Dryden, ‘Was there ever such stuff? I could not have imagined that even this author could have written so ill.’ ‘O sir,’ said Dryden, ‘you don't know my friend Tom as well as I do; I’ll answer for him he will write worse yet.’”
What D’Urfey professed was rather to sing than to write. His comedies, like others of that age, or even like its still admired social and satirical essays, contained much that ought never to have been written. The words of his songs were simply arrangements of syllables and rhymes, done to measure, for music. But that in his characteristic vocation he was destitute of merit, no competent critic will assert. A good word is spoken for him, in Notes and Queries (3rd Series, Vol. X., page 465), by a great authority in music. Dr. Rimbault, who says of “poor old Tom D’Urfey:” — “His works — including many that have entirely escaped the notice of bibliographers — occupy a conspicuous place on my bookshelves, and my note-books are rich in materials of Tom and his doings. He existed, or rather, I might say, flourished for forty-six years and more, living chiefly on the bounty of his patrons. He was always a welcome guest wherever he went, and even though stuttering was one of his failings, he could sing a song right well, and greatly to the satisfaction of the merry monarch. His publications are numerous, but Tom (it may be surmised) did not make much by his copy. The chance profits on benefit nights brought more into his pockets than the sale of his plays to the booksellers.” He died at the age of 70. His memorial-stone, on the south wall of St. James’s Church, Piccadilly, gives as the date of his death 26th Feb. 1723. Le Neve, in his MS. diary quoted by Rimbault, says “D’Urfey, Thomas, the poet, ingenious for witty madrigals, buried Tuesday, 26th day of February, 1722-23, in St. James’s Church, Middlesex, at the charge of the Duke of Dorset.” The following sonnet is not unworthy of preservation. “To my dear mother, Mrs. Frances D’Urfey, a Hymn on Piety, written at Cullacombe, September, 1698.
“O sacred piety, thou morning star,
That shew’st our day of life serene and fair;
Thou milky way to everlasting bliss,
That feed’st the soul with fruits of paradise;
Unvalued gem, which all the wise admire,
Thou well canst bear the test of time and fire.
By thee the jars of life all end in peace,
And unoffended conscience sits at ease.
Thy influence can human ills assuage.
Quell the worst anguish of misfortune’s rage,
Pangs of distemper, and the griefs of age.
Since thou — the mind’s celestial ease and mirth —
The greatest happiness we have on earth —
By heav’n art fixed in her that gave me birth;
My life’s dear author, may your virtuous soul
Pursue the glorious race, and win the goal.
Thus may your true desert be dignified.
To age example, and to youth a guide.
Lastly, (to wish myself all joys in one,)
Still may your blessing — when your life is done,
As well as now — descend upon your son.”
- ##
