To My Friend Mr Motteux,[1] On His Tragedy Called "beauty In Distress." Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AABBCCDDEEFGHHIIJJKK GGLMNNKKOOPPGGGQQKKR STTUUVVQQKKWXKK

'Tis hard my friend to write in such an ageA
As damns not only poets but the stageA
That sacred art by Heaven itself infusedB
Which Moses David Solomon have usedB
Is now to be no more the Muses' foesC
Would sink their Maker's praises into proseC
Were they content to prune the lavish vineD
Of straggling branches and improve the wineD
Who but a madman would his thoughts defendE
All would submit for all but fools will mendE
But when to common sense they give the lieF
And turn distorted words to blasphemyG
They give the scandal and the wise discernH
Their glosses teach an age too apt to learnH
What I have loosely or profanely writI
Let them to fires their due desert commitI
Nor when accused by me let them complainJ
Their faults and not their function I arraignJ
Rebellion worse than witchcraft they pursuedK
The pulpit preach'd the crime the people ruedK
The stage was silenced for the saints would seeG
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedyG
But let us first reform and then so liveL
That we may teach our teachers to forgiveM
Our desk be placed below their lofty chairsN
Ours be the practice as the precept theirsN
The moral part at least we may divideK
Humility reward and punish prideK
Ambition interest avarice accuseO
These are the province of a tragic MuseO
These hast thou chosen and the public voiceP
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choiceP
Time action place are so preserved by theeG
That even Corn ille might with envy seeG
The alliance of his tripled UnityG
Thy incidents perhaps too thick are sownQ
But too much plenty is thy fault aloneQ
At least but two can that good crime commitK
Thou in design and Wycherly in witK
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee if they dareR
Contented to be thinly regularS
Born there but not for them our fruitful soilT
With more increase rewards thy happy toilT
Their tongue enfeebled is refined too muchU
And like pure gold it bends at every touchU
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obeyV
More fit for manly thought and strengthen'd with allayV
But whence art thou inspired and thou aloneQ
To flourish in an idiom not thy ownQ
It moves our wonder that a foreign guestK
Should over match the most and match the bestK
In under praising thy deserts I wrongW
Here find the first deficience of our tongueX
Words once my stock are wanting to commendK
So great a poet and so good a friendK

John Dryden



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