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WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

[Born, 1633. Died, 1684-5.]

WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon, was the maternal nephew of the unfortunate Earl of Strafford. He was born in Ireland, educated at Caen in Normandy, travelled into Italy, and, returning to England at the Restoration, was made

a captain of the Band of Pensioners. "It may be remarked," says Dr. Warton, "to the praise of Roscommon, that he was the first critic who had taste and spirit enough publicly to praise the Paradise Lost *."

FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE."

IMMODEST words admit of no defence;
For want of decency is want of sense.
What moderate fop would rake the park or stews,
Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose?
Variety of such is to be found:

Take then a subject proper to expound;
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice;
For men of sense despise a trivial choice:
And such applause it must expect to meet,
As would some painter busy in a street,
To copy bulls and bears, and every sign
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good:
It must delight us when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulsome objects to my view,
(As many old have done, and many new,)
With nauseous images my fancy fills,
And all goes down like oxymel of squills.
Instruct the listening world how Maro sings
Of useful subjects and of lofty things.
These will such true, such bright ideas raise,
As merit gratitude, as well as praise :
But foul descriptions are offensive still,
Either for being like, or being ill:

For who, without a qualm, hath ever look'd
On holy garbage, though by Homer cook'd?
Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods
Makes some suspect he snores, as well as nods.
But I offend-Virgil begins to frown,
And Horace looks with indignation down :
My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires,
And whom they like implicitly admires.

On sure foundations let your fabric rise,
And with attractive majesty surprise;
Not by affected meretricious arts,

[came :

But strict harmonious symmetry of parts;
Which through the whole insensibly must pass,
With vital heat to animate the mass:
A pure, an active, an auspicious flame;
And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing
But few, oh! few souls, pre-ordain'd by fate,
The race of gods, have reach'd that envied height.
No Rebel-Titan's sacrilegious crime,
By heaping hills on hills can hither climb:

The grizly ferryman of hell denied
Eneas entrance, till he knew his guide.
How justly then will impious mortals fall,
Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call!

Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault)
Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
The men who labour and digest things most,
Will be much apter to despond than boast:
For if your author be profoundly good,
'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.
How many ages since has Virgil writ!
How few are they who understand him yet!
Approach his altars with religious fear:
No vulgar deity inhabits there.

Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod,
Than poets should before their Mantuan god.
Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name
Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame,
Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; [Muse!
The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the
What I have instanced only in the best,
Is, in proportion, true of all the rest.
Take pains the genuine meaning to explore!
There sweat, there strain; tug the laborious oar;
Search every comment that your care can find ;
Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind:
Yet be not blindly guided by the throng:
The multitude is always in the wrong.
When things appear unnatural or hard,
Consult your author, with himself compared.
Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow,
And future ages to your labour owe?
Such secrets are not easily found out;
But, once discover'd, leave no room for doubt.
Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast;
And peace and joy attend the glorious guest.

Truth still is one; truth is divinely bright;
No cloudy doubts obscure her native light;
While in your thoughts you find the least debate,
You may confound, but never can translate.
Your style will this through all disguises show;
For none explain more clearly than they know.

[* Dryden was before him, but Roscommon was the first to write in imitation of Milton's manner.]

WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

He only proves he understands a text,
Whose exposition leaves it unperplex'd.
They who too faithfully on names insist,
Rather create than dissipate the mist;
And grow unjust by being over nice,
(For superstitious virtue turns to vice.)
Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell
How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell.
Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame,
That few know Pacorus' or Monæses' name.
Words in one language elegantly used,
Will hardly in another be excused;

And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time,
May neither suit our genius nor our clime.
The genuine sense, intelligibly told,
Shows a translator both discreet and bold.

Excursions are inexpiably bad;

And 'tis much safer to leave out than add.
Abstruse and mystic thought you must express
With painful care, but seeming easiness;
For truth shines brightest through the plainest
dress.

Th' Enean Muse, when she appears in state,
Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait;
Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things
As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings.
Your author always will the best advise,
Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise.
Affected noise is the most wretched thing,
That to contempt can empty scribblers bring.
Vowels and accents, regularly placed,
On even syllables (and still the last)
Though gross innumerable faults abound,
In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound.
But this is meant of even verse alone,

As being most harmonious and most known:
For if you will unequal numbers try,
There accents on odd syllables must lie.
Whatever sister of the learned Nine
Does to your suit a willing ear incline,
Urge your success, deserve a lasting name,
She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame.
But, if a wild uncertainty prevail,

And turn your veering heart with every gale,
You lose the fruit of all your former care,
For the sad prospect of a just despair.

A quack (too scandalously mean to name)
Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame;
As if Lucina had forgot her trade,
The labouring wife invokes his surer aid.
Well-season'd bowls the gossip's spirits raise,
Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise;
And largely, what she wants in words, supplies,
With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes.
But what a thoughtless animal is man !
(How very active in his own trepan !)
For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees,
From female mellow praise he takes degrees;
Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then
From saving women falls to killing men.
Another such had left the nation thin,

In spite of all the children he brought in.

281

His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew ;
And where they fell, as certainly they slew:
His name struck everywhere as great a damp,
As Archimedes' through the Roman camp.
With this, the doctor's pride began to cool;
For smarting soundly may convince a fool.
But now repentance came too late for grace;
And meagre famine stared him in the face :
Fain would he to the wives be reconciled,
But found no husband left to own a child.
The friends, that got the brats, were poison'd too:
In this sad case, what could our vermin do?
Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail,
Th' unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail :
And there with basket-alms, scarce kept alive,
Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive.
I pity, from my soul, unhappy men,
Compell❜d by want to prostitute their pen;
Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead!
But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs,
Who to your country owe your swords and cares,
Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce,
For rich ill poets are without excuse;
"Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse,
The profit 's small, and you have much to lose;
For though true wit adorns your birth or place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race.
No poet any passion can excite,

But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumæan cave,
And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave?
I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes;
And panting, Lo! the God, the God, she cries:
With words not hers, and more than human sound,
She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling

through the ground.

But, though we must obey when Heaven commands,
And man in vain the sacred call withstands,
Beware what spirit rages in your breast;
For ten inspired, ten thousand are possest:
Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass,
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass,
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat :
So when a Muse propitiously invites,
Improve her favours, and indulge her flights;
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp,
Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp,
Appear not meaner than mere human lines,
Compared with those whose inspiration shines:
These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss;
There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss.
Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide,
With foaming waves the passive Saone divide;
Whose lazy waters without motion lay,

While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous

way.

THOMAS OTWAY.

[Born, 1651. Died, 1685.]

FROM "THE ORPHAN."

CHAMONT'S SUSPICIONS OF HIS SISTER.

Persons-ACASTO, the guardian of MONIMIA; MONIMIA, and her brother CHAMONT.

Enter Servant.

Serv. My lord, th' expected guests are just arrived. Acas. Go you, and give them welcome and reception.

Cham. My lord, I stand in need of your assistance
In something that concerns my peace and honour.
Acas. Spoke like the son of that brave man I loved:
So freely friendly we conversed together.
Whate'er it be, with confidence impart it.
Thou shalt command my fortune and my sword.
Cham. I dare not doubt your friendship nor your
justice.

Your bounty shown to what I hold most dear,
My orphan sister, must not be forgotten!

Acas. Pr'ythee, no more of that; it grates my

nature.

Cham. When our dear parents died, they died together, [them :

[me,

One fate surprised them, and one grave received
My father with his dying breath bequeathed
Her to my love: my mother, as she lay
Languishing by him, call'd me to her side,
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced
Then press'd me close, and as she observed my tears
Kiss'd them away; said she, Chamont, my son,
By this, and all the love I ever show'd thee,
Be careful of Monimia, watch her youth,
Let not her wants betray her to dishonour; [sigh'd,
Perhaps kind Heaven may raise some friend. Then
Kiss'd me again; so bless'd us and expired.
Pardon my grief.

Acas.
It speaks an honest nature.
Cham. The friend Heaven raisedwas you, you took
An infant, to the desert world exposed, [her up,
And proved another parent.

Acas.

I've not wrong'd her. Cham. Far be it from my fears. Acas.

Then why this argument? Cham. My lord, my nature 's jealous, and you'll Acas. Go on. [bear it.

Cham. Great spirits bear misfortunes hardly: Good offices claim gratitude; and pride, Where power is wanting, will usurp a little,

And make us (rather than be thought behind-hand) Pay over-price.

Acas. I cannot guess your drift; Distrust you me?

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[Exit.

Within my reach, though it should touch my nature,
In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance
Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in,
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance.
Cham. I thank you from my soul.
Mon.
Alas, my brother!
What have I done? and why do you abuse me?
My heart quakes in me; in your settled face
And clouded brow methinks I see my fate :
You will not kill me!

Cham.
Pr'ythee, why dost talk so?
Mon. Look kindly on me, then. I cannot bear
Severity; it daunts, and does amaze me :
My heart's so tender, should you charge me rough,
I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing.
But use me gently like a loving brother,
And search through all the secrets of my soul.
Cham. Fear nothing, I will show myself a brother,
A tender, honest, and a loving brother.
You've not forgot our father?

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Cham. Then you'll remember too, he was a man That lived up to the standard of his honour, And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth: He'd not have done a shameful thing but once, Though kept in darkness from the world, and hidden, He could not have forgiven it to himself: This was the only portion that he left us ; And I more glory in it, than if possess'd Of all that ever fortune threw on fools. 'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely: Now if by any chance, Monimia,

I challenge envy,

You have soil'd this gem, and taken from its value,
How will you account with me?
Mon.
Malice, and all the practices of hell,
To censure all the actions of my past
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can!
Cham. I'll tell thee, then: three nights ago, as I
Lay musing in my bed, all darkness round me,
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat
Dew'd all my face, and trembling seized my limbs:
My bed shook under me, the curtains started,
And to my tortured fancy there appear'd
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art,

Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand
A wanton lover, who by turns caress'd thee
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure :
I snatch'd my sword, and in the very moment
Darted at the phantom, straight it left me;
Then rose and call'd for lights, when, O dire omen!
I found my weapon had the arras pierced,
Just where that famous tale was interwoven,
How the unhappy Theban slew his father.

Mon. And for this cause my virtue is suspected!
Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden,
I must be tortured waking!

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Labour not to be justified too fast :
Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale.
What follow'd was the riddle that confounds me :
Through a close lane, as I pursued my journey,
And meditated on the last night's vision,

I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd with-
And on her crook'd shoulders had she wrapt [er'd,
The tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging,
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold;
So there was nothing of a piece about her;
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd
With diff'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yel-
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. [low,
I asked her of my way, which she inform'd me ;
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten
To save a sister: at that word I started.

Mon. The common cheat of beggars every day!
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts
Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes.

Cham. Oh! but she told me such a tale, MoniAs in it bore great circumstance of truth; [mia, Castalio and Polydore, my sister.

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Mon. Still will you cross the line of my discourse! Yes, I confess that he has won my soul By generous love, and honourable vows; Which he this day appointed to complete, And make himself by holy marriage mine.

Cham. Art thou then spotless? hast thou still preThy virtue white without a blot untainted? [served Mon. When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject my prayers!

Or more, to make me wretched, may you know it! Cham. Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me

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Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,

I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn me;
Thou wouldst despise the abject lost Monimia,
No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but
When in some cell distracted, as I shall be,
Thou seest me lie; these unregarded locks
Matted like furies' tresses; my poor limbs
Chain'd to the ground, and 'stead of the delights
Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes,
A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish
Of wretched sustenance; when thus thou seest me,
Pr'ythee, have charity and pity for me.
Let me enjoy this thought.

Cham.
Why wilt thou rack
My soul so long, Monimia ease me quickly;
Or thou wilt run me into madness first.
Mon. Could you be secret?
Cham.

Secret as the grave.

Mon. But when I've told you, will you keep your

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Cham. Yes, a villain.

Acas.

Have a care, young soldier, How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame;

I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance. Villain to thee

Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age, Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat, And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!

Acas. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee: What have I done in my unhappy age,

To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy,
But I could put thee in remembrance-
Cham.

Do.

Acas. I scorn itCham. No, I'll calmly hear the story, For I would fain know all, to see which scale Weighs most-Hah, is not that good old Acasto? What have I done? Can you forgive this folly? Acas. Why dost thou ask it? Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [Kneels.

Acas. Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a

wrong.

Cham. I know it well; but for this thought of Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it. [mine, Acas. I will; but henceforth, pr'ythee be more kind. [Raises him.

Whence came the cause?

Cham. Indeed I've been to blame, But I'll learn better; for you've been my father: You've been her father too

[Takes MONIMIA by the hand. Acas. Forbear the prologueAnd let me know the substance of thy tale.

Cham. You took her up a little tender flower, Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost Had nipp'd; and, with a careful loving hand,

Transplanted her into your own fair garden, Where the sun always shines: There long she flourish'd,

Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye,
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,
Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.

Acas. You talk to me in parables; Chamont,
You may have known that I'm no wordy man;
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves
Or fools, that use them, when they want good sense;
But honesty

Needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Cham. Your son-

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Pri. WHY, cruel Heaven, have my unhappy days Been lengthen'd to this sad one? Oh! dishonour And deathless infamy are fallen upon me. Was it my fault? Am I a traitor? No. But then, my only child, my daughter, wedded ; There my best blood runs foul, and a disease Incurable has seized upon my memory, To make it rot, and stink to after ages. Cursed be the fatal minute when I got her, Or would that I'd been anything but man, And raised an issue which would ne'er have wrong'd The miserable creatures, man excepted, Are not the less esteem'd, though their posterity Degenerate from the virtues of their fathers; The vilest beasts are happy in their offsprings, While only man gets traitors, whores, and villains. Cursed be the names, and some swift blow from fate Lay his head deep, where mine may be forgotten.

[me.

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