JOHN DRYDEN, 1667
(1631-1700)

As when a tree's cut down, the secret root
Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;
So, from old Shakespeare's honour'd dust, this day
Springs up and buds a new reviving play.
Shakespeare who, taught by none, did first impart
To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.
He, monarch-like, gave those his subjects law,
And is that Nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow,

Whilst Jonson crept and gather'd all below.
This did his love, and this his mirth digest:
One imitates him most, the other best.

If they have since out-writ all other men,

'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's pen.
The storm which vanish'd on the neighb'ring shore,
Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to roar.
That innocence and beauty which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this Enchanted Isle.
But Shakespeare's magick could not copy'd be,
Within that circle none durst walk but he.
I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magick supernatural things:
But Shakespeare's pow'r is sacred as a king's.

Those legends from old priesthood were receiv'd,
And he then writ, as people then believed.

Prologue to the Tempest or the Enchanted Island, by Sir
William D'Avenant and John Dryden.

1676.

See also Dryden's Prologue to Troilus and Cressida, spoken by Mr. Betterton representing the Ghost of Shakespeare.

1668

To begin, then, with Shakespeare; he was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him; no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets,

Quantum lenta solent inter viberna cupressi.

Of Dramatic Poesie, an Essay, 1668, p. 47.

The following is from Dryden's Defence of the Epilogue:—Let any man who understands English read diligently the works of Shakespeare and Fletcher, and

I dare undertake that he will find in every page either some solecism of speech, or some notorious flaw in sense; and yet these men are reverenced, when we are not forgiven. That their wit is great, and many times their expressions noble, envy itself cannot deny.

-Neque ego illis detrahere ausim

Hærentem capiti multa cum laude coronam.

But the times were ignorant in which they lived. Poetry was then, if not in its infancy among us, at least not arrived to its vigour and maturity. Witness the lameness of their plots; many of which, especially those which they writ first (for even that age refined itself in some measure), were made up of some ridiculous incoherent story, which in one play many times took up the business of an age. I suppose I need not name "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," nor the historical plays of Shakespeare; besides many of the rest, as the "Winter's Tale," "Love's Labour's Lost," "Measure for Measure," which were either grounded on impossibilities, or at least so meanly written that the comedy neither caused your mirth, nor the serious part your concernment.

ANONYMOUS, 1672

IN country beauties, as we often see
Something that takes in their simplicity;

Yet while they charm, they know not they are fair,
And take without their spreading of the snare ;
Such artless beauty lies in Shakespeare's wit,
'Twas well in spite of him what ere he writ.
His excellencies came and were not sought,
His words like casual atoms made a thought:
Drew up themselves in rank and file, and writ,
He wond'ring how the Devil it were such wit.
Thus like the drunken tinker, in his play,
He grew a prince, and never knew which way.
He did not know what trope or figure meant,
But to persuade is to be eloquent ;

So in this Cæsar which this day you see,

Tully ne'er spoke as he makes Anthony.
Those then that tax his learning are to blame,
He knew the thing, but did not know the name:
Great Jonson did that ignorance adore,

And though he envied much, admir'd him more.

The faultless Jonson equally writ well:

Shakespeare made faults; but then did more excell.
One close at guard like some old fencer lay,
T'other more open, but he show'd more play.
In imitation Jonson's wit was shown,

Heaven made his men but Shakespeare made his own.

Wise Jonson's talent in observing lay,
But other's follies still made up his play.
He drew the like in each elaborate line,
But Shakespeare, like a master, did design.
Jonson with skill dissected human kind,

And show'd their faults that they their faults might find.

But then, as all anatomists must do,

He to the meanest of mankind did go,

And took from gibbets such as he would show.
Both are so great that he must boldly dare,
Who both of 'em does judge and both compare.
If amongst poets one more bold there be,
The man that dare attempt in either way, is he.

Covent Garden Drollery, or a Collection of all the

Choice Songs, Poems, Prologues, and Epilogues (Sung and Spoken at Courts and Theaters), never in Print before. Written by the refined'st Witts of the Age, and collected by A. B. [? Alex. Brome]. 1672.