But awful charms on her fair forehead fit,
Difpenfing what she never will admit:
Pleafing, yet cold, like Cynthia's filver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Diftemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
No more fhall vex the church, and tear the
No more fhall Faction civil difcords move,
Or only difcords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of mufic's various parts;
Difcord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Difcord, that only this difpute fhall bring, 45
Who beft shall love the duke, and ferve the
king.
SIR GEORGE ETHEREDGE.
To you who live in chill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes fhould be alike,
From tropic e'en to pole artique ;
Since you have fuch a conftitution
As no where fuffers diminution.
Ver. 1. To you who live] Sir George Etheredge gained great reputation by his three comedies, The Comical Revenge, 1664, She Would if She Could, 1668, The Man of Mode, 1676. The laft has been deemed one of our most elegant comedies, and contains a most just and lively picture of the manners of perfons in high life in the age of Charles II. Having dedicated this comedy to the Dutchefs of York, the procured his being fent ambaffador to Ratilbon, where he refided when Dryden addreft this epiftle to him, and where, in a fit of intoxication, to which he was too much habituated, he tumbled down ftairs and broke his neck. He had a daughter by Mrs. Barry, to whom he left fix thousand pounds. Dr. J. WARTON.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of ftate;
And both to wives and hufbands fhow
The vigor of a plenipo.
Like mighty miffioner you come
A work of wond'rous merit fure,
So far to go, fo much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came,
Lefs had done, had
you
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or e'en for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity;
Where love-fick ladies helpless lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's fo dull,
That is not of your labors full?
Triptolemus (fo fung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never fow'd on Almain acres:
No, that was left by fate's decree,
To be perform'd and fung by thee.
Thou break'ft through forms with as much ease
As the French king through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With fuch as monarchs represent.
They, whom fuch vaft fatigues attend,
Want fome foft minutes to unbend,
To fhew the world that now and then
Great minifters are mortal men.
Then Rhenifh rummers walk the round;
In bumpers every king is crown'd;
Befides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is funk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk.
Thefe Dutch delights, I mention'd last
Suit not, I know, your English tafie:
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your Excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your Excellence,
For gaming, writing, fpeaking, keeping,
His Excellence for all but fleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat,
"Tis the four fauce to the fweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder imposition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That fetting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wife negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will fay,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you fcarce,
His grace of Bucks has made a farce,
And
you, whofe comic wit is terfe all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But fcribble fafter if you can:
For yet no George, to our difcerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning.
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