EPILOGUE...ELEGY ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
A kind of losing Loadum is their game,
Where the worst writer has the greatest fame.
To get vile plays like theirs shall be our care;
But of such awkward actors we despair.
False taught at first-
Like bowls ill-biass'd, still the more they run,
They 're further off than when they first begun.
In comedy their unweigh'd action mark,
There's one is such a dear familiar spark,
He yawns, as if he were but half awake,
And fribbling for free-speaking does mistake;
False accent and neglectful action too:
They have both so nigh good, yet neither true,
That both together, like an ape's mock-face,
By near resembling man, do man disgrace.
Thorough-pac'd ill actors may, perhaps, be cur'd;
Half players, like half wits, can't be endur'd.
Yet these are they, who durst expose the age
Of the great wonder of the English stage;
Whom Nature seem'd to form for your delight,
And bid him speak, as she bid Shakspeare write.
Those blades indeed are cripples in their art,
Mimic his foot, but not his speaking part.
Let them the Traitor or Volpone try,
Could they
Rage like Cethegus, or like Cassius die,
They ne'er had sent to Paris for such fancies,
As monsters heads and Merry-Andrew's dances.
Wither'd, perhaps, not perish'd, we appear;
But they are blighted, and ne'er came to bear.
Th' old poets dress'd your mistress Wit before;
These draw you on with an old painted whore,
And sell, like bawds, patch'd plays for maids twice
Then rail not here, though you see reason for 't;
If Wit can find itself no better sport,
Wit is a very foolish thing at court.
Wit's business is to please, and not to fright;
"Tis no wit to be always in the right;
You'll find it none, who dare be so to-night.
Few so ill-bred will venture to a play,
To spy out faults in what we women say.
For us, no matter what we speak, but how:
How kindly can we say- - I hate you now!
And for the men, if you 'll laugh at them, do;
They mind themselves so much, they 'll ne'er mind
But why do I descend to lose a prayer [you.
On those small saints in wit? the god sits there!
To you, great sir, my message hither tends,
From Youth and Beauty, your allies and friends;
See my credentials written in my face,
They challenge your protection in this place;
And hither come with such a force of charms,
As may give check ev'n to your prosperous arms.
Millions of Cupids hovering in the rear,
Like eagles following fatal troops, appear:
All waiting for the slaughter which draws nigh,
Of those bold gazers who this night must die.
Nor can you 'scape our soft captivity,
From which old age alone must set you free.
Then tremble at the fatal consequence, [prince,
Since 'tis well known, for your own part, great
'Gainst us you still have made a weak defence.
Be generous and wise, and take our part:
Remember we have eyes, and you a heart;
Else you may find, too late, that we are things
Born to kill vassals, and to conquer kings.
But oh, to what vain conquest I pretend!
While Love is our commander, and your friend.
Our victory your empire more assures,
For Love will ever make the triumph yours.
ELEGY ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
BY MRS. WHARTON'.
DEEP waters silent roll; so grief like mine
| Tears never can relieve, nor words define.
Stop then, stop your vain source, weak springs of
grief,
Let tears flow from their eyes whom tears relieve.
They from their heads show the light trouble there,
Could my heart weep, its sorrows 'twould declare:
When drops of blood, my Heart, thou'st lost; thy
pride,
The cause of all thy hopes and fears, thy guide!
He would have led thee right in Wisdom's way,
And 'twas thy fault whene'er thou went'st astray:
See in p. 71 and 80, Mr. Waller's verses on the elegy here printed; and verses also on Mrs. Wharton's Paraphrase on the Lord's Prayer. Waller's two cantos of Divine Poesy were "occasioned upon sight of the 53d chapter of Isa'ah, turned into verse by Mrs. Wharton." Her Verses to Mr. Waller are mentioned by Ballard; and her translation of Penelope to Ulysses is printed in Tonson's edition of Ovid's Epistles. For further particulars of this lady, see Select Collection of Miscellaneous Poems, 1780, vol. i. p. 51. vol. ii. p. 319.
And since thou stray'dst when guided and led on,
Thou wilt be surely lost now left alone.
It is thy elegy Lwrite, not his :
He lives immortal and in highest bliss,
But thou art dead, alas! my Heart, thou 'rt dead:
He lives, that lovely soul for ever fled,
But thou 'mongst crowds on Earth art buried.
Great was thy loss, which thou canst ne'er express,
Nor was th' insensible dull nation's less;
He civiliz'd the rude, and taught the young,
Made fools grow wise; such artful magic hung
Upon his useful, kind, instructing tongue.
His lively wit was of himself a part,
Not, as in other men, the work of Art;
For, though his learning like his wit was great,
Yet sure all learning came below his wit;
As God's immediate gifts are better far
Than those we borrow from our likeness here,
He was-but I want words, and ne'er can tell,
Yet this I know, he did mankind excel.
He was what no man ever was before,
Nor can indulgent Nature give us more,
For, to make him, she exhausted all her store.
WENTWORTH DILLON, earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and Elizabeth Wentworth, sister to the earl of Strafford. He was born in Ireland' during the lieutenancy of Strafford, who, being both his uncle and his godfather, gave him his own surname. His father, the third earl of Roscommon, had been converted by Usher to the protestant religion; and when the popish rebellion broke out, Strafford, thinking the family in great danger from the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, and placed him at his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was instructed in Latin: which he learned so as to write it with purity and elegance, though he was never able to retain the rules of grammar.
Such is the account given by Mr. Fenton, from whose notes on Waller most of this account must be borrowed, though I know not whether all that he relates is certain. The instructor whom he assigns to Roscommon is one Dr. Hall, by whom he cannot mean the famous Hall, then an old man and a bishop.
When the storm broke out upon Strafford, his house was a shelter no longer; and Dillon, by the advice of Usher, was sent to Caen, where the protestants had then an university, and continued his studies under Bochart.
Young Dillon, who was sent to study under Bochart, and who is represented as having already made great proficiency in literature, could not be more than nine years old. Strafford went to govern Ireland in 1633, and was put to death eight years afterward. That he was sent to Caen is certain: that he was a great scholar may be doubted.
At Caen he is said to have had some preternatural intelligence of his father's death.
"The lord Roscommon, being a boy of ten years of age, at Caen in Normandy, one day was, as it were, madly extravagant in playing, leaping, getting over the tables, boards, &c. He was wont to be sober enough; they said, 'God grant this bodes no
'The Biog. Britan. says, probably about the year 1632; but this is inconsistent with the date of Strafford's viceroyalty in the following page. C.
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