Volume 11 — EPISTLE THE NINTH.
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A
LETTER
TO
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.
Sir George Etherege, as a lively and witty companion, a smooth sonnetteer, and an excellent writer of comedy, was in high reputation in the seventeenth century. He lived on terms of intimacy with the men of genius, and with those of rank, at the court of Charles the Second, and appears to have been particularly acquainted with Dryden. Etherege enjoyed in a particular manner the favour of Queen Mary of Este, through whose influence he was sent envoy to Hamburgh, and afterwards became resident minister at Ratisbon. In this situation, he did not cease to interest himself in the progress of English literature; and we have several of his letters, both in prose and verse, written with great wit and vivacity, to the Duke of Buckingham, and other persons of wit and honour at the court of London. Among others, he wrote an epistle in verse to the Earl of Middleton, who engaged Dryden to return the following answer to it. As Sir George's verses are lively and pleasing, I have prefixed them to Dryden's epistle. Both pieces, with a second letter from Etherege to Middleton, appeared in Dryden's Miscellanies.
Our poet's epistle to Sir George Etherege affords an example how easily Dryden could adapt his poetry to the style which the moment required; since, although this is the only instance in which he has used the verse of eight syllables, it flows as easily from his pen as if he had never written in another measure. This is the more remarkable, as, in the "Essay on Satire," Dryden speaks very contemptuously of the eight syllable, or Hudibrastic measure, and the ornaments proper to it, as a little instrument, unworthy the use of a great master.[33] Here, however, he happily retorts upon the witty knight, with his own weapons of gallant and courtly ridicule, and acquits himself, as well in the light arms of a polite and fashionable courtier, as when he wields the trenchant brand of his own keen satire.
Our author had formerly favoured Sir George Etherege with an excellent epilogue to his popular play, called "The Man of Mode," acted in 1676, and he occasionally speaks of him in his writings with great respect. The date of this epistle is not easily ascertained. From a letter of Etherege to the Duke of Buckingham, it appears, that Sir George was at Ratisbon when Dryden was engaged in his controversial poetry;[34] but whether that letter be previous or subsequent to the epistle to the Earl of Middleton, seems uncertain.
Considering the high reputation which Sir George Etherege enjoyed, and the figure which he made as a courtier and a man of letters, it is humbling to add, that we have no accurate information concerning the time or manner of his death. It seems certain, that he never returned from the Continent; but it is dubious, whether, according to one report, he followed the fortunes of King James, and resided with him at the court of St Germains till his death, or whether, as others have said, that event was occasioned by his falling down the stairs of his own house at Ratisbon, when, after drinking freely with a large company, he was attempting to do the honours of their retreat. From the date of the letter to the Duke of Buckingham, 21st October, 1689, it is plain he was then at Ratisbon; and it is somewhat singular, that he appears to have retained his official situation of Resident, though nearly twelve months had elapsed since the Revolution. This seems to give countenance to the latter report of his having died at Ratisbon. The date of that event was probably about 1694.
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE,
TO THE
EARL OF MIDDLETON.[35]
S ince love and verse, as well as wine, Are brisker where the sun does shine, 'Tis something to lose two degrees, Now age itself begins to freeze: } { Yet this I patiently could bear, { If the rough Danube's beauties were { But only two degrees less fair Than the bright nymphs of gentle Thames, Who warm me hither with their beams: Such power they have, they can dispense Five hundred miles their influence. But hunger forces men to eat, Though no temptation's in the meat. How would the ogling sparks despise The darling damsel of my eyes, Should they behold her at a play, As she's tricked up on holiday, When the whole family combine, For public pride, to make her shine! Her locks, which long before lay matted, Are on this day combed out and plaited; A diamond bodkin in each tress, The badges of her nobleness; For every stone, as well as she, Can boast an ancient pedigree. These formed the jewel erst did grace The cap of the first Grave[36] o' the race, Preferred by Graffin[37] Marian To adorn the handle of her fan; And, as by old record appears, Worn since in Kunigunda's years, } { Now sparkling in the froein's hair;[38] { No rocket breaking in the air { Can with her starry head compare. Such ropes of pearl her arms encumber, She scarce can deal the cards at omber; So many rings each finger freight, They tremble with the mighty weight. The like in England ne'er was seen, Since Holbein drew Hal[39] and his queen: But after these fantastic flights, The lustre's meaner than the lights. The thing that bears this glittering pomp Is but a tawdry ill-bred romp, Whose brawny limbs and martial face Proclaim her of the Gothic race, More than the mangled pageantry Of all the father's heraldry. But there's another sort of creatures, Whose ruddy look and grotesque features Are so much out of nature's way, You'd think them stamped on other clay, No lawful daughters of old Adam. 'Mongst these behold a city madam, With arms in mittins, head in muff, A dapper cloak, and reverend ruff: No farce so pleasant as this maukin, And the soft sound of High-Dutch talking. Here, unattended by the Graces, The queen of love in a sad case is. Nature, her active minister, Neglects affairs, and will not stir; Thinks it not worth the while to please, But when she does it for her ease. Even I, her most devout adorer, With wandering thoughts appear before her, } { And when I'm making an oblation, { Am fain to spur imagination { With some sham London inclination: The bow is bent at German dame, The arrow flies at English game. Kindness, that can indifference warm, And blow that calm into a storm, Has in the very tenderest hour Over my gentleness a power; True to my country-women's charms, When kissed and pressed in foreign arms.
EPISTLE THE NINTH.
T o you, who live in chill degree, As map informs, of fifty-three,[40] And do not much for cold atone, By bringing thither fifty-one, Methinks all climes should be alike, From tropic even to pole artique; Since you have such a constitution As no where suffers diminution. You can be old in grave debate, And young in love affairs of state; And both to wives and husbands show The vigour of a plenipo. Like mighty missioner you come Ad Partes Infidelium. A work of wonderous merit sure, So far to go, so much t'endure; And all to preach to German dame, Where sound of Cupid never came. Less had you done, had you been sent As far as Drake or Pinto went, For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a, Or even for oranges to China. } { That had indeed been charity, { Where love-sick 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 so dull, That is not of your labours full? Triptolemus (so sung the Nine) Strewed plenty from his cart divine; But spite of all these fable-makers, He never sowed on Almain acres. No, that was left by fate's decree To be performed and sung by thee. Thou break'st through forms with as much ease As the French king through articles. } { In grand affairs thy days are spent, { In waging weighty compliment, { With such as monarchs represent. They, whom such vast fatigues attend, Want some soft minutes to unbend, To shew the world that, now and then, Great ministers are mortal men. Then Rhenish rummers walk the round; In bumpers every king is crowned; Besides three holy mitred Hectors,[41] And the whole college of Electors. No health of potentate is sunk, That pays to make his envoy drunk. These Dutch delights, I mentioned last, Suit not, I know, your English taste: For wine to leave a whore or play, Was ne'er your Excellency's way.[42] Nor need this title give offence, For here you were your Excellence; For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping, His Excellence for all—but sleeping. } { Now if you tope in form, and treat, { 'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat, { The fine you pay for being great. Nay, here's a harder imposition, Which is indeed the court's petition, That, setting worldly pomp aside, Which poet has at font denied, You would be pleased in humble way To write a trifle called a Play. } { This truly is a degradation, { But would oblige the crown and nation { Next to your wise negotiation. } { If you pretend, as well you may, { Your high degree, your friends will say, { The duke St Aignon made a play. If Gallic wit convince you scarce, His grace of Bucks has made a farce, And you, whose comic wit is terse all, Can hardly fall below Rehearsal. Then finish what you have began, But scribble faster if you can; For yet no George, to our discerning, Has writ without a ten years warning.[43]