1700

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

by William Congreve

THE WAY OF THE WORLD -

Audire est operae pretium, procedere recte

Qui moechis non vultis.- HORAT. Lib. i. Sat. 2. -

Metuat, doti deprensa.- Ibid.

COMMENDATORY VERSES -

To Mr. CONGREVE, occasioned by his Comedy called

"The Way of the World." -

WHEN pleasure's falling to the low delight,

In the vain joys of the uncertain sight;

No sense of wit when rude spectators know,

But in distorted gesture, farce and show;

How could, great author, your aspiring mind

Dare to write only to the few refined?

Yet though that nice ambition you pursue,

'Tis not in Congreve's power to please but few.

Implicitly devoted to his fame,

Well-dressed barbarians know his awful name.

Though senseless they're of mirth, but when they laugh,

As they feel wine, but when, till drunk, they quaff.

On you from fate a lavish portion fell

In every way of writing to excel.

Your muse applause to Arabella brings,

In notes as sweet as Arabella sings.

Whene'er you draw an undissembled woe,

With sweet distress your rural numbers flow:

Pastora's the complaint of every swain,

Pastora still the echo of the plain!

Or if your muse describe, with warming force,

The wounded Frenchman falling from his horse;

And her own William glorious in the strife,

Bestowing on the prostrate foe his life:

You the great act as generously rehearse,

And all the English fury's in your verse.

By your selected scenes and handsome choice,

Ennobled Comedy exalts her voice;

You check unjust esteem and fond desire,

And teach to scorn what else we should admire:

The just impression taught by you we bear,

The player acts the world, the world the player;

Whom still that world unjustly disesteems,

Though he alone professes what he seems.

But when your muse assumes her tragic part,

She conquers and she reigns in every heart:

To mourn with her men cheat their private woe,

And generous pity's all the grief they know.

The widow, who, impatient of delay,

From the town joys must mask it to the play,

Joins with your Mourning Bride's resistless moan,

And weeps a loss she slighted when her own:

You give us torment, and you give us ease,

And vary our afflictions as you please.

Is not a heart so kind as yours in pain,

To load your friends with cares you only feign;

Your friends in grief, composed yourself, to leave?

But 'tis the only way you'll e'er deceive.

Then still, great sir, your moving power employ,

To lull our sorrow, and correct our joy.

RICHARD STEELE.

To the Right Honourable

RALPH, EARL OF MONTAGUE, &c. -

MY LORD,

Whether the world will arraign me of vanity or not, that I have presumed to dedicate this comedy to your Lordship, I am yet in doubt; though, it may be, it is some degree of vanity even to doubt of it. One who has at any time had the honour of your Lordship's conversation, cannot be supposed to think very meanly of that which he would prefer to your perusal; yet it were to incur the imputation of too much sufficiency, to pretend to such a merit as might abide the test of your Lordship's censure.

Whatever value may be wanting to this play while yet it is mine, will be sufficiently made up to it when it is once become your Lordship's; and it is my security that I cannot have overrated it more by my dedication, than your Lordship will dignify it by your patronage.

That it succeeded on the stage, was almost beyond my expectation; for but little of it was prepared for that general taste which seems now to be predominant in the palates of our audience.

Those characters which are meant to be ridiculed in most of our comedies, are of fools so gross, that, in my humble opinion, they should rather disturb than divert the well-natured and reflecting part of an audience; they are rather objects of charity than contempt; and instead of moving our mirth, they ought very often to excite our compassion.