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| AUSPICIOUS 1 Poet, wert thou not my Friend, | |
| How could I envy, what I must commend! | |
| But since tis Natures Law in Love and Wit, | |
| That Youth shoud reign and with ring Age submit, | |
| With less regret those Lawrels I resign, | 5 |
| Which dying on my Brows, revive on thine. | |
| With better Grace an Ancient Chief may yield | |
| The long contended Honours of the Field | |
| Than venture all his Fortune at a Cast, | |
| And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. | 10 |
| Young Princes Obstinate to win the Prize, | |
| Thô Yearly beaten, Yearly yet they rise: | |
| Old Monarchs though successful, still in Doubt, | |
| Catch at a Peace; and wisely turn Devout. | |
| Thine be the Lawrel then; thy blooming Age | 15 |
| Can best, if any can, support the Stage: | |
| Which so declines, that shortly we may see | |
| Players and Plays reducd to second Infancy: | |
| Sharp to the World, but thoughtless of Renown, | |
| They Plot not on the Stage, but on the Town, | 20 |
| And, in Despair their Empty Pit to fill. | |
| Set up some Foreign Monster in a Bill: | |
| Thus they jog on; still tricking, never thriving; | |
| And Murdring Plays, which they miscal Reviving. | |
| Our Sense is Nonsense, through their Pipes conveyd; | 25 |
| Scarce can a Poet know the Play He made, | |
| Tis so disguisd in Death: nor thinks tis He | |
| That suffers in the Mangled Tragedy. | |
| Thus Itys first was killd, and after dressd | |
| For his own Sire, 2 the Chief Invited Guest. | 30 |
| I say not this of thy successful Scenes; | |
| Where thine was all the Glory, theirs the Gains. | |
| With length of Time, much Judgment, and more Toil, | |
| Not ill they Acted, what they coud not spoil. | |
| Their Setting Sun still shoots a Glimring Ray, | 35 |
| Like Ancient Rome, Majestick in Decay; | |
| And better gleanings their worn Soil can boast, | |
| Than the Crab-Vintage of the Neighbring Coast. | |
| This difference yet the judging World will see; | |
Thou Copiest Homer, and they Copy thee.
JOHN DRYDEN. | 40 |