Òåêñò îðèãèíàëà íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå
To Mr. Granville, on his excellent Tragedy, called Heroick Love
AUSPICIOUS Poet, wert thou not my Friend, How could I envy, what I must commend! But since ’tis Natures Law in Love and Wit, That Youth shou’d reign and with ’ring Age submit, With less regret those Lawrels I resign, Which dying on my Brows, revive on thine. With better Grace an Ancient Chief may yield The long contended Honours of the Field Than venture all his Fortune at a Cast, And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last. Young Princes Obstinate to win the Prize, Thô Yearly beaten, Yearly yet they rise: Old Monarchs though successful, still in Doubt, Catch at a Peace; and wisely turn Devout. Thine be the Lawrel then; thy blooming Age Can best, if any can, support the Stage: Which so declines, that shortly we may see Players and Plays reduc’d to second Infancy: Sharp to the World, but thoughtless of Renown, They Plot not on the Stage, but on the Town, And, in Despair their Empty Pit to fill. Set up some Foreign Monster in a Bill: Thus they jog on; still tricking, never thriving; And Murd’ring Plays, which they miscal Reviving. Our Sense is Nonsense, through their Pipes convey’d; Scarce can a Poet know the Play He made, ’Tis so disguis’d in Death: nor thinks ’tis He That suffers in the Mangled Tragedy. Thus Itys first was kill’d, and after dress’d For his own Sire, the Chief Invited Guest. I say not this of thy successful Scenes; Where thine was all the Glory, theirs the Gains. With length of Time, much Judgment, and more Toil, Not ill they Acted, what they cou’d not spoil. Their Setting Sun still shoots a Glim’ring Ray, Like Ancient Rome, Majestick in Decay; And better gleanings their worn Soil can boast, Than the Crab-Vintage of the Neighb’ring Coast. This difference yet the judging World will see; Thou Copiest Homer, and they Copy thee.
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