DRYDEN. 321 



&quot; The gods are just, 

 But how can finite measure infinite ? 

 Reason ! alas, it does not know itself ! 

 Yet man, vain man, would with his short-lined plummet 

 Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. 

 &quot;Whatever is, is in its causes just, 

 Since all things are by fate. But purblind man 

 Sees but a part o th chain, the nearest links, 

 His eyes not carrying to that equal beam 

 That poises all above.&quot; 



From the same play I pick an illustration of that ripened 

 sweetness of thought and language which marks the natural 

 vein of Dryden. One cannot help applying the passage to 

 the late Mr. Quincy : 



&quot; Of no distemper, of no blast he died, 

 But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long, 

 E en wondered at because he dropt no sooner ; 

 Fate seemed to wind hi.n up for fourscore years ; 

 Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more, 

 Till, like a clock worn out with eating Time, 

 The wheels of weary life at last stood still.&quot;* 



Here is another of the same kind from &quot; All for Love : &quot; 



&quot; Gone so soon ! 



Is Death no more ? He used him carelessly, 

 With a familiar kindness ; ere he knocked, 

 Ran to the door and took him in his arms, 

 As who should say, You re welcome at all hours, 

 A friend need give no warning.&quot; 



With one more extract from the same play, which is in 

 every way his best, for he had, when he wrote it, been feeding 

 on the bee-bread of Shakespeare, I shall conclude. Antony 

 says, 



&quot; For I am now so sunk from what I was, 

 Thou fmd st me at my lowest water-mark. 

 The rivers that ran in and raised my fortunes 

 Are all dried up, or take another course : 

 What I have left is from my native spring ; 

 I ve a heart still that swells in scorn of Fate, 

 And lifts me to niy banks. &quot; 



* My own judgment is my sole warrant for attributing these extracts 

 from (Edipus to Dryden rather than Lee. 



149 



