[4] [The exact sentence seems to have been "a Pindaric poet." But as Swift had tried nothing but Pindarics, it was nearly if not quite as severe as the more usually quoted and more sweeping verdict.--ED.]
[5] Robert Gould, author of that scandalous lampoon against Dryden, entitled "The Laureat," inscribes his collection of poems, printed 1688-9, to the Earl of Abingdon; and it contains some pieces addressed to him and to his lady. He survived also to compose, on the Earl's death, in 1700, "The Mourning Swan," an eclogue to his memory, in which a shepherd gives the following account of the proximate cause of that event:
"_Menaleus_. To tell you true (whoe'er it may displease), He died of the _Physician_--a disease That long has reigned, and eager of renown, More than a plague depopulates the town. Inflamed with wine, and blasting at a breath, All its _prescriptions_ are receipts for death. Millions of mischiefs by its rage are wrought, Safe where 'tis fled, but barbarous where 'tis sought; A cursed ingrateful ill, that called to aid, Is still most fatal where it best is paid."
[6] How far this was necessary, the reader may judge from Mirana, a funeral eclogue; sacred to the memory of that excellent lady, Eleonora, late Countess of Abingdon, 1691, 4th Aug., which concludes with the following singular _imprecation_:
"Hear, friend, my sacred imprecation hear, And let both of us kneel, and both be bare. Doom me (ye powers) to misery and shame, Let mine be the most ignominious name, Let me, each day, be with new griefs perplext, Curst in this life, nor blessed in the next, If I believe the like of her survives, Or if I think her not the best of mothers, and of wives."
[7] 30th August 1693, Dryden writes to Tonson, "I am sure you thought my Lord Radclyffe would have done something; I guessed more truly, that he could not."--Vol. xviii. The expression perhaps applies rather to his lordship's want of ability than inclination; and Dryden says indeed, in the dedication, that it is in his nature to be an encourager of good poets, though fortune has not yet put into his hands the power of expressing it. In a letter to Mrs. Steward, Dryden speaks of Ratcliffe as a poet, "and none of the best."--Vol. xviii.