Note 189 — DRYDEN’S LETTERS. LETTER I. TO THE FAIRE HANDS OF MADAME HONOR DRYDEN THESE CRAVE ADMITTANCE.56 (continued 2)
Reading edition
This poem is a banter upon the interest which the nobility took in the disputes between the Dury-Lane theatre, where Skipwith was manager, and that in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, of which Betterton was sovereign. The “Island Princess” of Fletcher had been converted into a sort of opera, by Peter Motteux, and acted at Drury-Lane in 1699. The peculiar taste of Rich for every thing that respected show and machinery is well known.
Ye vile traducers of the female kind, Who think the fair to cruelty inclined, Recant your error, and with shame confess Their tender care of Skipwith190 in distress: For now to vindicate this monarch’s right, The Scotch and English equal charms unite; In solemn leagues contending nations join, And Britain labours with the vast design. An opera with loud applause is played, Which famed Motteux in soft heroics made; And all the sworn Confederates resort, To view the triumph of their sovereign’s court. In bright array the well-trained host appears; Supreme command brave Derwentwater191 bears; And next in front George Howard’s bride192 does shine, The living honour of that ancient line. The wings are led by chiefs of matchless worth; Great Hamilton,193 the glory of the North, Commands the left; and England’s dear delight, The bold Fitzwalter194 charges on the right. The Prince, to welcome his propitious friends, A throne erected on the stage ascends. He said:—Blest angels! for great ends designed, The best, and sure the fairest, of your kind, How shall I praise, or in what numbers sing Your just compassion of an injured king? Till you appeared, no prospect did remain, My crown and falling sceptre to maintain; No noisy beaus in all my realm were found; No beauteous nymphs my empty boxes crowned: But still I saw, O dire heart-breaking woe! My own sad consort195 in the foremost row. But this auspicious day new empire gives; And if by your support my nation lives, For you my bards shall tune the sweetest lays, Norton196 and Henley197 shall resound your praise; And I, not last of the harmonious train, Will give a loose to my poetic vein. To him great Derwentwater thus replied:— Thou mighty prince, in many dangers tried, Born to dispute severe decrees of fate, The nursing-father of a sickly state; Behold the pillars of thy lawful reign! Thy regal rights we promise to maintain: Our brightest nymphs shall thy dominions grace, With all the beauties of the Highland race; The beaus shall make thee their peculiar care, For beaus will always wait upon the fair: For thee kind Beereton and bold Webbe shall fight,198 Lord Scott199 shall ogle, and my spouse shall write:200 Thus shall thy court our English youth engross, And all the Scotch, from Drummond down to Ross. Now in his throne the king securely sat; But O! this change alarmed the rival state; Besides he lately bribed, in breach of laws, The fair deserter of her uncle’s cause. This roused the monarch of the neighbouring crown, A drowsy prince, too careless of renown.201 Yet prompt to vengeance, and untaught to yield, Great Scarsdale202 challenged Skipwith to the field. Whole shoals of poets for this chief declare, And vassal players attend him to the war. Skipwith with joy the dreadful summons took, And brought an equal force; then Scarsdale spoke;— Thou bane of empire, foe to human kind, Whom neither leagues nor laws of nations bind; For cares of high poetic sway unfit, Thou shame of learning, and reproach of wit; Restore bright Helen to my longing sight, Or now my signal shall begin the fight.— Hold, said the foe, thy warlike host remove, Nor let our bards the chance of battle prove: Should death deprive us of their shining parts, What would become of all the liberal arts? Should Dennis fall, whose high majestic wit, And awful judgment, like two tallies, fit, Adieu, strong odes, and every lofty strain, The tragic rant, and proud Pindaric vein. Should tuneful D’Urfey now resign his breath, The lyric Muse would scarce survive his death; But should divine Motteux untimely die, The gasping Nine would in convulsions lie: For these bold champions safer arms provide, And let their pens the double strife decide. The king consents; and urged by public good, Wisely retreats to save his people’s blood: The moving legions leave the dusty plain, And safe at home poetic wars maintain.