The old batchelour a comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre Royal, by Their Majesties servants / written by Mr. Congreve.

To Mr. CONGREVE, on his PLAY, called, The OLD BATCHELOR.

WIT, like true Gold, refin'd from all Allay, Immortal is, and never can decay: 'Tis in all Times and Languages the same; Nor can an ill Translation quench the Flame: For, tho' the Form and Fashion don't remain, Th' intrinsick value still it will retain. Then let each studied Scene be writ with Art; And Iudgment sweat to form the labour'd Part: Each Character be just, and Nature seem; Without th' Ingredient, Wit, 'tis all but Phlegm: For that's the Soul, which all the Mass must move, And wake our Passions into Grief, or Love. But you, too Bounteous, sow your Wit so thick, We are surpriz'd, and know not where to pick: And while our Clapping does you Iustice do, Our selves we injure, and lose something new.

What may'nt we then, great Youth, of thee presage, Whose Art and Wit so much transcend thy Age? How wilt thou shine at thy Meridian height? Who, at thy rising, give so vast a Light. VVhen DRYDEN dying, shall the VVorld deceive, VVhom we Immortal, as his VVorks, believe; Thou shalt succeed, the Glory of the Stage, Adorn and entertain the coming Age.

BEVIL HIGGINS.