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Mr. LEE on his ALEXANDER.

THE blast of common censure could I fear, Before your play my name should not appear; For 't will be thought, and with some colour too, pay the bribe I first receiv'd from you;

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That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
To play the game into each other's hand,
And as cheap penn'worths to ourselves afford,
As Bessus and the brothers of the sword.
Such libels private men may well endure,
When states and kings themselves are not secure;
For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
Think the best actions on by-ends are built:
And yet my silence had not 'scap'd their spight,
Then envy had not suffer'd me to write;
For since I could not ignorance pretend
Such merit I must envy or commend.
So many candidates there stand for wit,
A place in court is scarce so hard to get;
In vain they crowd each other at the door,
For ev'n reversions are all begg'd before;
Desert, how known soe'er, is long delay'd,
And then too, fools and knaves are better paid:
Yet as some actions bear so great a name
That courts themselves are just for fear of shame,
So has the mighty merit of your play

Extorted praise and forc'd itself a way.

'T is here as 't is at sea, who farthest goes,
Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.
Yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest
It shoots too fast and high to be exprest,

As his heroic worth struck envy dumb

Who took the Dutchman and who cut the boom.
Such praise is your's, while you the passions move,
That 't is no longer feign'd; 'tis real love,
Where nature triumphs over wretched art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart:
Always you warm; and if the rising year,
As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,
'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow;
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire who are themselves all phlegm:
Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace

Were cripples made the judges of the race.

Despise those drones who praise while they accuse
The too much vigour of your youthful muse:
That humble stile which they their virtue make,
Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allow'd

By all but some vile poets of the crowd:
But how should any sign-post dauber know
The worth of Titian or of Angelo?
Hard features ev'ry bungler can command;
To draw true beauty shows a master's hand.
JOHN DRYDEN.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY SIR CAR SCROOP, BART.

How hard the fate is of the scribbling drudge
Who writes to all when yet so few can judge!
Wit, like religion, once divine was thought,
And the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught;
Now each fanatic fool presumes t' explain
The text, and does the sacred writ profane;
For while your wits each other's fall pursue,
The fops usurp the power belongs to you.

Ye think y' are challeng'd in each new play-bill,
And here you come for trial of your skill,
Where, fencer-like, you one another hurt,

While with your wounds you make the rabble sport.
Others there are that have the brutal will

To murder a poor play, but want the skill;
They love to fight, but seldom have the wit
To spy the place where they may thrust and hit;
And therefore, like some bully of the town,
Ne'er stand to draw, but knock the poet down.
With these, like hogs in gardens, it succeeds,
They root up all, and know not flowers from weeds.
As for you, sparks, that hither come each day
To alt your own and not to mind our play,
Rehearse your usual follies to the pit,

And with loud nonsense erown the stage's wit;

Talk of your clothes, your last debauches tell,
And witty bargains to each other sell;
Glout on the silly she who for your sake
Can vanity and noise for love mistahe,
Till the coquet, sung in the next lampoon,
Is by her jealous friends sent out of town;
For in this duelling intriguing age,
The love you make is like the war you wage,
Y'are still prevented e'er you come t'engage:
But it is not such trifling foes as you
The mighty Alexander deigns to sue;
Ye Persians of the pit he does despise,
But to the men of sense for aid he flies;
On their experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds if they but prove his friends;
For as he once a little handful chose
The numerous armies of the world t' oppose:
So back'd by you who understands the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools.

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