And now, sir, it is time I should relieve you from the tedious length of this account. You have better and more profitable employment for your hours, and I wrong the public to detain you longer. In conclusion, I must leave my poem to you with all its faults, which I hope to find fewer in the printing by your emendations. I know you are not of the number of those, of whom the younger Pliny speaks; _Nec sunt parum multi, qui carpere amicos suos judicium vocant_: I am rather too secure of you on that side. Your candour in pardoning my errors may make you more remiss in correcting them; if you will not withal consider that they come into the world with your approbation, and through your hands. I beg from you the greatest favour you can confer upon an absent person, since I repose upon your management what is dearest to me, my fame and reputation; and therefore I hope it will stir you up to make my poem fairer by many of your blots; if not, you know the story of the gamester who married the rich man's daughter, and when her father denied the portion, christened all the children by his surname, that if, in conclusion, they must beg, they should do so by one name, as well as by the other. But since the reproach of my faults will light on you, it is but reason I should do you that justice to the readers, to let them know, that, if there be anything tolerable in this poem, they owe the argument to your choice, the writing to your encouragement, the correction to your judgment, and the care of it to your friendship, to which he must ever acknowledge himself to owe all things, who is, sir, the most obedient, and most faithful of your servants, JOHN DRYDEN. From Charlton in Wiltshire, _Nov_. 10, 1666. * * * * * 1 In thriving arts long time had Holland grown, Crouching at home and cruel when abroad: Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own; Our King they courted, and our merchants awed. 2 Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow, Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost: Thither the wealth of all the world did go, And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast. 3 For them alone the heavens had kindly heat; In eastern quarries ripening precious dew: For them the Idumæan balm did sweat, And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew. 4 The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year; Each waxing moon supplied her watery store, To swell those tides, which from the line did bear Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore. 5 Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long, And swept the riches of the world from far; Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong: And this may prove our second Punic war. 6 What peace can be, where both to one pretend? (But they more diligent, and we more strong) Or if a peace, it soon must have an end; For they would grow too powerful, were it long.