[Footnote 58: Congreve discharged the sacred duty thus feelingly imposed. See his Preface to Dryden's Plays, Vol. II. p. 7.] EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH. TO MR GRANVILLE, ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY, CALLED HEROIC LOVE. George Granville, afterwards Lord Lansdowne of Biddiford, was distinguished, by the friendship of Dryden and Pope, from the mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease. He copied Waller, a model perhaps chosen from a judicious consideration of his own powers. His best piece is his "Essay on unnatural Flights in Poetry," in which he elegantly apologizes for Dryden having suffered his judgment to be swayed by a wild audience. Granville's play of the "Heroic Love, or the cruel Separation," was acted in 1698 with great applause. It is a mythological drama on the love of Agamemnon and Briseis; and this being said, it is hardly necessary to add, that it now scarcely bears reading. Granville's unshaken attachment to Tory principles, as well as his excellent private character, probably gained him favour in our poet's eyes. Lord Lansdowne (for such became Granville's title when Queen Anne created twelve peers to secure a majority to ministry in the House of Lords) died on the 30th January, 1735. EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH. Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend, How could I envy, what I must commend! But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit, That youth should reign, and withering age submit, With less regret those laurels I resign, Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine. With better grace an ancient chief may yield The long contended honours of the field, Than venture all his fortune at a cast, And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. Young princes, obstinate to win the prize, Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise: Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt, Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout. Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age Can best, if any can, support the stage; Which so declines, that shortly we may see Players and plays reduced to second infancy: Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown, They plot not on the stage, but on the town, And, in despair their empty pit to fill, Set up some foreign monster in a bill. Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving, And murdering plays, which they miscal reviving.[59] Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes conveyed; Scarce can a poet know the play he made, 'Tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he That suffers in the mangled tragedy. Thus Itys first was killed, and after dressed For his own sire, the chief invited guest. I say not this of thy successful scenes, Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains. With length of time, much judgment, and more toil, Not ill they acted what they could not spoil. Their setting-sun still shoots a glimmering ray, Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay; And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,