To Mr Lee, On His "Alexander."

The blast of common censure could I fear,         Before your play my name should not appear;         For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,         I pay the bribe I first received from you;         That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,         And play the game into each other's hand;         And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,         As Bessus[1] 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 'scaped their spite;         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 at court is scarce so hard to get:         In vain they crowd each other at the door;         For even 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 forced itself away.         'Tis here as 'tis 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 express'd;         As his heroic worth struck envy dumb,         Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.         Such praise is yours, while you the passions move,         That 'tis 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 style which they your 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 every bungler can command;         To draw true beauty shows a master's hand.