You taught me first my Genius and my Power,
Taught me to know my own, but gave me more.
He praises Congreve's verses, and then goes on to say, in lines of conspicuous warmth and sincerity:
Nor does your Verse alone our Passions move;
Beyond the Poet, we the Person love.
In you, and almost only you, we find
Sublimity of Wit and Candour of the Mind.
Both have their Charms, and both give that delight.
'Tis pity that you should, or should not write.
He proceeds, enthusiastically, in this strain, and closes at last in words which still carry a melodious echo:
Here should I, not to tire your patience, end,
But who can part so soon, with such a Friend?
You know my Soul, like yours, without design,
You know me yours, and I too know you mine.
I owe you all I am, and needs must mourn
My want of Power to make you some return.
Since you gave all, do not a part refuse,
But take this slender Offering of the Muse.
Friendship, from servile Interest free, secures
My Love, sincerely, and entirely yours.
This is by no means the only occasion on which Charles Hopkins proclaimed his gratitude and affection. As early as 1694 he paid a tribute of friendship to Congreve, who wrote a prologue to Hopkins's first tragedy, Pyrrhus King of Epirus (1695). I think we may presume that it was owing to the greater poet's influence that Pyrrhus was put on the stage, for Congreve wrote a prologue, in which he warmly recommended it, saying:
'Tis the first Flight of a just-feather'd Muse,
adding, to the audience:
Then spare the Youth; or if you'll damn the Play,
Let him but first have his, then take your Day,