Dryden might have made poetry out of that; his translation from Lucretius is poetry. But we have an ingenious example, on which to test our contrast of Dryden and Milton: it is Dryden's "Opera," called _The State of Innocence and Fall of Man_, of which Nathaniel Lee neatly says in his preface:-- Milton did the wealthy mine disclose, And rudely cast what you could well dispose: He roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground, A chaos, for no perfect world were found, Till through the heap, your mighty genius shined. In the author's preface Dryden acknowledges his debt generously enough:-- "The original being undoubtedly, one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced." The poem begins auspiciously:-- _Lucifer_: Is this the seat our conqueror has given? And this the climate we must change for Heaven? These regions and this realm my wars have got; This mournful empire is the loser's lot: In liquid burnings, or on dry to dwell, Is all the sad variety of hell. It is an early work; it is on the whole a feeble work; it is not deserving of sustained comparison with "Paradise Lost." But "all the sad variety of hell"! Dryden is already stirring; he has assimilated what he could from Milton; and he has shown himself capable of producing as splendid verse. The capacity for assimilation, and the consequent extent of range, are conspicuous qualities of Dryden. He advanced and exhibited his variety by constant translation; and his translations of Horace, of Ovid, of Lucretius, are admirable. His gravest defects are supposed to be displayed in his dramas, but if these were more read they might be more praised. From the point of view of either the Elizabethan or the French drama they are obviously inferior; but the charge of inferiority loses part of its force if we admit that Dryden was not quite trying to compete with either, but was pursuing a direction of his own. He created no character; and although his arrangements of plot manifest exceptional ingenuity, it is the pure magnificence of diction, of poetic diction, that keeps his plays alive:-- How I loved Witness ye days and nights, and all ye hours, That danced away with down upon your feet, As all your business were to count my passion. One day passed by, and nothing saw but love;-- Another came, and still 'twas only love: The suns were wearied out with looking on, And I untired with loving. I saw you every day and all the day; And every day was still but as the first: So eager was I still to see you more . . . While within your arms I lay, The world fell mould'ring from my hands each hour.