should call it a trifle, and perhaps not think it worth your patronage; but when the names of Plautus and Molière are joined in it, that is, the two greatest names of ancient and modern comedy, I must not presume so far on their reputation, to think their best and most unquestioned productions can be termed little. I will not give you the trouble of acquainting you what I have added, or altered, in either of them, so much, it may be, for the worse; but only that the difference of our stage from the Roman and the French did so require it. But I am afraid, for my own interest, the world will too easily discover that more than half of it is mine; and that the rest is rather a lame imitation of their excellences than a just translation. It is enough, that the reader know by you, that I neither deserve nor desire any applause from it: if I have performed anything, it is the genius of my authors that inspired me; and, if it pleased in representation, let the actors share the praise amongst themselves. As for Plautus and Molière, they are dangerous people; and I am too weak a gamester to put myself into their form of play. But what has been wanting on my part, has been abundantly supplied by the excellent composition of Mr. Purcell; in whose person we have at length found an Englishman equal with the best abroad. At least, my opinion of him has been such, since his happy and judicious performances in the late opera,* and the experience I have

* Betterton, having recovered the dislike to operas, which the failure of "Albion and Albanius" occasioned, had brought out "The Prophetess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, shortened and altered into a musical piece, which was set by the famous Purcell. Dr. Burney has sanctioned the compliment, which Dryden bestows upon it. There is something in our author's

had of him, in the setting my three songs for this "Amphitryon:" to all which, and particularly to the composition of the pastoral dialogue, the numerous choir of fair ladies gave so just an applause on the third day. I am only sorry, for my own sake, that there was one star wanting, as beautiful as any in our hemisphere; that young Berenice,* who is misemploying all her

turn of expression, which may lead us to infer, that he was but a recent convert to the English school of music. Sir John Hawkins seems to be mistaken, in placing this opera posterior to that of "Prince Arthur." The dances were invented by the celebrated Priest.

[On the title-page of a copy of The Prophetess belonging to Mr. E. W. Gosse, there is written, "By Mr. Dryden and Mr. Betterton." Judging by the colour of the ink, the writing, and the words "the first edition," which are also added, and which seem to be the note of a collector when such things began to be valued, this addition is not contemporary, and I know no valid authority for the assignment of joint authorship. It is very likely to have arisen from the fact of Dryden's having written a prologue for the play, which, by the way, does not appear in the quarto Prophetess, doubtless, because it was suppressed for political reasons. It will be found in its proper place. I have compared The Prophetess with the original. The alterations are numerous, but chiefly of the kind more likely to be made by Betterton than by Dryden —alterations of phrase to fit the comprehension of the audience such as "breeches" for " slops," and the like. Nor where there is new or altered dialogue has it to my ear the ring of Dryden's verse. On the other hand, the lyric insertions, which are neither voluminous, nor specially remarkable, sometimes have a flavour of him. This being the case, I propose to print them with the attributed poems in vol. xv., as they may have interest for some readers, and are not easily accessible. It may be noticed that the wording of the text is distinctly against Dryden's part authorship.-ED.]

* Under this poetical appellation, the author here, and in the dedication to "Cleomenes," celebrates Jane Lady Hyde, daughter to Sir William L. Gower, and wife, as has been noticed, to Henry Lord Hyde, eldest son of Lawrence Earl of Rochester.

charms on stupid country souls, that can never know the value of them; and losing the triumphs, which are ready prepared for her, in the court and town. And yet I know not whether I am so much a loser by her absence; for I have reason to apprehend the sharpness of her judgment, if it were not allayed with the sweetness of her nature; and, after all, I fear she may come time enough to discover a thousand imperfections in my play, which might have passed on vulgar understandings. Be pleased to use the authority of a father over her, on my behalf: enjoin her to keep her own thoughts of " Amphitryon to herself; or at least not to compare him too strictly with Molière's. It is true, I have an interest in this partiality of hers: but withal, I plead some sort of merit for it, in being so particularly, as I am,

SIR,

Your most obedient,

Humble servant,

October 24th, 1690.

JOHN DRYDEN.

*

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.

THE labouring bee, when his sharp sting is gone,
Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone:
Such is a satire, when you take away

That rage, in which his noble vigour lay.

What gain you, by not suffering him to teaze ye?
He neither can offend you now, nor please ye.
The honey-bag, and venom, lay so near,
That both together you resolved to tear;
And lost your pleasure, to secure your fear.
How can he show his manhood, if you bind him
To box, like boys, with one hand tied behind him?
This is plain levelling of wit; in which
The poor has all the advantage, not the rich.
The blockhead stands excused, for wanting sense
And wits turn blockheads in their own defence.

Yet, though the stage's traffic is undone,
Still Julian's * interloping trade goes on:
Though satire on the theatre you smother,
Yet, in lampoons, you libel one another.
The first produces, still, a second jig;

You whip them out, like school-boys, till they gig;
And with the same success, we readers guess

For every one still dwindles to a less ; †

And much good malice is so meanly drest,

That we would laugh, but cannot find the jest.

Julian, who styled himself secretary to the Muses, made a dirty livelihood, by copying and dispersing lampoons at the Wits' Coffee-house. He was the subject of a copy of verses, which the reader will find among those ascribed to Dryden on doubtful authority.

†The poetasters of that age were so numerous, and so active, that the most deplorable attempt at wit, or satire, was usually answered in one which was yet worse. Parody and personal abuse were the implements of this warfare, which sometimes extended to answers, replies, rejoinders, rebutters, and sur-rebutters, all only distinguished by malignant scurrility. [Scott and others, our readers," without authority or sense. Gig "may mean "spin like a top." The word has also other meanings, but the whole metaphor is rather obscure with any of them.-ED.]

If no advice your rhyming rage can stay,
Let not the ladies suffer in the fray:
Their tender sex is privileged from war;
'Tis not like knights, to draw upon the fair.
What fame expect you from so mean a prize?
We wear no murdering weapons, but our eyes.
Our sex, you know, was after yours designed;
The last perfection of the Maker's mind:

Heaven drew out all the gold for us, and left your dross behind.

Beauty, for valour's best reward, he chose;

Peace, after war; and, after toil, repose.
Hence, ye profane, excluded from our sights;
And, charmed by day with honour's vain delights,
Go, make your best of solitary nights.
Recant betimes, 'tis prudence to submit;
Our sex is still your overmatch in wit :
We never fail, with new, successful arts,
To make fine fools of you, and all your parts.