The Panther, sure the noblest next the And fairest creature of the spotted kind; Oh, could her inborn stains be washed away, She were too good to be a beast of prey! 330 How can I praise or blame, and not offend, Or how divide the frailty from the friend? Her faults and virtues lie so mixed, that she Nor wholly stands condemned, nor wholly free. Then, like her injured Lion, let me speak; He cannot bend her and he would not break. 336 Unkind already, and estranged in part, The Wolf begins to share her wandering heart. Though unpolluted yet with actual ill, She half commits who sins but in her will. 340 And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell! The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double, double, double beat Cries: "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!" The soft complaining flute 25 30 35 In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 25 With flying fingers touched the lyre: Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, "A present deity," they shout around; "A present deity," the vaulted roofs He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; 55 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft pity to infuse; He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, 75 And the sparkles that flash from their The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! 135 store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another 155 Thus, long ago, 160 At last divine Cecilia came, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, Let old Timotheus yield the prize, He raised a mortal to the skies; GRAND CHORUS At last divine Cecilia came, As Neander was beginning to examine The Silent Woman, Eugenius, earnestly regarding him: I beseech you, Neander, said he, gratify the company, and me in particular, so far as, before you speak of the play, to give us a character of the author; and tell us frankly your opinion, whether you do not think all writers, both French and English, ought to give place to him? [10 I fear, replied Neander, that, in obeying your commands, I shall draw some envy on myself. Besides, in performing them, it will be first necessary to speak somewhat of Shakespeare and Fletcher, his rivals in poesy; and one of them, in my opinion, at least his equal, perhaps his superior. To begin then with Shakespeare. He was the man who of all modern, and [20 170 perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes anything, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he [30 looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did [40 not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, Quantum lenta solvent inter viburna cupressi. The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eton say, that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would produce it much better done in Shakespeare; and however others are now generally preferred before him, yet the [50 age wherein he lived, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never equaled them to him in their esteem: and in the last king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him. Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage [60 of Shakespeare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts, improved by study; Beaumont especially being so accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censure, and 'tis thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not contriving all his plots. What value he had for him, appears by the verses he writ to him; and therefore I need speak [70 no further of it. The first play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem, was their Philaster; for before that, they had written two or three very unsuccessfully: as the like is reported of Ben Jonson, before he writ Every Man in his Humor. Their plots were generally more regular than Shakespeare's, especially those which were made before Beaumont's death; and they understood and imitated the [80 conversation of gentlemen much better whose wild debaucheries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet before them could paint as they have done. Humor, which Ben Jonson derived from particular persons, they made it not their business to describe; they represented all the passions very lively, but above all, love. I am apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its high- [90 est perfection; what words have since been taken in, are rather superfluous than ornamental. Their plays are now the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year for one of Shakespeare's or Jonson's: the reason is, because there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, and pathos in their more serious plays, which suits generally with all [100 men's humors. Shakespeare's language is likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short of theirs. As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, if we look upon him while he was himself (for his last plays were but his dotages), I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theater ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as well as [110 others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humor also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or [120 endeavoring to move the passions; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such an height. Humor was his proper sphere; and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them: there is scarce a poet [130 or historian among the Roman authors of those times, whom he has not trans |