Though actors cannot much of learning boast, Of all who want it, we admire it most: We love the praises of a learnèd pit, As we remotely are allied to wit. We speak our poet’s wit; and trade in ore, 5 Like those who touch upon the golden shore; Betwixt our judges can distinction make, Discern how much, and why, our poems take: Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice; Whether the applause be only sound or voice. 10 When our fop-gallants, or our city-folly, Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. Judge then, if we who act, and they who write, 15 Should not be proud of giving you delight. London likes grossly; but this nicer pit Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit; The ready finger lays on every blot; Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20 Nature herself lies open to your view; You judge by her, what draught of her is true, Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint, Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint. But, by the sacred genius of this place, 25 By every Muse, by each domestic grace, Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. Our poets hither for adoption come, As nations sued to be made free of Rome: 30 Not in the suffragating tribes to stand, But in your utmost, last, provincial band. If his ambition may those hopes pursue, Who with religion loves your arts and you, Oxford to him a dearer name shall be 35 Than his own mother University. Thebes did his green unknowing youth engage; He chooses Athens in his riper age. _John Dryden._ XCI _DISTICHES._ River is time in water; as it came, Still so it flows; yet never is the same. I wake, and so new live; a night’s protection Is a new wonder, whiles a resurrection. The sun’s up; yet myself and God most bright 5 I can’t see; I’m too dark, and He’s too light. Let devout prayér cast me to the ground, So shall I yet to heaven be nearer found. Clay, sand, and rock seem of a different birth; So men; some stiff, some loose, some firm; all earth! 10 By red, green, blue, which sometimes paint the air, Guilt, pardon, Heaven, the rainbow does declare. The world’s a prison; no man can get out; Let the atheist storm then; Heaven is round about. The rose is but the flower of a briar; 15 The good man has an Adam to his sire. The dying mole, some say, opens his eyes; The rich, till ’tis too late, will not be wise.