Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains. 
  With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,
  Not ill they acted, what they could not spoil. 
  Their setting sun[21] still shoots a glimmering ray,
  Like ancient Rome majestic in decay: 
  And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,
  Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.[22]
  This difference yet the judging world will see;
  Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee. 40

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 20:  ‘Mr Granville:’  Lord Lansdowne.]

[Footnote 21:  ‘Setting sun,’ &c.:  Betterton, who had mustered up a company, and played in Lincoln’s-Inn Fields.]

[Footnote 22:  ‘Neighbouring coast:’  Drury Lane play-house.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XII.

TO MY FRIEND MR MOTTEUX,[23] ON HIS TRAGEDY CALLED “BEAUTY IN DISTRESS.”

  ’Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,
  As damns, not only poets, but the stage. 
  That sacred art, by Heaven itself infused,
  Which Moses, David, Solomon have used,
  Is now to be no more:  the Muses’ foes
  Would sink their Maker’s praises into prose. 
  Were they content to prune the lavish vine
  Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,
  Who but a madman would his thoughts defend? 
  All would submit; for all but fools will mend. 10
  But when to common sense they give the lie,
  And turn distorted words to blasphemy,
  They give the scandal; and the wise discern,
  Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn. 
  What I have loosely, or profanely, writ,
  Let them to fires, their due desert, commit: 
  Nor, when accused by me, let them complain: 
  Their faults, and not their function, I arraign. 
  Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued;
  The pulpit preach’d the crime, the people rued. 20
  The stage was silenced; for the saints would see
  In fields perform’d their plotted tragedy. 
  But let us first reform, and then so live,
  That we may teach our teachers to forgive: 
  Our desk be placed below their lofty chairs;
  Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs. 
  The moral part, at least, we may divide,
  Humility reward, and punish pride;
  Ambition, interest, avarice, accuse: 
  These are the province of a tragic Muse. 30
  These hast thou chosen; and the public voice
  Has equall’d thy performance with thy choice. 
  Time, action, place, are so preserved by thee,
  That even Corneille might with envy see
  The alliance of his tripled Unity. 
  Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown;
  But too much plenty is thy fault alone.