It is impossible to conceive any thing more different from the old English drama, than the heroic plays which were introduced by Charles II.  The former, in labouring to exhibit a variety and contrast of passions, tempers, or humours, frequently altogether neglected the dignity of the scene.  In the heroical tragedy, on the other hand, nothing was to be indecorous, nothing grotesque:  The personages were to speak, not as men, but as heroes; to whom, as statuaries have assigned a superiority of stature, so these poets have given an uniform grandeur of feeling and of expression.  It may be thought, that this monotonous splendour of diction would have palled upon an English audience, less pleased generally with refinement, however elegant, than with bursts of passion, and flights of novelty.  But Dryden felt his force in the line which he chose to pursue and recommend.  The indescribable charms of his versification gratified the ear of the public, while their attention was engaged by the splendour of his images, and the matchless ingenuity of his arguments.  It must also be admitted, that, by their total neglect of the unities, our ancient dramatic authors shocked the feelings of the more learned, and embarrassed the understanding of the less acute, among the spectators.  We do not hold it treason to depart from the strict rules respecting time and place, inculcated by the ancients, and followed in the heroic plays.  But it will surely be granted to us, that, where they can be observed, without the sacrifice of great beauties, or incurring such absurdities as Dennis has justly charged upon Cato, the play will be proportionally more intelligible on the stage, and more pleasing in the closet.  And although we willingly censure the practice of driving argument, upon the stage, into metaphysical refinement, and rendering the contest of contrasted passions a mere combat in logic, yet we must equally condemn those tragedies, in which the poet sketches out the character with a few broken common-places, expressive of love, of rage, or of grief, and leaves the canvas to be filled up by the actor, according to his own taste, power, and inclination.

The Indian Emperor is an instance, what beautiful poetry may be united to, we had almost said thrown away upon, the heroic drama.  The very first scene exhibits much of those beauties, and their attendant deformities.  A modern audience would hardly have sate in patience to hear more than the first extravagant and ludicrous supposition of Cortez: 

  As if our old world modestly withdrew;
  And here, in private, had brought forth a new.