endured, The Gaul subdued, or property secured, Ambition humbled, mighty cities stormed, Our laws established, and the world reformed;Closed their long glories with a sigh, to find Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
All human virtue, to its latest breath, Finds envy never conquered but by death.
The great Alcides, every labour past, Had still this monster to subdue at last.
Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray Each star of meaner merit fades away!
Oppressed we feel the beam directly beat, Those suns of glory please not till they set.
To thee, the world its present homage pays, The harvest early, but mature the praise:
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name Above all Greek, above all Roman fame:
Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered, As heaven's own oracles from altars heard.
Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise.
Just in one instance be it yet confest Your people, sir, are partial in the rest:
Foes to all living worth except your own, And advocates for folly dead and gone.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old;It is the rust we value, not the gold.
Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learned by rote, And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote:
One likes no language but the Faery Queen;A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green:
And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, He swears the Muses met him at the devil.
Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, Why should not we be wiser than our sires?
In every public virtue we excel;
We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well, And learned Athens to our art must stoop, Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop.
If time improve our wit as well as wine, Say at what age a poet grows divine?
Shall we or shall we not account him so, Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago?
End all dispute; and fix the year precise When British bards begin t' immortalise?
"Who lasts a century can have no flaw, I hold that wit a classic, good in law."Suppose he wants a year, will you compound;And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound, Or damn to all eternity at once, At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce?
"We shall not quarrel for a year or two;
By courtesy of England, he may do."
Then by the rule that made the horse-tail bear, I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, And melt down ancients like a heap of snow:
While you to measure merits, look in Stowe, And estimating authors by the year Bestow a garland only on a bier.
Shakespeare (whom you and every play-house bill Style the divine, the matchless, what you will)For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despite.
Ben, old and poor, as little seemed to heed The life to come, in every poet's creed.
Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, His moral pleases, not his pointed wit;Forget his epic, nay Pindaric art;
But still I love the language of his heart.
"Yet surely, surely, these were famous men!
What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben?
In all debates where Critics bears a part, Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art, Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit;How Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ;How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow;
But for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe.
These, only these, support the crowded stage, From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age."All this may be; the people's voice is odd, It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, And yet deny the careless husband praise.
Or say our fathers never broke a rule;
Why then, I say, the public is a fool.
But let them own, that greater faults than we They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree.
Spenser himself affects the obsolete, And Sidney's verse halts ill on Roman feet:
Milton's strong pinion now not Heaven can bound, Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, In quibbles angel and archangel join, And God the Father turns a school divine.
Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook, Or damn all Shakespeare, like the affected fool At court, who hates whate'er he read at school.
But for the wits of either Charles's days, The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease;Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, (Like twinkling stars the miscellanies o'er)One simile, that solitary shines In the dry desert of a thousand lines, Or lengthened thought that gleams through many a page, Has sanctified whole poems for an age.
I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censured, not as bad but new;While if our elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon, but applause.
On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, If I but ask, if any weed can grow;One tragic sentence if I dare deride Which Betterton's grave action dignified, Or well-mouthed Booth with emphasis proclaims, (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names)How will our fathers rise up in a rage, And swear, all shame is lost in George's age!
You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign, Did not some grave examples yet remain, Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, And, having once been wrong, will be so still.
He, who to seem more deep than you or I, Extols old bards, or Merlin's Prophecy, Mistake him not; he envies, not admires, And to debase the sons, exalts the sires.
Had ancient times conspired to disallow What then was new, what had been ancient now?
Or what remained, so worthy to be read By learned critics, of the mighty dead?
