The Works of John Dryden, Volume 6 | Page 4

have not once
murmured against that decree. The same fortune once happened to
Moliere, on the occasion of his "Tartuffe;" which, notwithstanding,
afterwards has seen the light, in a country more bigot than ours, and is
accounted amongst the best pieces of that poet. I will be bold enough to
say, that this comedy is of the first rank of those which I have written,
and that posterity will be of my opinion. It has nothing of particular
satire in it; for whatsoever may have been pretended by some critics in
the town, I may safely and solemnly affirm, that no one character has
been drawn from any single man; and that I have known so many of the
same humour, in every folly which is here exposed, as may serve to
warrant it from a particular reflection. It was printed in my absence
from the town, this summer, much against my expectation; otherwise I
had over-looked the press, and been yet more careful, that neither my
friends should have had the least occasion of unkindness against me,
nor my enemies of upbraiding me; but if it live to a second impression,

I will faithfully perform what has been wanting in this. In the mean
time, my lord, I recommend it to your protection, and beg I may keep
still that place in your favour which I have hitherto enjoyed; and which
I shall reckon as one of the greatest blessings which can befall,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient, Faithful servant, JOHN DRYDEN.
Footnotes: 1. John, Lord Vaughan, was the eldest surviving son of
Richard, Earl of Carbery, to which title he afterwards succeeded. He
was a man of literature, and president of the Royal Society from 1686
to 1689. Dryden was distinguished by his patronage as far back as 1664,
being fourteen years before the acting of this play. Lord Vaughan had
thus the honour of discovering and admiring the poet's genius, before
the public applause had fixed his fame; and, probably better deserved
the panegyric here bestowed, than was Usual among Dryden's patrons.
He wrote a recommendatory copy of verses, which are prefixed to "The
Conquest of Granada." Mr Malone informs us, that this accomplished
nobleman died at Chelsea, on 16th January, 1712-13.
2. The great popish plot, that scene of mystery and blood, broke out in
August 1678.
3. Flecknoe was a Roman Catholic priest, very much addicted to
scribbling verses. His name has been chiefly preserved by our author's
satire of "Mack-Flecknoe;" in which he has depicted Shadwell, as the
literary son and heir of this wretched poetaster. A few farther
particulars concerning him may be found prefixed to that poem.
Flecknoe, from this dedication, appears to have been just deceased. The
particular passage referred to has not been discovered; even Langbaine
had never seen it: but Mr Malone points out a letter of Flecknoe to the
Cardinal Barberini, whereof the first sentence is in Latin, and the next
in English. Our author, in an uncommon strain of self-depreciation, or
rather to give a neat turn to his sentence, has avouched himself to be a
worse poet than Flecknoe. But expressions of modesty in a dedication,
like those of panegyric, are not to be understood literally. As in the
latter, Dryden often strains a note beyond Ela, so, on the present

occasion, he has certainly sounded the very base string of humility.
Poor Flecknoe, indeed, seems to have become proverbial, as the worst
of poets. The Earl of Dorset thus begins a satire on Edward Howard:
Those damned antipodes to common sense, Those toils to Flecknoe,
pr'ythee, tell me whence Does all this mighty mass of dulness spring,
Which in such loads thou to the stage dost bring?
4. There is a very flat and prosaic imitation of this sentiment in the
Duke of Buckingham's lines to Pope:
And yet so wondrous, so sublime a thing As the great Iliad, scarce
could make me sing; Except I justly could at once commend A good
companion, and as firm a friend; One moral, or a mere well-natured
deed, Does all desert in sciences exceed.
Thus prose may be humbled, as well as exalted; into poetry.

PROLOGUE.
True wit has seen its best days long ago; It ne'er looked up, since we
were dipt in show; When sense in doggrel rhimes and clouds was lost,
And dulness flourished at the actor's cost. Nor stopt it here; when
tragedy was done, Satire and humour the same fate have run, And
comedy is sunk to trick and pun. Now our machining lumber will not
sell, And you no longer care for heaven or hell; What stuff will please
you next, the Lord can tell. Let them, who the rebellion first began To
wit, restore the monarch, if they can; Our