The Old Bachelor | Page 4

appears,
And forward shoots the
growth beyond the years.
We timely court the rising hero's cause,

And on his side the poet wisely draws,
Bespeaking him hereafter by
applause.
The days will come, when we shall all receive
Returning
interest from what now we give,
Instructed and supported by that
praise
And reputation which we strive to raise.
Nature so coy, so
hardly to be wooed,
Flies, like a mistress, but to be pursued.
O
Congreve! boldly follow on the chase:
She looks behind and wants
thy strong embrace:
She yields, she yields, surrenders all her charms,

Do you but force her gently to your arms:
Such nerves, such graces,
in your lines appear,
As you were made to be her ravisher.
Dryden
has long extended his command,
By right divine, quite through the
muses' land,
Absolute lord; and holding now from none,
But great
Apollo, his undoubted crown.
That empire settled, and grown old in
power
Can wish for nothing but a successor:
Not to enlarge his
limits, but maintain
Those provinces, which he alone could gain.

His eldest Wycherly, in wise retreat,
Thought it not worth his quiet to
be great.
Loose, wand'ring Etherege, in wild pleasures tost,
And
foreign int'rests, to his hopes long lost:
Poor Lee and Otway dead!
Congreve appears,
The darling, and last comfort of his years.

May'st thou live long in thy great master's smiles,
And growing under
him, adorn these isles.
But when--when part of him (be that but late)

His body yielding must submit to fate,
Leaving his deathless works
and thee behind
(The natural successor of his mind),
Then may'st
thou finish what he has begun:
Heir to his merit, be in fame his son.

What thou hast done, shews all is in thy pow'r,
And to write better,
only must write more.
'Tis something to be willing to commend;

But my best praise is, that I am your friend,
THO. SOUTHERNE.
To Mr. Congreve.

The danger's great in these censorious days,
When critics are so rife
to venture praise:
When the infectious and ill-natured brood
Behold,
and damn the work, because 'tis good,
And with a proud, ungenerous
spirit, try
To pass an ostracism on poetry.
But you, my friend, your
worth does safely bear
Above their spleen; you have no cause for fear;

Like a well-mettled hawk, you took your flight
Quite out of reach,
and almost out of sight.
As the strong sun, in a fair summer's day,

You rise, and drive the mists and clouds away,
The owls and bats,
and all the birds of prey.
Each line of yours, like polished steel's so
hard,
In beauty safe, it wants no other guard.
Nature herself's
beholden to your dress,
Which though still like, much fairer you
express.
Some vainly striving honour to obtain,
Leave to their heirs
the traffic of their brain:
Like China under ground, the ripening ware,

In a long time, perhaps grows worth our care.
But you now reap
the fame, so well you've sown;
The planter tastes his fruit to ripeness
grown.
As a fair orange-tree at once is seen
Big with what's ripe,
yet springing still with green,
So at one time, my worthy friend
appears,
With all the sap of youth, and weight of years.
Accept my
pious love, as forward zeal,
Which though it ruins me I can't conceal:

Exposed to censure for my weak applause,
I'm pleased to suffer in
so just a cause;
And though my offering may unworthy prove,
Take,
as a friend, the wishes of my love.
J. MARSH.
To Mr. Congreve, on his play called The Old Bachelor.
Wit, like true gold, refined from all allay,
Immortal is, and never can
decay:
'Tis in all times and languages the same,
Nor can an ill
translation quench the flame:
For, though the form and fashion don't
remain,
The intrinsic value still it will retain.

Then let each studied
scene be writ with art,
And judgment sweat to form the laboured part.

Each character be just, and nature seem:
Without th' ingredient, wit,
'tis all but phlegm:
For that's the soul, which all the mass must move,


And wake our passions into grief or love.
But you, too bounteous,
sow your wit so thick,
We are surprised, and know not where to pick;

And while with clapping we are just to you,
Ourselves we injure,
and lose something new.
What mayn't we then, great youth, of thee
presage,
Whose art and wit so much transcend thy age?
How wilt
thou shine at thy meridian height,
Who, at thy rising, giv'st so vast a
light?
When Dryden dying shall the world deceive,
Whom we
immortal, as his works, believe,
Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the
stage,
Adorn and entertain the coming age.
BEVIL. HIGGONS.
PROLOGUE INTENDED FOR THE OLD BACHELOR.
Written
by the Lord Falkland.
Most authors on the stage at first appear
Like widows' bridegrooms,
full of doubt and fear:
They judge, from the experience of the dame,

How hard a task it is to quench her flame;
And who falls short of
furnishing a course
Up to his brawny predecessor's force,
With
utmost rage from her embraces thrown,
Remains convicted as an
empty drone.
Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner
Proves in
the end a miserable sinner.
As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt
him,
With all the vigour of his youth about him;
But he, more
sanguine, trusts in one