Dedicatory Epistle to The Rival Ladies.

[Printed in 1664.]

To THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROGER, EARL OF ORRERY.

MY LORD,

This worthless present was designed you, long before it was a Play; when it was only a confused mass of thoughts tumbling over one another in the dark: when the Fancy was yet in its first work, moving the sleeping Images of Things towards the light, there to be distinguished; and then, either chosen or rejected by the Judgement. It was yours, my Lord! before I could call it mine.

And I confess, in that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of beauty in some of them; which gave me hope, something worthy of my Lord of ORRERY might be drawn from them: but I was then, in that eagerness of Imagination, which, by over pleasing Fanciful Men, flatters them into the danger of writing; so that, when I had moulded it to that shape it now bears, I looked with such disgust upon it, that the censures of our severest critics are charitable to what I thought, and still think of it myself.

'Tis so far from me, to believe this perfect; that I am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so. For the Stage being the Representation of the World and the actions in it; how can it be imagined that the Picture of Human Life can be more exact than Life itself is?

He may be allowed sometimes to err, who undertakes to move so many Characters and Humours (as are requisite in a Play) in those narrow channels, which are proper to each of them; to conduct his Imaginary Persons through so many various intrigues and chances, as the labouring Audience shall think them lost under every billow: and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their distresses, that when the whole Plot is laid open, the Spectators may rest satisfied that every Cause was powerful enough to produce the Effect it had; and that the whole Chain of them was, with such due order, linked together, that the first Accident [Incident], would, naturally, beget the second, till they All rendered the Conclusion necessary.

These difficulties, my Lord! may reasonably excuse the errors of my Undertaking: but for this confidence of my Dedication, I have an argument, which is too advantageous for me not to publish it to the World. 'Tis the kindness your Lordship has continually shown to all my writings. You have been pleased, my Lord! they should sometimes cross the Irish seas, to kiss your hands; which passage, contrary to the experience of others, I have found the least dangerous in the world. Your favour has shone upon me, at a remote distance, without the least knowledge of my person: and, like the influence of the heavenly bodies, you have done good, without knowing to whom you did it, 'Tis this virtue in your Lordship, which emboldens me to this attempt. For did I not consider you as my Patron, I have little reason to desire you for my Judge: and should appear, with as much awe before you, in the Reading; as I had, when the full theatre sate upon the Action.

For who so severely judge of faults, as he who has given testimony he commits none? Your excellent Poems having afforded that knowledge of it to the World, that your enemies are ready to upbraid you with it as a crime, for a Man of Business to write so well. Neither durst I have justified your Lordship in it, if examples of it had not been in the world before you: If XENOPHON had not written a Romance; and a certain Roman, called AUGUSTUS CAESAR, a Tragedy and Epigrams. But their writing was the entertainment of their pleasure; yours is only a diversion of your pain. The Muses have seldom employed your thoughts, but when some violent fit of the gout has snatched you from Affairs of State: and, like the priestess of APOLLO, you never come to deliver his oracles, but unwillingly, and in torment. So that we are obliged to your Lordship's misery, for our delight. You treat us with the cruel pleasure of a Turkish triumph, where those who cut and wound their bodies, sing songs of victory as they pass; and divert others with their own sufferings. Other men endure their diseases, your Lordship only can enjoy them!

Plotting and Writing in this kind, are, certainly, more troublesome employments than many which signify more, and are of greater moment in the world. The Fancy, Memory, and Judgement are then extended, like so many limbs, upon the rack; all of them reaching, with their utmost stress, at Nature: a thing so almost infinite and boundless, as can never fully be comprehended but where the Images of all things are always present.

Yet I wonder not your Lordship succeeds so well in this attempt. The knowledge of men is your daily practice in the world. To work and bend their stubborn minds; which go not all after the same grain, but, each of them so particular a way, that the same common humours, in several persons, must be wrought upon by several means.

Thus, my Lord! your sickness is but the imitation of your health; the Poet but subordinate to the Statesman in you. You still govern men with the same address, and manage business with the same prudence: allowing it here, as in the world, the due increase and growth till it comes to the just height; and then turning it, when it is fully ripe, and Nature calls out (as it were) to be delivered. With this only advantage of ease to you, in your Poetry: that you have Fortune, here, at your command: with which, Wisdom does often unsuccessfully struggle in the world. Here is no Chance, which you have not foreseen. All your heroes are more than your subjects, they are your creatures: and, though they seem to move freely, in all the sallies of their passions; yet, you make destinies for them, which they cannot shun. They are moved, if I may dare to say so, like the rational creatures of the Almighty Poet; who walk at liberty, in their own opinion, because their fetters are invincible: when, indeed, the Prison of their Will is the more sure, for being large; and instead of an Absolute Power over their actions, they have only a Wretched Desire of doing that, which they cannot choose but do.

I have dwelt, my Lord! thus long, upon your Writing; not because you deserve not greater and more noble commendations, but because I am not equally able to express them in other subjects. Like an ill swimmer, I have willingly stayed long in my own depth; and though I am eager of performing more, yet I am loath to venture out beyond my knowledge. For beyond your Poetry, my Lord! all is Ocean to me.

To speak of you as a Soldier, or a Statesman, were only to betray my own ignorance: and I could hope no better success from it, than that miserable Rhetorician had, who solemnly declaimed before HANNIBAL "of the Conduct of Armies, and the Art of War." I can only say, in general, that the Souls of other men shine out at little cranies; they understand some one thing, perhaps, to admiration, while they are darkened on all the other parts: but your Lordship's Soul is an entire Globe of Light, breaking out on every side; and if I have only discovered one beam of it, 'tis not that the light falls unequally, but because the body which receives it, is of unequal parts.

The acknowledgement of which, is a fair occasion offered me, to retire from the consideration of your Lordship to that of myself. I here present you, my Lord! with that in Print, which you had the goodness not to dislike upon the Stage; and account it happy to have met you here in England: it being, at best, like small wines, to be drunk out upon the place [i.e., of vintage, where produced]; and has not body enough to endure the sea.

I know not, whether I have been so careful of the Plot and Language, as I ought: but for the latter, I have endeavoured to write English, as near as I could distinguish it from the tongue of pedants, and that of affected travellers. Only, I am sorry that, speaking so noble a language as we do, we have not a more certain Measure of it, as they have in France: where they have an "Academy" erected for that purpose, and endowed with large privileges by the present King [LOUIS XIV.]. I wish, we might, at length, leave to borrow words from other nations; which is now a wantonness in us, not a necessity: but so long as some affect to speak them, there will not want others who will have the boldness to write them.

But I fear, lest defending the received words; I shall be accused for following the New Way: I mean, of writing Scenes in Verse; though, to speak properly, 'tis no so much a New Way amongst us, as an Old Way new revived. For, many years [i.e., 1561] before SHAKESPEARE's Plays, was the Tragedy of Queen [or rather King] GORBODUC [of which, however, the authentic title is "FERREX and PORREX"] in English Verse; written by that famous Lord BUCKHURST, afterwards Earl of DORSET, and progenitor to that excellent Person, [Lord BUCKHURST, see p. 503] who, as he inherits his Soul and Title, I wish may inherit his good fortune!

But supposing our countrymen had not received this Writing, till of late! Shall we oppose ourselves to the most polished and civilised nations of Europe? Shall we, with the same singularity, oppose the World in this, as most of us do in pronouncing Latin? Or do we desire, that the brand which BARCLAY has, I hope unjustly, laid upon the English, should still continue? Angli suos ac sua omnia impense mirantur; coeteras nationes despectui habent. All the Spanish and Italian Tragedies I have yet seen, are writ in Rhyme. For the French, I do not name them: because it is the fate of our countrymen, to admit little of theirs among us, but the basest of their men, the extravagancies of their fashions, and the frippery of their merchandise.

SHAKESPEARE, who (with some errors, not to be avoided in that Age) had, undoubtedly, a larger Soul of Poesy than ever any of our nation, was the First, who (to shun the pains of continual rhyming) invented that kind of writing which we call Blank Verse [DRYDEN is here wrong as to fact, Lord SURREY wrote the earliest printed English Blank Verse in his Fourth Book of the AEneid, printed in 1548]; but the French, more properly Prose MesurÉe: into which, the English Tongue so naturally slides, that in writing Prose, 'tis hardly to be avoided. And, therefore, I admire [marvel that] some men should perpetually stumble in a way so easy: and, inverting the order of their words, constantly close their lines with verbs. Which, though commended, sometimes, in writing Latin; yet, we were whipt at Westminster, if we used it twice together.

I know some, who, if they were to write in Blank Verse Sir, I ask your pardon! would think it sounded more heroically to write

Sir, I, your pardon ask!

I should judge him to have little command of English, whom the necessity of a rhyme should force upon this rock; though, sometimes, it cannot be easily avoided.

And, indeed, this is the only inconvenience with which Rhyme can be charged. This is that, which makes them say, "Rhyme is not natural. It being only so, when the Poet either makes a vicious choice of words; or places them, for Rhyme's sake so unnaturally, as no man would, in ordinary speaking." But when 'tis so judiciously ordered, that the first word in the verse seems to beget the second; and that, the next; till that becomes the last word in the line, which, in the negligence of Prose, would be so: it must, then, be granted, Rhyme has all advantages of Prose, besides its own.

But the excellence and dignity of it, were never fully known, till Mr. WALLER taught it. He, first, made writing easily, an Art: first, showed us to conclude the Sense, most commonly in distiches; which in the Verse of those before him, runs on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath, to overtake it.

This sweetness of Mr. WALLER's Lyric Poesy was, afterwards, followed in
the Epic, by Sir JOHN DENHAM, in his Cooper's Hill; a Poem which, your
Lordship knows! for the majesty of the style, is, and ever will be the
Exact Standard of Good Writing.

But if we owe the invention of it to Mr. WALLER; we are acknowledging for the noblest use of it, to Sir WILLIAM D'AVENANT; who, at once, brought it upon the Stage, and made it perfect in The Siege of Rhodes.

The advantages which Rhyme has over Blank Verse, are so many that it were lost time to name them.

Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, in his Defence of Poesy, gives us one, which, in my opinion, is not the least considerable: I mean, the Help it brings to Memory; which Rhyme so knits up by the Affinity of Sounds, that by remembering the last word in one line, we often call to mind both the verses.

Then, in the Quickness of Repartees, which in Discoursive Scenes fall very often: it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly suited to them, that the Sudden Smartness of the Answer, and the Sweetness of the Rhyme set off the beauty of each other.

But that benefit, which I consider most in it, because I have not seldom found it, is that it Bounds and Circumscribes the Fancy. For Imagination in a Poet, is a faculty so wild and lawless, that, like a high ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it outrun the Judgement. The great easiness of Blank Verse renders the Poet too luxuriant. He is tempted to say many things, which might better be omitted, or, at least, shut up in fewer words.

But when the difficulty of artful Rhyming is interposed, where the Poet commonly confines his Sense to his Couplet; and must contrive that Sense into such words that the Rhyme shall naturally follow them, not they the Rhyme [pp. 571 581]: the Fancy then gives leisure to the Judgement to come in; which, seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off all unnecessary expenses.

This last consideration has already answered an objection, which some have made, that "Rhyme is only an Embroidery of Sense; to make that which is ordinary in itself, pass for excellent with less examination." But, certainly, that which most regulates the Fancy, and gives the Judgement its busiest employment, is like[ly] to bring forth the richest and clearest thoughts. The Poet examines that most which he produceth with the greatest leisure, and which, he knows, must pass the severest test of the audience, because they are aptest to have it ever in their memory: as the stomach makes the best concoction when it strictly embraces the nourishment, and takes account of every little particle as it passes through.

But, as the best medicines may lose their virtue, by being ill applied; so is it with Verse, if a fit Subject be not chosen for it. Neither must the Argument alone, but the Characters and Persons be great and noble: otherwise, as SCALIGER says of CLAUDIAN, the Poet will be Ignobiliore materia depressus. The Scenes which (in my opinion) most commend it, are those of Argumentation and Discourse, on the result of which, the doing or not doing [of] some considerable Action should depend.

But, my Lord! though I have more to say upon this subject; yet, I must remember, 'tis your Lordship, to whom I speak: who have much better commended this Way by your writing in it; than I can do, by writing for it. Where my Reasons cannot prevail, I am sure your Lordship's Example must. Your Rhetoric has gained my cause; as least, the greatest part of my design has already succeeded to my wish: which was, to interest so noble a Person in the Quarrel; and withal, to testify to the World, how happy I esteem myself in the honour of being, My Lord,

Your Lordship's most humble, and most obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

The Honourable Sir ROBERT HOWARD, Auditor of the Exchequer.

Preface to Four new Plays.

[Licensed 7 March 1665, Printed the same year.]

TO THE READER.

There is none more sensible than I am, how great a charity the most Ingenious may need, that expose their private wit to a public judgement; since the same Phancy from whence the thoughts proceed, must probably be kind to its own issue. This renders men no perfecter judges of their own writings, than fathers are of their own children: who find out that wit in them, which another discerns not; and see not those errors, which are evident to the unconcerned. Nor is this Self Kindness more fatal to men in their writings, than in their actions; every man being a greater flatterer to himself, than he knows how to be to another: otherwise, it were impossible that things of such distant natures, should find their own authors so equally kind in their affections to them; and men so different in parts and virtues, should rest equally contented in their own opinions.

This apprehension, added to that greater [one] which I have of my own weakness, may, I hope, incline the Reader to believe me, when I assure him that these follies were made public, as much against my inclination as judgement. But, being pursued with so many solicitations of Mr. HERRINGMAN's [the Publisher], and having received civilities from him, if it were possible, exceeding his importunities: I, at last, yielded to prefer that which he believed his interest; before that, which I apprehended my own disadvantage. Considering withal, that he might pretend, It would be a real loss to him: and could be but an imaginary prejudice to me: since things of this nature, though never so excellent, or never so mean, have seldom proved the foundation of men's new built fortunes, or the ruin of their old. It being the fate of Poetry, though of no other good parts, to be wholly separated from Interest: and there are few that know me but will easily believe, I am not much concerned in an unprofitable Reputation.

This clear account I have given the Reader, of this seeming contradiction, to offer that to the World which I dislike myself: and, in all things, I have no greater an ambition than to be believed [to be] a Person, that would rather be unkind to myself, than ungrateful to others.

I have made this excuse for myself. I offer none for my writings; but freely leave the Reader to condemn that which has received my sentence already.

Yet, I shall presume to say something in the justification of our nation's Plays, though not of my own: since, in my judgement, without being partial to my country, I do really prefer our Plays as much before any other nation's; as I do the best of ours before my own.

The manner of the Stage Entertainments has differed in all Ages; and, as it has increased in use, it has enlarged itself in business. The general manner of Plays among the Ancients we find in SENECA's Tragedies, for serious subjects; and in TERENCE and PLAUTUS, for the comical. In which latter, we see some pretences to Plots; though certainly short of what we have seen in some of Mr. [BEN.] JOHNSON's Plays. And for their Wit, especially PLAUTUS, I suppose it suited much better in those days, than it would do in ours. For were their Plays strictly translated, and presented on our Stage; they would hardly bring as many audiences as they have now admirers.

The serious Plays were anciently composed of Speeches and Choruses; where all things are Related, but no matter of fact Presented on the Stage. This pattern, the French do, at this time, nearly follow: only leaving out the Chorus, making up their Plays with almost Entire and Discoursive Scenes; presenting the business in Relations [p. 535]. This way has very much affected some of our nation, who possibly believe well of it, more upon the account that what the French do ought to be a fashion, than upon the reason of the thing.

It is first necessary to consider, Why, probably, the compositions of the Ancients, especially in their serious Plays were after this manner? And it will be found, that the subjects they commonly chose, drave them upon the necessity; which were usually the most known stories and Fables [p. 522]. Accordingly, SENECA, making choice of MEDEA, HYPPOLITUS, and HERCULES OEtaeus, it was impossible to show MEDEA throwing old mangled AESON into her age-renewing caldron, or to present the scattered limbs of HYPPOLITUS upon the Stage, and show HERCULES burning upon his own funeral pile.

And this, the judicious HORACE clearly speaks of, in his Arte Poetica; where he says

Non tamen intus
Digna geri, promes in scenam: multaque tolles
Ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia praesens.
Nec pueros coram populo MEDEA trucidet[8]
Aut humana palam coquat extra nefarius ATREUS,
Aut in avem PROGNE vertatur, CADMUS in anguem.
Quodcunque ostendit mihi sic, incredulus odi.

So that it appears a fault to chose such Subjects for the Stage; but much greater, to affect that Method which those subjects enforce: and therefore the French seem much mistaken, who, without the necessity, sometimes commit the error. And this is as plainly decided by the same author, in his preceding word

Aut agitur res in Scenis aut acta refertur:
Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem;
Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae
Ipse sibi tradit spectator.

By which, he directly declares his judgement, "That every thing makes more impression Presented, than Related." Nor, indeed, can any one rationally assert the contrary. For, if they affirm otherwise, they do, by consequence, maintain, That a whole Play might as well be Related, as Acted.

Therefore whoever chooses a subject, that enforces him to RELATIONS, is to blame; and he that does it without the necessity of the subject, is much more.

If these premisses be granted, 'tis no partiality to conclude, That our
English Plays justly challenge the pre-eminence.

Yet, I shall as candidly acknowledge, that our best Poets have differed from other nations, though not so happily [felicitously], in usually mingling and interweaving Mirth and Sadness, through the whole course of their Plays. BEN. JOHNSON only excepted; who keeps himself entire to one Argument. And I confess I am now convinced in my own judgement, that it is most proper to keep the audience in one entire disposition both of Concern and Attention: for when Scenes of so different natures, immediately succeed one another; 'tis probable, the audience may not so suddenly recollect themselves, as to start into an enjoyment of Mirth, or into the concern for the Sadness. Yet I dispute not but the variety of this world may afford pursuing accidents of such different natures; but yet, though possible in themselves to be, they may not be so proper to be Presented. An Entire Connection being the natural beauty of all Plays: and Language, the Ornament to dress them in; which, in serious Subjects, ought to be great and easy, like a high born Person that expresses greatness without pride or affection.

The easier dictates of Nature ought to flow in Comedy; yet separated from obsceneness. There being nothing more impudent than the immodesty of words. Wit should be chaste; and those that have it, can only write well:

Si modo Scimus in urbanum Lepido se ponere dicto.

Another way of the Ancients, which the French follow, and our Stage has, now lately, practised; is to write in Rhyme. And this is the dispute betwixt many ingenious persons, Whether Verse in Rhyme; or Verse without the Sound, which may be called Blank Verse (though a hard expression) is to be preferred?

But take the question, largely, and it is never to be decided [p. 512]; but, by right application, I suppose it may. For, in the general, they are both proper: that is, one for a Play; the other for a Poem or Copy of Verses: as Blank Verse being as much too low for one [i.e., a. Poem or Verses]; as Rhyme is unnatural for the other [i.e., a Play].

A Poem, being a premeditated Form of thoughts, upon designed occasions: ought not to be unfurnished of any Harmony in Words or Sound. The other [a Play] is presented as the present effect of accidents not thought of. So that, 'tis impossible, it should be equally proper to both these; unless it were possible that all persons were born so much more than Poets, that verses were not to be composed by them, but already made in them.

Some may object "That this argument is trivial; because, whatever is showed, 'tis known still to be but a Play." But such may as well excuse an ill scene, that is not naturally painted; because they know 'tis only a scene, and not really a city or country.

But there is yet another thing which makes Verse upon the Stage appear more unnatural, that is, when a piece of a verse is made up by one that knew not what the other meant to say; and the former verse answered as perfectly in Sound as the last is supplied in Measure. So that the smartness of a Reply, which has its beauty by coming from sudden thoughts, seems lost by that which rather looks like a Design of two, than the Answer of one.

It may be said, that "Rhyme is such a confinement to a quick and luxuriant Phancy, that it gives a stop to its speed, till slow Judgement comes in to assist it [p. 492];" but this is no argument for the question in hand. For the dispute is not which way a man may write best in; but which is most proper for the subject he writes upon. And if this were let pass, the argument is yet unsolved in itself; for he that wants Judgement in the liberty of his Phancy, may as well shew the defect of it in its confinement: and, to say truth, he that has judgement will avoid the errors, and he that wants it, will commit them both.

It may be objected, "'Tis Improbable that any should speak ex tempore, as well as Beaumont and Fletcher makes them; though in Blank Verse." I do not only acknowledge that, but that 'tis also improbable any will write so well that way. But if that may be allowed improbable; I believe it may be concluded impossible that any should speak as good Verses in Rhyme, as the best Poets have writ: and therefore, that which seems nearest to what he intends is ever to be preferred.

Nor are great thoughts more adorned by Verse; than Verse unbeautified by mean ones. So that Verse seems not only unfit in the best use of it, but much more in the worst, when "a servant is called," or "a door bid to be shut" in Rhyme [p. 569]. Verses, I mean good ones, do, in their height of Phancy, declare the labour that brought them forth! like Majesty that grows with care: and Nature, that made the Poet capable, seems to retire, and leave its offers to be made perfect by pains and judgement.

Against this, I can raise no argument, but my Lord of Orrery's writings. In whose Verse, the greatness of the Majesty seems unsullied with the cares, and his inimitable Phancy descends to us in such easy expressions, that they seem as if neither had ever been added to the other: but both together flowing from a height; like birds got so high that use no labouring wings, but only, with an easy care, preserve a steadiness in motion. But this particular happiness, among those multitudes which that excellent Person is owner of, does not convince my reason, but employ my wonder. Yet, I am glad such Verse has been written for our Stage; since it has so happily exceeded those whom we seemed to imitate.

But while I give these arguments against Verse, I may seem faulty, that I have not only writ ill ones, but writ any. But since it was the fashion; I was resolved, as in all indifferent things, not to appear singular: the danger of the vanity being greater than the error. And therefore, I followed it as a fashion; though very far off.

For the Italian plays; I have seen some of them, which have been given me as the best: but they are so inconsiderable that the particulars of them are not at all worthy to entertain the Reader. But, as much as they are short of others, in this; they exceed in their other performances on the Stage. I mean their Operas: which, consisting of Music and Painting; there's none but will believe it as much harder to equal them in that way, than 'tis to excel them in the other.

The Spanish Plays pretend to more; but, indeed, are not much: being nothing but so many novels put into Acts and scenes, without the least attempt or design of making the Reader more concerned than a well-told tale might do. Whereas, a Poet that endeavours not to heighten the accidents which Fortune seems to scatter in a well-knit Design, had better have told his tale by a fireside, than presented it on a Stage.

For these times, wherein we write. I admire to hear the Poets so often cry out upon, and wittily (as they believe) threaten their judges; since the effects of their mercy has so much exceeded their justice, that others with me, cannot but remember how many favourable audiences, some of our ill plays have had: and, when I consider how severe the former Age has been to some of the best of Mr. Johnson's never to be equalled Comedies; I cannot but wonder why any Poet should speak of former Times, but rather acknowledge that the want of abilities in this Age are largely supplied with the mercies of it.

I deny not, but there are some who resolve to like nothing, and such, perhaps, are not unwise; since, by that general resolution, they may be certainly in the right sometimes: which, perhaps, they would seldom be, if they should venture their understandings in different censures; and, being forced to a general liking or disliking (lest they should discover too much their own weakness), 'tis to be expected they would rather choose to pretend to Judgement than Good Nature, though I wish they could find better ways to shew either.

But I forget myself; not considering that while I entertain the Reader, in the entrance, with what a good play should be: when he is come beyond the entrance, he must be treated with what ill plays are. But in this, I resemble the greatest part of the World, that better know how to talk of many things, than to perform them; and live short of their own discourses.

And now, I seem like an eager hunter, that has long pursued a chase after an inconsiderable quarry; and gives over, weary; as I do.

[8] p. 537