You.

  Thus oracles of old were still receiv’d;
  The more ambiguous, still the more believ’d.

  I.

  But oracles of old were seldom true,
  The devil was in them, sure he’s not in you.

  You.

  Thus mask’d in mysteries does the godhead stand: 
  The more obscure, the greater his command.

  I.

  The Godhead’s hidden power would soon be past,
  Did we not hope to see his face at last.

  You.

You are my slave already sir, you know, To Shew more charms, would but increase your woe, I scorn an insult to a conquer’d foe.

  I.

I am your slave, ’tis true, but still you see, All slaves by nature struggle to be free; But if you would secure the stubborn prize, Add to your wit, the setters of your eyes; Then pleas’d with thraldom, would I kiss my chain And ne’er think more of liberty again.[4]

It is said, some of the letters of which we have been speaking, were published from the copies returned him at his request, by Mrs. Oldfield, and that she delighted to read them many years after they were printed, as she also did the judicious essay at the end of them, which is called a Discourse upon Comedy, in Reference to the English Stage; but what gives a yet more natural and lively representation of our author still, is one among those letters, which he calls the Picture, containing a description and character of himself, which we should not now omit transcribing, if his works were not in every body’s hands.

In 1703 came out another Comedy, entitled the Inconstant, or the Way to Win Him, which had sufficient merit to have procured equal success to the rest; but for the inundation of Italian, French, and other farcical interruptions, which, through the interest of some, and the depraved taste of others, broke in upon the stage like a torrent, and swept down before thorn all taste for competitions of a more intrinsic excellence.  These foreign monsters obtained partisans amongst our own countrymen, in opposition to English humour, genuine wit, and the sublime efforts of genius, and substituted in their room the airy entertainments of dancing and singing, which conveyed no instruction, awakened no generous passion, nor filled the breast with any thing great or manly.  Such was the prevalence of these airy nothings, that our author’s comedy was neglected for them, and the tragedy of Phaedra slid Hippolitus, which for poetry is equal to any in our tongue, (and though Mr. Addison wrote the prologue, and Prior the epilogue) was suffered to languish, while multitudes flocked to hear the warblings of foreign eunuchs, whose highest excellence, as Young expresses it, was,

  ‘Nonsense well tun’d with sweet stupidity.’

Very early in the year 1704, a farce:  called the Stage Coach, in the composition whereof he was jointly concerned with another, made its first appearance in print, and it has always given satisfaction.