se
in Serious Plays had not a leg to stand on. Yet throughout he preserves
a wonderful air of candour and moderation, as most becoming the
victorious champion of rhyme. As, for example, where he allows that,
whether it be natural or not in plays, is a problem not demonstrable on
either side. But in reference to Sir Robert's acknowledgment, that he
had rather read good verse than prose, he adds triumphantly, "that is
enough for me; for if all the enemies of verse will confess as much, I
shall not need to prove that it is natural. I am satisfied if it cause
delight; for delight is the chief, if not the only end of poesy;
instruction can be admitted but in the second place, for poesy only
instructs as it delights. It is true, that to imitate well is a poet's
work; but to affect the soul, and to excite the passions, and, above
all, to move admiration, (which is the delight of Serious Plays,) a bare
imitation will not serve. The converse, therefore, which a poet is to
imitate, must be heightened with all the arts and ornaments of poesy;
and must be such as, strictly considered, could never be supposed spoken
by any without premeditation."

In his various argument in defence of the use of rhyme on the stage,
Dryden, we have seen, always speaks of its peculiar adaptation to
"Serious Plays," or "Heroic Plays." In an essay thereon, prefixed to the
"Conquest of Grenada," in the pride of success he says, "whether heroic
verse ought to be admitted into Serious Plays, is not now to be
disputed." And he again takes up the obstinate objection to rhyme, which
he had not yet, it seems, battered to death, that it is not so near
conversation as prose, and therefore not so natural. But it is very
clear to all who understand poetry, that Serious Plays ought not to
imitate conversation too nearly. If nothing were to be traced above that
level, the foundation of poetry would be destroyed. Once grant that
thoughts may be exalted, and that images and actions may be raised above
the life, and described in measure without rhyme, and that leads you
insensibly from your principles; admit some latitude, and having
forsaken the imitation of ordinary converse, where are you now? "You are
gone beyond it, and to continue where you are, is to lodge in the open
fields between two inns." You have lost that which you call natural, and
have not acquired the last perfection of art. It was only custom, he
says, which cozened us so long; we thought because Shak