If yet thou hast not reach’d their high degree,
  ’Tis only wanting to this age, not thee. 
  Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
  Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design
  A more exalted work, and more divine. 
  For what a song, or senseless opera
  Is to the living labour of a play;
  Or what a play to Virgil’s work would be,
  Such is a single piece to history. 140

    But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live: 
  Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;
  And they who pay the taxes, bear the rule: 
  Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool: 
  But so his follies in thy posture sink,
  The senseless idiot seems at last to think.

    Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain,
  To wish their vile resemblance may remain! 
  And stand recorded, at their own request,
  To future days, a libel or a jest! 150

    Else should we see your noble pencil trace
  Our unities of action, time, and place: 
  A whole composed of parts, and those the best,
  With every various character express’d;
  Heroes at large, and at a nearer view,
  Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew. 
  While all the figures in one action join,
  As tending to complete the main design.

    More cannot be by mortal art express’d;
  But venerable age shall add the rest:  160
  For time shall with his ready pencil stand;
  Retouch your fingers with his ripening hand;
  Mellow your colours, and embrown the tint;
  Add every grace, which time alone can grant;
  To future ages shall your fame convey,
  And give more beauties than he takes away.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 32:  Supposed to be an acknowledgment of a copy of the Chandos portrait of Shakspeare given to Dryden by Kneller.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XV.

TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR, JOHN HODDESDON, ON HIS DIVINE EPIGRAMS.

  Thou hast inspired me with thy soul, and I
  Who ne’er before could ken of poetry,
  Am grown so good proficient, I can lend
  A line in commendation of my friend. 
  Yet ’tis but of the second hand; if ought
  There be in this, ’tis from thy fancy brought. 
  Good thief, who dar’st, Prometheus-like, aspire,
  And fill thy poems with celestial fire: 
  Enliven’d by these sparks divine, their rays
  Add a bright lustre to thy crown of bays. 10
  Young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon forsook,
  So lofty and divine a course hast took
  As all admire, before the down begin
  To peep, as yet, upon thy smoother chin;