Posterity will judge by my success. I had the Grecian poet's happiness, 40 Who, waving plots, found out a better way; Some god descended, and preserved the play. When first the triumphs of your sex were sung By those old poets, beauty was but young, And few admired the native red and white, Till poets dress'd them up to charm the sight; So beauty took on trust, and did engage For sums of praises till she came to age. But this long-growing debt to poetry You justly, madam, have discharged to me, 50 When your applause and favour did infuse New life to my condemn'd and dying Muse. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 11: 'Lady Castlemain' this lady was for many years a favourite mistress of Charles II., and was afterwards created Duchess of Cleveland.] [Footnote 12: 'Grandison:' her father, killed at Edgehill.] * * * * * EPISTLE IV. TO MR LEE, ON HIS "ALEXANDER." The blast of common censure could I fear, Before your play my name should not appear; For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too, I pay the bribe I first received from you; That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand, And play the game into each other's hand; And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford, As Bessus[13] and the brothers of the sword. Such libels private men may well endure, When states and kings themselves are not secure: 10 For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt, Think the best actions on by-ends are built. And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite; Then, envy had not suffer'd me to write; For, since I could not ignorance pretend, Such merit I must envy or commend. So many candidates there stand for wit, A place at court is scarce so hard to get: In vain they crowd each other at the door; For even reversions are all begg'd before: 20 Desert, how known soe'er, is long delay'd; And then, too, fools and knaves are better paid. Yet, as some actions bear so great a name, That courts themselves are just, for fear of shame; So has the mighty merit of your play Extorted praise, and forced itself away. 'Tis here as 'tis at sea; who farthest goes, Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes. Yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest, It shoots too fast and high to be express'd; 30 As his heroic worth struck envy dumb, Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom. Such praise is yours, while you the passions move, That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love, Where nature triumphs over wretched art; We only warm the head, but you the heart. Always you warm; and if the rising year, As in hot regions, brings the sun too near, 'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow, Which in our cooler climates will not grow. 40 They only think you animate your theme