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your Royal Highness's absence, than all the applauses of the world besides can make me reparation for.

Nevertheless, I thought myself not quite unhappy, so long as I had hopes this way yet to recompense my disappointment past: when I considered also, that poetry might claim right to a little share in your favour; for Tasso, and Ariosto, some of the best, have made their names eternal, by transmitting to after ages the glory of your ancestors: and under the spreading of that shade, where two of the best have planted their laurels, how honoured should I be, who am the worst, if but a branch might grow for me?

I dare not think of offering any thing in this address, that might look like a panegyric, for fear, lest when I have done my best, the world should condemn me for saying too little, and you yourself check me for meddling with a task unfit for my talent.

For the description of virtues and perfections so rare as yours are, ought to be done by as deliberate as skilful a hand; the features must be drawn very fine, to be like; hasty daubing will but spoil the picture, and make it so unnatural, as must want false lights to set it off. And your virtue can receive no more lustre from practices, than your beauty can be improved by art; which, as it charms the bravest prince that ever amazed the world with his virtue; so, let bu

all other hearts inquire into themselves, and then judge how it ought to be praised.

Your love too, as none but that great hero who has it, could deserve it, and therefore, by a particular lot from Heaven, was destined to so extraordinary a blessing, so matchless for itself, and so wondrous for its constancy, shall be remembered to your immortal honour, when all other transactions of the age you live in shall be forgotten.

But I forget that I am to ask pardon for the fault I have been all this while committing. Wherefore I beg your Highness to forgive me this presumption, and that you will be pleased to think well of one who cannot help resolving with all the actions of life, to endeavour to deserve it: nay more, I would beg, and hope it may be granted, that I may, through yours, never want an advocate in his favour, whose heart and mind you have so entire a share in; it is my only portion and my fortune. I cannot but be happy, so long as I have but hopes I may enjoy it; and I must be miserable, should it ever be my ill fate to lose it.

This, with eternal wishes for your Royal Highness's content, happiness, and prosperity, in all humility is presented by

Your most obedient, and

devoted servant,



THIS play stands forth to prove the predominating powers of the true poet, who from a fable improbable and badly constructed, and a set of incidents which come home to the feelings of no one, can nevertheless erect a tragic structure which will please to the end of time.

OTWAY seems to have abandoned his productions to chance, as to any good they were likely to produce from the reflected influence of character and sentiment-Every thing about him has a tinge of licentiousness-The compact enter'd into by his Twin Brothers surely never in a civilized country could occur; and, if it could, they both richly deserved to suffer from the hand of the executioner.

The conduct of this play is all in the dark-there is no light but that of the poet. The parties might say of their calamities, that they could not have happened.

"If a rush candle e'en had deign'd to visit them."

The excellence of OTWAY's sentiment and diction bears down every thing-He polishes exquisitely, but his materials are coarse and impure.

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To you, great judges in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts, which still have sway'd
His pride much doubting, trembling and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,

And aw'd by ev'ry excellence in you,

The author sends to beg you will be kind,


And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You, to whom wit a common foe is
The thing ye scorn and publicly disown.
Though now, perhaps, ye're here for other ends,
He swears to me ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne'er call'd ye yet insipid tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell ye you were fools:
But says of wit ye have so large a store,
So very much you never will have more.
He ne'er with libel treated yet the Town,
The names of honest men bedaub'd and shewn.
Nay, never once lampoon'd the harmless life,
Of suburb virgin, or of city wife.

Satire's th' effect of poetry's disease,
Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn,
And happiness again begins to dawn;

Since back with joy, and triumph he is come,

That always drew fears hence, ne'er brought 'em home.
Oft has he plough'd the boist'rous ocean o'er,
Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before.
For then fresh laurels flourish'd on his brow;
And he comes crown'd with olive-branches now:
Receive him-Oh, receive him as his friends;
Embrace the blessing which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy ;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.

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