About a fortnight ago I had an intimation from a friend by letter, that one of the secretaryes, I suppose Trenchard,[98] had informed the queen, that I had abus’d her government (those were the words) in my Epistle to my Lord Radcliffe; and that thereupon she had commanded her historiographer, Rymer, to fall upon my playes; which he assures me is now doeing. I doubt not his malice, from a former hint you gave me; and if he be employ’d, I am confident ’tis of his own seeking; who, you know, has spoken slightly of me in his last critique:[99] and that gave me occasion to snarl againe.[100] In your next, let me know what you can learn of this matter. I am Mr Congreve’s true lover, and desire you to tell him, how kindly I take his often remembrances of me: I wish him all prosperity, and hope I shall never loose his affection; nor yours, Sir, as being Your most faithfull, And much obliged Servant, JOHN DRYDEN. I had all your letters. Sir Matthew had your book when he came home last; and desir’d me to give you his acknowledgements. LETTER X. MR JOHN DENNIS[101] TO MR DRYDEN. DEAR SIR, You may see already by this presumptuous greeting, that encouragement gives as much assurance to friendship, as it imparts to love. You may see too, that a friend may sometimes proceed to acknowledge affection, by the very same degrees by which a lover declares his passion. This last at first confesses esteem, yet owns no passion but admiration. But as soon as he is animated by one kind expression, his look, his style, and his very soul are altered. But as sovereign beauties know very well, that he who confesses he esteems and admires them, implies that he loves them, or is inclined to love them: a person of Mr Dryden’s exalted genius, can discern very well, that when we esteem him highly, ’tis respect restrains us, if we say no more. For where great esteem is without affection, ’tis often attended with envy, if not with hate; which passions detract even when they commend, and silence is their highest panegyrick. ’Tis indeed impossible, that I should refuse to love a man, who has so often given me all the pleasure that the most insatiable mind can desire: when at any time I have been dejected by disappointments, or tormented by cruel passions, the recourse to your verses has calm’d my soul, or raised it to transports which made it contemn tranquillity. But though you have so often given me all the pleasure I was able to bear, I have reason to complain of you on this account, that you have confined my delight to a narrower compass. Suckling, Cowley, and Denham, who formerly ravished me in every part of them, now appear tasteless to me in most; and Waller himself, with all his gallantry, and all that admirable art of his turns, appears three quarters prose to me. Thus ’tis plain, that your Muse has done me an injury; but she has made me amends for it. For she is like those extraordinary women, who, besides the regularity