FAR be it from me, (My moſt Noble Lord) to think, that any thing which my meanneſs can produce, ſhould be worthy to be offer'd to your Patronage; or that ought which I can ſay of you ſhou'd recommend you farther, to the eſteem of good men in this preſent Age, or to the veneration which will certainly be paid you by Poſterity. On th • other ſide, I muſt acknowledg it a great preſumption in me, to make you this Addreſs; and ſo much the greater, becauſe by the common ſuffrage even of contrary parties, yon have been always regarded, as one of the firſt Perſons of the Age, and yet no one Writer has dar'd to tell you ſo: Whether we have been, all conſcious to our ſelves that it was a needleſs labour to give this notice to Mankind, as all men are aſham'd to tell ſtale news, or that we were juſtly diffident of our own performances, as even Cicero is obſerv'd to be in awe when he writes to Atticus; where knowing himſelf overmatch'd in good ſenſe, and truth of knowledg, he drops the gawdy train of words, and is no longer the vain-glorious Orator. From whatever reaſon it may be, I am the firſt bold offender of this kind: I have broken down the fence, and ventur'd into the Holy Grove; how I may be puniſh'd for my profane attempt, I know not; but I wiſh it may not be of ill Omen to your Lordſhip; and that a crowd of bad Writers, do not ruſh into the quiet of your receſſes after me. Every man in all changes of Government, which have been, or may poſſibly arrive, will agree, that I cou'd not have offer'd my Incenſe, where it cou'd be ſo well deſerv'd. For you, My Lord, are ſecure in your own merit; and all Parties, as they riſe uppermoſt, are ſure to court you in their turns; 'tis a tribute which has ever been paid your vertue: The leading men ſtill bring their bullion to your mint, to receive the ſtamp of their intrinſick value, that they may afterwards hope to paſs with human kind. They riſe and fall in the variety of Revolutions; and are ſometimes great, and therefore wiſe in mens opinions, who muſt court them for their intereſt: But the reputation of their parts moſt commonly follows their ſucceſs; few of 'em are wiſe, but as they are in power: Becauſe indeed, they have no ſphere of their own, but like the Moon in the Copernican Syſteme of the World, are whirl'd about by the motion of a greater Planet. This it is to be ever buſie; neither to give reſt to their Fellow creatures, nor, which is more wretchedly ridiculous, to themſelves: Tho truly, the latter is a kind of juſtice, and giving Mankind a due revenge, that they will not permit their own hearts to be at quiet, who diſturb the repoſe of all beſide them. Ambitious Meteors! how willing they are to ſet themſelves upon the Wing; and taking every occaſion of drawing upward to the Sun: Not conſidering that they have no more time allow'd them for their mounting, than the ſhort revolution of a day: and that when the light goes from them, they are of neceſſity to fall. How much happier is he, (and who he is I need not ſay, for there is but one Phoenix in an Age,) who centring on himſelf, remains immovable, and ſmiles at the madneſs of the dance about him. He poſſeſſes the midſt, which is the portion of ſafety and content: He will not be higher, becauſe he needs it not; but by the prudence of that choice, he puts it out of Fortunes power to throw him down. 'Tis confeſt, that if he had not ſo been born, he might have been too high for happineſs; but not endeavoring to aſcend, he ſecures the native height of his ſtation from envy; and cannot deſcend from what he is, becauſe he depends not on another. What a glorious Character was this once in Rome; I ſhou'd ſay in Athens, when in the diſturbances of a State as mad as ours, the wiſe Pomponius tranſported all the remaining wiſdom and vertue of his Country, into the Sanctuary of Peace and Learning. But, I wou'd ask the World, (for you, My Lord, are too nearly concern'd to judge this Cauſe) whether there may not yet be found, a Character of a Noble Engliſhman, equally ſhining with that illuſtrious Roman? Whether I need to name a ſecond Atticus; or whether the World has not already prevented me, and fix'd it there without my naming. Not a ſecond with a longo ſed proximus intervallo, not a Young Marcellus, flatter'd by a Poet, into a reſemblance of the firſt, with a frons laeta parum, & dejecto lumina vultu, and the reſt that follows, ſi qua fata aſpera rumpas Tu Marcellus eris: But a Perſon of the ſame ſtamp and magnitude; who owes nothing to the former, beſides the Word Roman, and the Superſtition of reverence, devolving on him by the precedency of eighteen hundred years. One who walks by him with equal paces, and ſhares the eyes of beholders with him: One, who had been firſt, had he firſt liv'd; and in ſpight of doating veneration is ſtill his equal. Both of them born of Noble Families in unhappy Ages, of change and tumult; both of them retiring from Affairs of State: Yet, not leaving the Common-wealth, till it had left it ſelf; but never returning to publick b • ſineſs, when they had once quitted it; tho courted by the Heads of either Party. But who wou'd truſt the quiet of their lives, with the extravagancies of their Countrymen, when they were juſt in the giddineſs of their turning; when the ground was tottering under them at every moment; and none cou'd gueſs whether the next heave of the Earthquake, wou'd ſettle them on the firſt Foundation, or ſwallow it? Both of them knew Mankind exactly well; for both of them began that ſtudy in themſelves; and there they found the beſt part of humane compoſition, the worſt they learn'd by long experience of the folly, ignorance, and immorality of moſt beſide them. Their Philoſophy on both ſides, was not wholly ſpeculative, for that is barren, and produces nothing but vain Ideas of things which cannot poſſibly be known; or if they cou'd, yet wou'd only terminate in the underſtanding; but it was a noble, vigorous, and practical Philoſophy, which exerted it ſelf in all the offices of pity, to thoſe who were unfortunate, and deſerv'd not ſo to be. The Friend was always more conſider'd by them than the cauſe: And an Octavius, or an Anthony in diſtreſs, were reliev'd by them, as well as a Brutus or a Caſſius. For the lowermoſt party to a noble mind, is ever the fitteſt object of good will. The eldeſt of them, I will ſuppoſe for his honour, to have been of the Academick Sect, neither Dogmatiſt nor Stoick; if he were not, I am ſure he ought in common juſtice, to yield the precedency to his younger Brother. For ſtiffneſs of Opinion is the effect of Pride, and not of Philoſophy: 'Tis a miſerable Preſumption of that knowledg which humane Nature is too narrow to contain. And the ruggedneſs of a Stoick is only a ſilly affectation of being a God: To wind himſelf up by Pulleys, to an inſenſibility of ſuffering; and at the ſame time to give the lye to his own Experience, by ſaying he ſuffers not, what he knows he feels. True, Philoſophy is certainly of a more pliant Nature, and more accommodated to human uſe; Homo ſum, humani à me nihil alienum puto. A wiſe man will never attempt an impoſſibility; and ſuch it is to ſtrain himſelf beyond the nature of his Being; either to become a Deity, by being above ſuffering, or to debaſe himſelf into a Stock or Stone, by pretending not to feel it. To find in ourſelves the Weakneſſes and Imperfections of our wretched Kind, is ſurely the moſt reaſonable ſtep we can make towards the Compaſſion of our fellow Creatures. I cou'd give Examples of this kind in the ſecond Atticus. In every turn of State, without meddling on either ſide, he has always been favorable and aſſiſting to oppreſt Merit. The Praiſes which were given by a great Poet to the late Queen Mother on her rebuilding Somerſet Palace, one part of which was fronting to the mean Houſes on the other ſide of the Water, are as juſtly his: For, the diſtreſt, and the afflicted lye Moſt in his Thoughts, and always in his Eye. Neither has he ſo far forgotten a poor Inhabitant of his Suburbs, whoſe beſt proſpect is on the Garden of Leiceſter-Houſe; but that more than once he has been offering him his Patronage, to reconcile him to a World, of which his Misfortunes have made him weary. There is another Sidney ſtill remaining, tho there can never be another Spencer to deſerve the Favor. But one Sidney gave his Patronage to the applications of a Poet; the other offer'd it unask'd. Thus, whether as a ſecond Atticus, or a ſecond Sir Philip Sidney, the latter, in all reſpects, will not have the worſe of the compariſon; and if he will take up with the ſecond place, the World will not ſo far flatter his Modeſty, as to ſeat him there, unleſs it be out of a deference of Manners, that he may place himſelf where he pleaſes at his own Table.

I may therefore ſafely conclude, that he, who by the conſent of all men, bears ſo eminent a Character, will out of his inborn Nobleneſs, forgive the Preſumption of this Addreſs. 'Tis an unfiniſh'd Picture, I confeſs, but the Lines and Features are ſo like, that it cannot be miſtaken for any other; and without writing any name under it, every beholder muſt cry out, at the firſt ſight, this was deſign'd for Atticus; but the bad Artiſt, has caſt too much of him into ſhades. But I have this Excuſe, that even the greater Maſters commonly fall ſhort of the beſt Faces. They may flatter an indifferent Beauty; but the excellencies of Nature, can have no right done to them: For there both the Pencil and the Pen are overcome by the Dignity of the Subject; as our admirable Wal • er has expreſs'd it; The Hero's Race tranſcends the Poet's Thought.

There are few in any Age who can bear the load of a Dedication; for where Praiſe is undeſerv'd, 'tis Satyr: Tho Satyr on Folly is now no longer a Scandal to any one Perſon, where a whole Age is dipt together; yet I had rather undertake a Multitude one way, than a ſingle Aiticus the other; for 'tis eaſier to deſcend, than 'tis to climb. I ſhou'd have gone aſham'd out of the World, if I had not at leaſt attempted this Addreſs, which I have long thought owing: And if I had never attempted, I might have been vain enough to think I might have ſucceeded in it: now I have made the Experiment, and have fail'd, through my Unworthineſs. I may reſt ſatisfi'd, that either the Adventure is not to be atchiev'd, or that it is reſerv'd for ſome other hand.

Be pleas'd therefore, ſince the Family of the Attici is and ought to be above the common Forms of concluding Letters, that I may take my leave in the Words of Cicero to the firſt of them: Me, O Pomponi, valdè poenitet vivere: tantùm te oro, ut quoniam me ipſe ſemper amâſti, ut eodem amore ſis; ego nimirum, idem ſum. Inimici mei mea mihi non meipſum ademerunt. Cura, Attice, ut valeas.

WHether it happen'd through a long diſuſe of Writing, that I forgot the uſual compaſs of a Play; or that by crowding it, with Characters and Incidents, I put a neceſſity upon my ſelf of lenghthning the main Action, I know not; but the firſt days Audience ſufficiently convinc • d me of my error; and that the Poem was inſupportably too long. 'Tis an ill ambition of us Poets, to pleaſe an Audience with more than they can bear: And, ſuppoſing that we wrote as well, as vainly we imagin our ſelves to write; yet we ought to conſider, that no man can bear to be long tickled. There is a nauſeouſneſs in a City feaſt when we are to ſit four hours after we are cloy'd. I am, therefore, in the firſt place, to acknowledg with all manner of gratitude, their civility; who were pleas'd to endure it with ſo much patience, to be weary with ſo much good nature and ſilence, and not to explode an entertainment, which was deſign'd to pleaſe them; or diſcourage an Author, whoſe misfortunes have once more brought him againſt his will, upon the Stage. While I continue in theſe bad circumſtances, (and truly I ſee very little probability of coming out:) I muſt be oblig'd to write, and if I may ſtill hope for the ſame kind uſage, I ſhall the leſs repent of that hard neceſſity. I write not this out of any expectation to be pityed; for I have Enemies enow to wiſh me yet in a worſe condition; but give me leave to ſay, that if I can pleaſe by writing, as I ſhall endeavour it, the Town may be ſomewhat oblig'd to my misfortunes, for a part of their diverſion. Having been longer acquainted with the Stage, than any Poet now living, and having obſerv'd how difficult it was to pleaſe; that the humours of Comedy were almoſt ſpent, that Love and Honour (the miſtaken Topicks of Tragedy) were quite worn out, that the Theaters cou'd not ſupport their charges, that the Audience forſook them, that young men without Learning ſet up for Judges, and that they talk'd loudeſt, who underſtood the leaſt: all theſe diſcouragements had not only wean'd me from the Stage, but had alſo given me a loathing of it. But enough of this: the difficulties continue; they increaſe, and I am ſtill condemn'd to dig in thoſe exhauſted Mines. Whatever fault I next commit, reſt aſſur'd it ſhall not be that of too much length: Above twelve hunder'd lines have been cut off from this Tragedy, ſince it was firſt deliver'd to the Actors. They were indeed ſo judiciouſly lopt by Mr. Betterton, to whoſe care and excellent action, I am equally oblig'd, that the connexion of the ſtory was not loſt; but on the other ſide, it was impoſſible to prevent ſome part of the action from being precipitated, and coming on without that due preparation, which is requir'd to all great events: as in particular, that of raiſing the Mobile, in the beginning of the Fourth Act; which a Man of Benducar's cool Character, cou'd not naturally attempt, without taking all thoſe precautions, which he foreſaw wou'd be neceſſary to render his deſign ſucceſsful. On this conſideration, I have replac'd thoſe lines, through the whole Poem; and thereby reſtor'd it, to that clearneſs of conception, and (if I may dare to ſay it) that luſtre, and maſculine vigour, in which it was firſt written. 'Tis obvious to every underſtanding Reader, that the moſt poetical parts, which are Deſcriptions, Images, Similitudes, and Moral Sentences; are thoſe, which of neceſſity were to be par'd away, when the body was ſwoln into too large a bulk for the repreſentation of the Stage. But there is a vaſt difference betwixt a publick entertainment on the Theatre, and a private reading in the Cloſet: In the firſt we are confin'd to time, and though we talk not by the hour-glaſs, yet the Watch often drawn out of the pocket, warns the Actors, that their Audience is weary; in the laſt, every Reader is judge of his own convenience; he can take up the book, and lay it down at his pleaſure; and find out thoſe beauties of propriety, in thought and writing, which eſcap'd him in the tumult and hurry of repreſenting. And I dare boldly promiſe for this Play, that in the roughneſs of the numbers and cadences, (which I aſſure was not caſual, but ſo deſign'd) you will ſee ſomewhat more maſterly ariſing to your view, than in moſt, if not any of my former Tragedies. There is a more noble daring in the Figures and more ſuitable to the loſtineſs of the Subject; and beſides this ſome newneſſes of Engliſh, tranſlated from the Beauties of Modern Tongues, as well as from the elegancies of the Latin; and here and there ſome old words are ſprinkled, which for their ſignificance and ſound, deſerv'd not to be antiquated; ſuch as we often find in Saluſt amongſt the Roman Authors, and in Milton's Paradiſe amongſt ours; though perhaps the latter inſtead of ſprinkling, has dealt them with too free a hand, even ſometimes to the obſcuring of his ſenſe.

As for the ſtory or plot of the Tragedy, 'tis purely fiction; for I take it up where the Hiſtory has laid it down. We are aſſur'd by all Writers of thoſe times, that Sebaſtian a young Prince of great courage and expectation, undertook that War partly upon a religious account, partly at the ſollicitation of Muley-Mahumet, who had been driven out of his Dominions, by Abdelmelech, or as others call him Muley-Moluch his nigh Kinſman, who deſcended from the ſame Family of the Xeriff's; whoſe Fathers Hamet and Mahomet had conquer'd that Empire with joint Forces; and ſhar'd it betwixt them after their victory: That the body of Don Sebaſtian was never found in the Field of Battel; which gave occaſion for many to believe, that he was not ſlain; that ſome years after, when the Spaniards with a pretended title, by force of Arms had Ʋſurp'd the Crown of Portugal, from the Houſe of Braganza, a certain Perſon who call'd himſelf Don Sebaſtian, and had all the marks of his body and features of his face, appear'd at Venice, where he was own'd by ſome of his Country-men; but being ſeiz'd by the Spaniards was firſt Impriſon'd, then ſent to the Gallies, and at laſt put to Death in private. 'Tis moſt certain, that the Portugueſes expected his return for almoſt an Age together after that Battel; which is at leaſt a proof of their extream love to his Memory; and the uſage which they had from their new Conquerors, might poſſibly make them ſo extravagant in their hopes and wiſhes for their old Maſter.

This ground work the Hiſtory afforded me, and I deſire no better to build a Play upon it: For where the event of a great action is left doubtful, there the Poet is left Maſter: He may raiſe what he pleaſes on that foundation, provided he makes it of a piece, and according to the rule of probability. From hence I was only oblig'd, that Sebaſtian ſhou'd return to Portugal no more; but at the ſame time I had him at my own diſpoſal, whether to beſtow him in Affrick, or in any other corner of the World, or to have elos'd the Tragedy with his death; and the laſt of theſe was certainly the moſt eaſie, but for the ſame reaſon, the leaſt artful; becauſe as I have ſomewhere ſaid, the poyſon and the dagger are ſtill at hand, to butcher a Heroe, when a Poet wants the brains to ſave him. It being therefore only neceſſary according to the Laws of the Drama, that Sebaſtian ſhou'd no more be ſeen vpon the Throne, I leave it for the World to judge, whether or no I have diſpoſed of him according to art, or have bungled up the concluſion of his adventure. In the drawing of his character I forgot not piety, which any one may obſerve to be one principal ingredient of it; even ſo far as to be a habit in him; though I ſhow him once to be tranſported from it by the violence of a ſudden paſſion, to endeavor a ſelf murther. This being preſuppos'd, that he was Religious, the horror of his inceſt, tho innocently committed, was the beſt reaſon which the Stage cou'd give for hind'ring his return. 'Tis true I have no right to blaſt his Memory, with ſuch a crime: but declaring it to be fiction, I deſire my Audience to think it no longer true, than while they are ſeeing it repreſented: For that once ended, he may be a Saint for ought I know; and we have reaſon to preſume he is. On this ſuppoſition, it was unreaſonable to have kill'd him; for the Learned Mr. Rymer has well obſerv'd, that in all puniſhments we are to regulate our ſelves by Poetical juſtice; and according to thoſe meaſures an involuntary ſin deſerves not death; from whence it follows, that to divorce himſelf from the beloved object, to retire into a deſart, and deprive himſelf of a Throne, was the utmoſt puniſhment, which a Poet cou'd inflict, as it was alſo the utmoſt reparation, which Sebaſtian cou'd make. For what relates to Almeyda, her part is wholly fictitious: I know it is the ſurname of a noble Family in Portugal, which was very inſtrumental in the Reſtoration of Don John de Braganza, Father to the moſt Illuſtrious and moſt Pious Princeſs our Queen Dowager. The French Author of a Novel, call'd Don Sebaſtian, has given that name to an Affrican Lady of his own invention, and makes her Siſter to Muley-Mahumet. But I have wholly chang'd the accidents, and borrow'd nothing but the ſuppoſition, that ſhe was belov'd by the King of Portugal. Tho, if I had taken the whole ſtory, and wrought it up into a Play, I might have done it exactly according to the practice of almoſt all the Ancients; who were never accus'd of being Plagiaries, for building their Tragedies on known Fables. Thus Auguſtus Caeſar wrote an Ajax, which was not the leſs his own, becauſe Euripides had written a Play before him on that Subject. Thus of late years Corneille writ an Oedipus after Sophocles; and I have deſign'd one after him, which I wrote with Mr. Lee, yet neither the French Poet ſtole from the Greek, nor we from the French man. 'Tis the contrivance, the new turn, and new characters, which alter the property and make it ours. The Materia Poetica is as common to all Writers, as the Materia Medica to all Phyſicians. Thus in our Chronicles, Daniels Hiſtory is ſtill his own, though Matthew Paris, Stow and Hollingſhed writ before him, otherwiſe we muſt have been content with their dull relations, if a better Pen had not been allow'd to come after them, and write his own account after a new and better manner.

I muſt farther declare freely, that I have not exactly kept to the three Mechanick rules of unity: I knew them and had them in my eye, but follow'd them only at a diſtance; for the Genius of the Engliſh cannot bear too regular a Play; we are given to variety, even to a debauchery of Pleaſure. My Scenes are therefore ſometimes broken, becauſe my Ʋnder-plot requir'd them ſo to be; though the General Scene remains of the ſame Caſtle, and I have taken the time of two days, becauſe the variety of accidents, which are here repreſented, cou'd not naturally be ſuppos'd to arrive in one: But to gain a greater Beauty, 'tis lawful for a Poet to ſuperſede a leſs.

I muſt likewiſe own, that I have ſomewhat deviated from the known Hiſtory, in the death of Muley-Moluch, who, by all relations dyed of a feaver in the Battel, before his Army had wholly won the Field; but if I have allow'd him another day of life, it was becauſe I ſtood in need of ſo ſhining a Character of brutality, as I have given him; which is indeed the ſame, with that of the preſent Emperor Muley Iſhmael, as ſome of our Engliſh Officers, who have been in his Court, have credibly inform'd me.

I have been liſtning what objections had been made, againſt the conduct of the Play, but found them all ſo trivial, that if I ſhou'd name them, a true critick wou'd imagin that I play'd booty, and only rais'd up fantoms for my ſelf to conquer. Some are pleas'd to ſay the Writing is dull; but aetatem habet de ſe loquatur. Others that the double poyſon is unnatural; let the common received opinion, and Auſonius his famous Epigram anſwer that. Laſtly a more ignorant ſort of Creatures than either of the former, maintain that the Character of Dorax, is not only unnatural, but inconſiſtent with it ſelf; let them read the Play and think again, and if yet they are not ſatisfied, caſt their eyes on that Chapter of the Wiſe Montaigne, which is intituled de l' Inconſtance des actions humaines. A longer reply, is what thoſe Cavillers deſerve not; but I will give them and their fellows to underſtand, that the Earl of Dorſet, was pleas'd to read the Tragedy twice over before it was Acted; and did me the favour to ſend me word, that I had written beyond any of my former Plays; and that he was diſpleas'd any thing ſhou'd be cut away. If I have not reaſon to prefer his ſingle judgment to a whole Faction, let the World be judge; for the oppoſition is the ſame with that of Lucan's Heroe againſt an Army; concurrere bellum, atque virum. I think I may modeſtly conclude, that whatever errors there may be, either in the deſign, or writing of this Play, they are not thoſe which have been objected to it. I think alſo, that I am not yet arriv'd to the Age of doating; and that I have given ſo much application to this Poem, that I cou'd not probably let it run into many groſs abſurdities; which may caution my Enemies from too raſh a cenſure; and may alſo encourage my friends, who are many more than I cou'd reaſonably have expected, to believe their kindneſs has not been very undeſervedly beſtowed on me. This is not a Play that was huddled up in haſt; and to ſhew it was not, I will own, that beſide the general Moral of it, which is given in the four laſt lines, there is alſo another Moral, couch'd under every one of the principal Parts and Characters, which a judicious Critick will obſerve, though I point not to it in this Preface. And there may be alſo ſome ſecret Beauties in the decorum of parts, and uniformity of deſign, which my puny judges will not eaſily find out; let them conſider in the laſt Scene of the fourth Act, whether I have not preſerv'd the rule of decency, in giving all the advantage to the Royal Character; and in making Dorax firſt ſubmit: Perhaps too they may have thought, that it was through indigence of Characters, that I have given the ſame to Sebaſtian and Almeyda; and conſequently made them alike in all things but their Sex. But let them look a little deeper into the matter, and they will find that this identity of Character in the greatneſs of their Souls; was intended for a preparation of the final diſcovery, and that the likeneſs of their nature, was a fair hint to the proximity of their blood.

To avoid the imputation of too much vanity (for all Writers, and eſpecially Poets will have ſome) I will give but one other inſtance, in relation to the Ʋniformity of the deſign. I have obſerv'd that the Engliſh will not bear a thorough Tragedy; but are pleas'd, that it ſhou'd be lightned with underparts of mirth. It had been eaſie for me to have given my Audience a better courſe of Comedy, I mean a more diverting, than that of Antonio and Morayma. But I dare appeal even to my Enemies, if I or any man cou'd have invented one, which had been more of a piece, and more depending, on the ſerious part of the deſign. For what cou'd be more uniform, than to draw from out of the members of a Captive Court, the Subject of a Comical entertainment? To prepare this Epiſode, you ſee Dorax giving the Character of Antonio, in the beginning of the Play, upon his firſt ſight of him at the Lottery; and to make the dependence, Antonio is ingag'd in the Fourth Act, for the deliverance of Almeyda; which is alſo prepar'd, by his being firſt made a Slave to the Captain of the Rabble.

I ſhou'd beg pardon for theſe inſtances; but perhaps they may be of uſe to future Poets, in the conduct of their Plays: At leaſt if I appear too poſitive; I am growing old, and thereby, in poſſeſſion of ſome experience, which men in years will always aſſume for a right of talking. Certainly, if a Man can ever have reaſon to ſet a value on himſelf, 'tis when his ungenerous Enemies are taking the advantage of the Times upon him, to ruin him in his reputation. And therefore for once, I will make bold to take the Counſel of my Old Maſter Virgil.