John Dryden (1631–1700)

1681

THOUGH actors cannot much of learning boast,

Of all who want it, we admire it most:

We love the praises of a learned pit,

As we remotely are allied to wit.

We speak our poet’s wit, and trade in ore,

Like those who touch upon the golden shore;

Betwixt our judges can distinction make,

Discern how much, and why, our poems take;

Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice;

Whether th’ applause be only sound or voice.

When our fop gallants, or our city folly,

Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:

We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,

And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.

Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,

Should not be proud of giving you delight.

London like grossly; but this nicer pit

Examines, fathoms, all the depths of wit;

The ready finger lays on every blot;

Knows what should justly please, and what should not.

Nature herself lies open to your view,

You judge by her what draught of her is true,

Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint,

Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.

But, by the sacred genius of this place,

By every Muse, by each domestic grace,

Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,

And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.

Our poets hither for adoption come,

As nations sued to be made free of Rome:

Not in the suffragating tribes to stand,

But in your utmost, last, provincial band.

If his ambition may those opes pursue,

Who with religion loves your arts and you,

Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,

Than his own mother-university.

Thebes did his green, unknowing youth engage;

He chooses Athens in his riper age.