The Double-Dealer | Page 5

protecting an infant, but by
enrolling it in your service, now that it is of age and come into the
world. Therefore be pleased to accept of this as an
acknowledgment
of the favour you have shewn me, and an earnest of the real service and

gratitude of,
Sir, your most obliged, humble servant,
WILLIAM CONGREVE.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND MR. CONGREVE,
ON HIS COMEDY
CALLED THE DOUBLE-DEALER.
Well then, the promised hour is come at last;
The present age of wit
obscures the past.
Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ,

Conqu'ring with force of arms and dint of wit.
Theirs was the giant
race, before the flood;
And thus, when Charles returned, our empire
stood.
Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured,
With rules of
husbandry the rankness cured,
Tamed us to manners, when the stage
was rude,
And boist'rous English wit with art indued.
Our age was
cultivated thus at length;
But what we gained in skill we lost in
strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curst;
The second
temple was not like the first:
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at
length,
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
Firm Doric
pillars found your solid base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher
space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy
dialogue is Fletcher's praise:
He moved the mind, but had no power to
raise.
Great Johnson did by strength of judgment please
Yet
doubling Fletcher's force, he wants ease.
In diff'ring talents both
adorned their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both
to Congreve justly shall submit,
One matched in judgment, both
o'er-matched in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see,
Etherege
his courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength of manly
Wycherly.
All this in blooming youth you have achieved,
Nor are
your foiled contemporaries grieved;
So much the sweetness of your
manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius
might joy in Scipio, when he saw

A beardless consul made against
the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome;
Though he

with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's
fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.
O that your brows my laurel had sustained,
Well had I been deposed
if you had reigned!
The father had descended for the son,
For only
you are lineal to the throne.
Thus when the state one Edward did
depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose.
But now, not I, but
poetry is cursed;
For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the First.
But
let 'em not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own
desert.
Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen
(Though with some
short parenthesis between)
High on the throne of wit; and seated there,

Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an
early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So
bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise is to be
regular.
Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,
But
genius must be born, and never can be taught.
This is your portion,
this your native store,
Heav'n, that but once was prodigal before,
To
Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.
Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;
For 'tis impossible
you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And
just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at heav'n's
expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence.
But you, whom
every muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,

Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend,
Against your judgment,
your departed friend!
Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue;
But
shade those laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what
these lines express:
You merit more; nor could my love do less.
JOHN DRYDEN.
PROLOGUE--Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
Moors have this way (as story tells) to know
Whether their brats are

truly got or no;
Into the sea the new-born babe is thrown,
There, as
instinct directs, to swim or drown.
A barbarous device, to try if
spouse
Has kept religiously her nuptial vows.
Such are the trials poets make of plays,
Only they trust to more
inconstant seas;
So does our author, this his child commit
To the
tempestuous mercy of the pit,
To know if it be truly born of wit.
Critics avaunt, for you are fish of prey,
And feed, like sharks, upon an
infant play.
Be ev'ry monster of the deep away;
Let's have a fair
trial and a clear sea.
Let nature work, and do not damn too soon,
For life will struggle long
e'er it sink down:
And will at least rise thrice before it drown.
Let
us consider, had it been our fate,
Thus hardly to be proved legitimate:

I will not say, we'd all in danger been,
Were each to suffer for his
mother's sin:
But by my troth I cannot avoid thinking,
How nearly
some good men might have 'scaped sinking.
But, heav'n be praised,
this custom is confined
Alone to th' offspring of the muses kind:

Our Christian cuckolds are more bent to pity;
I know not one
Moor-husband in the city.
I' th' good man's arms the chopping