To Her Royal Highness the Duchess16
Madam,
After having a great while wished to write something that might be worthy to lay at your Highness’s feet, and finding it impossible: since the world has been so kind to me to judge of this poem to my advantage, as the most pardonable fault which I have made in its kind, I had sinned against myself, if I had not chosen this opportunity to implore (what my ambition is most fond of) your favour and protection.
For, though Fortune would not so far bless my endeavours as to encourage them with your Royal Highness’s presence, when this came into the world, yet I cannot but declare it was my design and hopes it might have been your divertisement in that happy season when you returned again to cheer all those eyes that had before wept for your departure, and enliven all hearts that had drooped for your absence. When Wit ought to have paid its choicest tributes in, and Joy have known no limits, then I hoped my little mite would not have been rejected; though my ill fortune was too hard for me, and I lost a greater honour, by your Royal Highness’s absence, than all the applauses of the world besides can make me reparation for.
Nevertheless, I thought myself not quite unhappy, so long as I had hopes this way yet to recompense my disappointment past; when I considered also that poetry might claim right to a little share in your favour: for Tasso and Ariosto, some of the best, have made their names eternal by transmitting to after-ages the glory of your ancestors; and under the spreading of that shade, where two of the best have planted their laurels, how honoured should I be, who am the worst, if but a branch might grow for me!
I dare not think of offering anything in this address, that might look like a panegyric, for fear lest, when I have done my best, the world should condemn me for saying too little, and you yourself check me for meddling with a task unfit for my talent.
For the description of virtues and perfections so rare as yours are ought to be done by as deliberate, as skilful a hand; the features must be drawn very fine, to be like; hasty daubing would but spoil the picture, and make it so unnatural as must want false lights to set it off: and your virtue can receive no more lustre from praises than your beauty can be improved by art; which, as it charms the bravest Prince that ever amazed the world with his virtue, so let but all other hearts inquire into themselves, and then judge how it ought to be praised.
Your love, too, as none but that great hero who has it could deserve it, and therefore, by a particular lot from Heaven, was destined to so extraordinary a blessing, so matchless for itself, and so wondrous for its constancy, shall be remembered to your immortal honour, when all other transactions of the age you live in shall be forgotten.
But I forget that I am to ask pardon for the fault I have been all this while committing. Wherefore, I beg your Highness to forgive me this presumption, and that you will be pleased to think well of one who cannot help resolving, with all the actions of life, to endeavour to deserve it: nay, more, I would beg, and hope it may be granted, that I may, through yours, never want an advocate in his favour, whose heart and mind you have so entire a share in: it is my only portion and my fortune; I cannot but be happy so long as I have but hopes I may enjoy it, and I must be miserable should it ever be my ill fate to lose it.
This, with eternal wishes for your Royal Highness’s content, happiness, and prosperity, in all humility is presented by
Your most obedient, and devoted Servant,
THO. OTWAY.
Footnotes
15 High profits tempt the merchant to the main;
The pouch of gold repays the soldier’s pain;
The parasite will dine, and fawns to win
The couch and cup; the pander sells his sin.
Genius alone a shivering trade pursues,
And courts without a fee the friendless muse.
—A. W. V.
16 Mary Beatrix Eleonora of Este, daughter of the Duke of Modena. She was the Duke of York’s second wife. The allusion to Tasso may have proved not altogether delightful to a Princess of this house.
To you, great judges in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts which still have swayed
His pride, much doubting, trembling, and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And awed by every excellence in you,
The author sends to beg you would be kind,
And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You to whom wit a common foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn and publicly disown;
Though now perhaps you’re here for other ends,
He swears to me, ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne’er called ye yet insipid tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell you ye were fools:
But says of wit ye have so large a store,
So very much, you never will have more.
He ne’er with libel treated yet the town,
The names of honest men bedaubed and shown;
Nay, never once lampooned the harmless life
Of suburb-virgin, or of city-wife.
Satire’s the effect of poetry’s disease,
Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill fate the baneful cloud’s withdrawn,
And happiness again begins to dawn;
Since back with joy and triumph he is come,17
That always drove fears hence, ne’er brought them home.
Oft has he ploughed the boisterous ocean o’er,
Yet ne’er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before.
For then fresh laurels flourished on his brow,
And he comes crowned with olive-branches now;
Receive him! oh, receive him as his friends;
Embrace the blessings which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne’er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.
Footnotes
17 The Duke of York; who had returned from Brussels, whither he had retired to escape the clamours of the Protestant party.
Acasto, a Nobleman retired from Court, and living privately in the Country.
Castalio, } Twin Sons of Acasto.
Polydore, }
Chamont, a young Soldier of Fortune.
Ernesto, } Servants to Acasto.
Paulino, }
Cordelio, Polydore’s Page.
Chaplain.
Servants.
Monimia, the Orphan, left under the Guardianship of Acasto.
Serina, Acasto’s Daughter.
Florella, Monimia’s Woman.
SCENE—Bohemia.
THE ORPHAN.