deavour to compensate whatever I want in those glittering qualities, by which the world is dazzled, with truth, with faith, and with zeal to serve you; qualities which, for their rarity, might be objects of wonder, but that men dare not appear to admire them, because their admiration would manifestly declare their want of them. Thus, sir, let me assure you that though you are acquainted with several gentlemen whose eloquence and wit may capacitate them to offer their service with more address to you, yet no one can declare himself, with greater cheerfulness, or with greater fidelity, or with more profound respect than myself, sir, your most, &c.

JOHN DENNIS.

JOHN DRYDEN TO MR. DENNIS.

[Probably March, 1693-4.]

MY DEAR MR. DENNIS, WHEN I read a letter so full of my commendations as your last, I cannot but consider you as the master of a vast treasure, who having more than enough for yourself, are forced to ebb out upon your friends. You have indeed the best right to give them, since you have them in propriety; but they are no more mine when I receive them, than the light of the moon can be allowed to be her own, who shines but by the reflexion of her brother. Your own poetry is a more powerful example, to prove that the modern writers may enter into comparison with the an

he might perhaps be ingrateful enough not to own me for his benefactor.

After I have confessed thus much of our modern heroic poetry, I cannot but conclude with Mr. Rymer, that our English comedy is far beyond anything of the ancients: and, notwithstanding our irregularities, so is our tragedy. Shakspeare had a genius for it; and we know, in spite of Mr. Rymer, that genius alone is a greater virtue (if I may so call it) than all other qualifications put together. You see what success this learned critic has found in the world, after his blaspheming Shakspeare. Almost all the faults which he has discovered are truly there; yet who will read Mr. Rymer, or not read Shakspeare? For my own part I reverence Mr. Rymer's learning, but I detest his ill nature and his arrogance. I, indeed, and such as I, have reason to be afraid of him, but Shakspeare has not.

There is another part of poetry in which the English stand almost upon an equal foot with the ancients; and it is that which we call Pindaric; introduced, but not perfected, by our famous Mr. Cowley and of this, sir, you are certainly one of the greatest masters. You have the sublimity of sense as well as sound; and know how far the boldness of a poet may lawfully extend. I could wish you would cultivate this kind of ode; and reduce it either to the same measures which Pindar used, or give new measures of your own. For, as it is, it looks like a vast tract of land newly discovered: the soil is wonderfully fruitful, but unmanured; overstocked with inhabitants, but almost all savages,