Dedication and Prologue - Page 2

fault in the wrong place. I will only make this general answer in behalf of my play (an answer which Epictetus advises every man to make for himself to his censurers), viz.: 'That if they who find some faults in it, were as intimate with it as I am, they would find a great many more.' This is a confession, which I needed not to have made; but however, I can draw this use from it to my own advantage: that I think there are no faults in it but what I do know; which, as I take it, is the first step to an amendment.

Thus I may live in hopes (sometime or other) of making the town amends; but you, my lord, I never can, though I am ever your lordship's most obedient and most humble servant,

WILL. CONGREVE.

To Mr. Congreve.

When virtue in pursuit of fame 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