The Old Bachelor | Page 4

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 and twenty,?And impudently hopes he shall content you:?For though his bachelor be worn and cold,?He thinks the young may club to help the old,?And what alone can be achieved by neither,?Is often brought about by both together.?The briskest of you all have felt alarms,?Finding the fair one prostitute her charms?With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms:?But for our spark, he swears he'll