Ladies, the beardless author of this day
Commends to you the fortune of his play.
A woman-wit has often graced the stage,
But he's the first boy-poet of our age.
Early as is the year his fancies blow,
Like young Narcissus peeping through the snow.
Thus Cowley
[361] blossomed soon, yet flourished long;
This is as forward, and may prove as strong.
Youth with the fair should always favour find,
Or we are damned dissemblers of our kind.
What's all this love they put into our parts?
'Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts.
}
Should hag and grey-beard make such tender moan, }
Faith, you'd even trust them to themselves alone, }
And cry, "Let's go, here's nothing to be done." }
Since love's our business, as 'tis your delight,
The young, who best can practise, best can write.
What though he be not come to his full power?
He's mending and improving every hour.
You sly she-jockies of the box and pit,
Are pleased to find a hot unbroken wit;
By management he may in time be made,
But there's no hopes of an old battered jade;
Faint and unnerved, he runs into a sweat,
And always fails you at the second heat.
PROLOGUE
TO THE
UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1681.
This Prologue appears to have been spoken at Oxford shortly after the
dissolution of the famous Parliament held there, March, 1680-1.
From the following couplet, it would seem that the players had made
an unsuccessful attempt to draw houses during the short sitting of
that Parliament:
We looked what representatives would bring,
But they served us just as they did the king.
At that time a greater stage was opened for the public amusement, and
the mimic theatre could excite little interest.
Dryden seems, though perhaps unconsciously, to have borrowed the two
first lines of this Prologue from Drayton:
The Tuscan poet doth advance
The frantic Paladin of France.
Nymphidia.
The famed Italian muse, whose rhimes advance
Orlando, and the Paladins of France,
Records, that, when our wit and sense is flown,
'Tis lodged within the circle of the moon,
In earthern jars, which one, who thither soared,
Set to his nose, snuffed up, and was restored.
Whate'er the story be, the moral's true;
The wit we lost in town, we find in you.
Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy heads with sober sense
When London votes
[362] with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long lost loyalty.
Here busy senates, to the old cause inclined,
May snuff the votes their fellows left behind;
Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear,
May come, and find their last provision here;
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,
Who neither carried back, nor brought one cross.
We looked what representatives would bring,
But they helped us—just as they did the king.
Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth
The Sibyl's books to those who know their worth;
And though the first was sacrificed before,
These volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prescription you are kind.
He, whose undaunted Muse, with loyal rage,
Has never spared the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his spleen can raise,
Is forced to turn his satire into praise.
PROLOGUE
TO THE
UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.
This Prologue must have been spoken at Oxford during the residence
of the Duke of York in Scotland, in 1681-2. The humour turns
upon a part of the company having attended the Duke to Scotland,
where, among other luxuries little known to my countrymen, he introduced,
during his residence at Holy Rood House, the amusements
of the theatre. I can say little about the actors commemorated in
the following verses, excepting, that their stage was erected in the
tennis-court of the palace, which was afterwards converted into some
sort of manufactory, and finally, burned down many years ago. Besides
these deserters, whom Dryden has described very ludicrously, he
mentions a sort of strolling company, composed, it would seem, of
Irishmen, who had lately acted at Oxford.
Discord, and plots, which have undone our age,
With the same ruin have o'erwhelmed the stage.
Our house has suffered in the common woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.
}
Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed, }
And of our sisters, all the kinder-hearted }
To Edinburgh gone, or coached, or carted. }
With bonny bluecap there they act all night
For Scotch half-crown, in English three-pence hight.
One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean,
There with her single person fills the scene.
Another, with long use and age decayed,
Dived here old woman, and rose there a maid.
Our trusty door-keepers of former time
There strut and swagger in heroic rhime.
Tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit,
And there's a hero made without dispute;
And that, which was a capon's tail before,
Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.
But all his subjects, to express the care
Of imitation go, like Indians, bare;
}
Laced linen there would be a dangerous thing; }
It might perhaps a new rebellion bring; }
The Scot, who wore it, would be chosen king. }
But why should I these renegades describe,
When you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe?
Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit,
With Irish action slandered English wit;
You have beheld such barbarous Macs appear,
As merited a second massacre;
[363]Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace,
And had their country stamped upon their face.
When strollers durst presume to pick your purse,
We humbly thought our broken troop not worse.
How ill soe'er our action may deserve,
Oxford's a place where wit can never starve.
AN
EPILOGUE
FOR
THE KING'S HOUSE
From the date of the various circumstances referred to, this Epilogue
seems to have been spoken in 1681-2.
We act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again.
Let those who call us wicked change their sense,
For never men lived more on Providence.
Not lottery cavaliers
[364] are half so poor,
Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore;
Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last ungiving parliaments;
[365]}
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine, }
He might have spared his dream of seven lean kine, }
And changed his vision for the muses nine. }
The comet, that, they say, portends a dearth,
Was but a vapour drawn from playhouse earth;
Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
[366]Foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days.
'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor;
For then the printer's press would suffer more.
Their pamphleteers each day their venom spit;
They thrive by treason, and we starve by wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield Maid?
[367]Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democritus his wars with Heraclitus?
[368]Such are the authors, who have run us down,
And exercised you critics of the town.
Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhimes,
Ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times.
Scandal, the glory of the English nation,
Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion;
Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith, they may hang their harps upon their willows;
'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.
Then put an end to civil wars, for shame!
Let each knight-errant, who has wronged a dame,
Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,
The satisfaction of a gentleman.
PROLOGUE
TO HIS
ROYAL HIGHNESS,
UPON HIS
FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE DUKE'S THEATRE AFTER HIS
RETURN FROM SCOTLAND.
SPOKEN BY MR SMITH, 21st APRIL, 1682.
The Duke's return from Scotland, and the shock which it gave to the
schemes of Shaftesbury and the Exclusionists, has been mentioned at
length in the Notes to the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel,"
Vol. ix. p. 402. The passage upon which the note is given, agrees
with this Prologue, in representing the secret enemies of the Duke of
York as anxiously pressing forwards to greet his return:
While those that sought his absence to betray,
Press first, their nauseous false respects to pay;
Him still the officious hypocrites molest,
And with malicious duty break his rest.
Vol. ix. p. 344.
The date of the Prologue, and the name of the speaker, are marked
on a copy in Mr Luttrell's collection.
In those cold regions which no summers cheer,
Where brooding darkness covers half the year,
To hollow caves the shivering natives go,
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow.
But when the tedious twilight wears away,
And stars grow paler at the approach of day,
The longing crowds to frozen mountains run,
Happy who first can see the glimmering sun;
The surly savage offspring disappear,
And curse the bright successor of the year.
}
Yet, though rough bears in covert seek defence, }
White foxes stay, with seeming innocence; }
That crafty kind with day-light can dispense. }
Still we are thronged so full with Reynard's race,
That loyal subjects scarce can find a place;
Thus modest truth is cast behind the crowd,
Truth speaks too low, hypocrisy too loud.
Let them be first to flatter in success;
Duty can stay, but guilt has need to press.
Once, when true zeal the sons of God did call,
To make their solemn show at heaven's Whitehall,
The fawning Devil appeared among the rest,
And made as good a courtier as the best.
The friends of Job, who railed at him before,
Came cap in hand when he had three times more.
Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;
Kings can forgive, if rebels can but sue:
A tyrant's power in rigour is exprest;
The father yearns in the true prince's breast.
We grant, an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend,
But most are babes, that know not they offend;
The crowd, to restless motion still inclined,
Are clouds, that rack according to the wind.
Driven by their chiefs, they storms of hailstones pour,
Then mourn, and soften to a silent shower.
O welcome to this much-offending land,
The prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus angels on glad messages appear,
Their first salute commands us not to fear;
}
Thus heaven, that could constrain us to obey, }
(With reverence if we might presume to say,) }
Seems to relax the rights of sovereign sway; }
Permits to man the choice of good and ill,
And makes us happy by our own free-will.
PROLOGUE
TO THE EARL OF ESSEX.
BY MR J. BANKS, 1682.
SPOKEN TO THE KING AND THE QUEEN AT THEIR COMING
TO THE HOUSE.
When first the ark was landed on the shore,
And heaven had vowed to curse the ground no more;
When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw;
The dove was sent to view the waves decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the royal dove,
Still innocence is harbinger of love:
The ark is opened to dismiss the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
}
Tell me, ye powers, why should vain man pursue, }
With endless toil, each object that is new, }
And for the seeming substance leave the true? }
Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loath the manna of his daily food?
}
Must England still the scene of changes be, }
Tost and tempestuous, like our ambient sea? }
Must still our weather and our wills agree? }
Without our blood our liberties we have;
Who, that is free, would fight to be a slave?
Or, what can wars to after-times assure,
Of which our present age is not secure?
All that our monarch would for us ordain,
Is but to enjoy the blessings of his reign.
Our land's an Eden, and the main's our fence,
While we preserve our state of innocence:
That lost, then beasts their brutal force employ,
And first their lord, and then themselves destroy.
What civil broils have cost, we know too well;
Oh! let it be enough that once we fell!
And every heart conspire, and every tongue,
Still to have such a king, and this king long.
PROLOGUE
TO THE
LOYAL BROTHER, or the PERSIAN PRINCE.
The "Loyal Brother, or the Persian Prince," was the first
play of Southerne, afterwards so deservedly famous as a tragic
poet. It is said to be borrowed from a novel, called, "Tachmas,
Prince of Persia." The character of the Loyal Brother is obviously
designed as a compliment to the Duke of York, whose
adherents and opponents now divided the nation. Southerne was
at this time but three-and-twenty. It is said, that, upon offering
Dryden five guineas for the following prologue, which had hitherto
been the usual compliment made him for such favours, the
bard returned the money; and added, "not that I do so out of
disrespect to you, young man, but the players have had my goods
too cheap. In future, I must have ten guineas." Southerne was
the first poet who drew large profit from the author's nights; insomuch,
that he is said to have cleared by one play seven hundred
pounds; a circumstance that greatly surprised Dryden, who seldom
gained by his best pieces more than a seventh part of the sum.
From these circumstances, Pope, in his verses to Southerne on his
birth-day, distinguishes him as
——Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays.
The prologue, as might be expected, is very severe upon the
Whigs; and alludes to all the popular subjects of dispute between
the factions. The refusal of supplies, and the petition against
the king's guards, are slightly noticed, but the great pope-burning
is particularly dwelt upon; and probably the reader will
be pleased with an opportunity of comparing the account in the
prologue with that given by Roger North, who seems to have entertained
the same fear with Dryden, that the rabble might chuse
to cry, God save the king, at Whitehall.
"But, to return to our tumults.—After it was found that there
was to be a reinforcement at the next anniversary, which was in
1682, it is not to be thought that the court was asleep, or that the
king would not endeavour to put a stop to this brutal outrage.
His majesty thought fit to take the ordinary regular course; which
was, to send for the lord mayor, &c. and to charge him to prevent
riots in the city. So the lord mayor and sheriffs attended the king
in council; and there they were told, that dangerous tumults and
disorders were designed in the city upon the 17th of November
next, at night, on pretence of bonfires; and his majesty expected
that they, who were entrusted with the government of the city, for
keeping the peace, should, by their authority, prevent all such riotous
disorders, which, permitted to go on, was a misdemeanour of their
whole body. Then one of them came forward, and, in a whining
tone, told the king, that they did not apprehend any danger to
his majesty, or the city, from these bonfires; there was an ardour
of the people against popery, which they delighted to express in
that manner, but meant no harm: And, if they should go about
to hinder them, it would be taken as if they favoured popery;
and, considering the great numbers, and their zeal, it might make
them outrageous, which, let alone, would not be; and perhaps
they themselves might not be secure in resisting them, no not in
their own houses; and they hoped his majesty would not have
them so exposed, so long as they could assure his majesty that
care should be taken, that, if they went about any ill thing, they
should be prevented: or to this purpose, as I had it from undoubted
authority. This was the godly care they had of the public
peace, and the repose of the city; by which the king saw plainly
what they were, and what was to be expected from them. There
wanted not those who suggested the sending regiments into the
city; but the king (always witty) said, he did not love to play
with his horse. But his majesty ordered that a party of horse
should be drawn up, and make a strong guard on the outside of
Temple-Bar; and all the other guards were ordered to be in a
posture at a minute's warning; and so he took a middle, but secure
and inoffensive way; and these guards did not break up till
all the rout was over.
"There were not a few in the court who either feared or favoured
these doings; it may be both; the former being the cause
of the latter. This puts me in mind of a passage told me by one
present. It was of the Lord Archbishop of York, Dolben, who
was a goodly person, and corpulent; he came to the Lord Chief-Justice
North, and, my lord, said he, (clapping his hand upon
his great self,) what shall we do with these tumults of the people?
They will bear all down before them. My lord, said the Chief
Justice, fear God, and don't fear the people. A good hint from a
man of law to an archbishop. But when the day of execution
was come, all the show-fools of the town had made sure of places;
and, towards the evening, there was a great clutter in the street,
with taking down glass-windows, and faces began to show themselves
thereat; and the hubbub was great, with the shoals of
people come there, to take or seek accommodation. And, for
the greater amazement of the people, somebody had got up to the
statue of Elizabeth, in the nich of Temple-Bar, and set her out
like an heathen idol. A bright shield was hung upon her arm,
and a spear put in, or leaned upon, the other hand; and lamps,
or candles, were put about, on the wall of the nich, to enlighten
her person, that the people might have a full view of the deity
that, like the goddess Pallas, stood there as the object of the solemn
sacrifice about to be made. There seemed to be an inscription
upon the shield, but I could not get near enough to discern
what it was, nor divers other decorations; but whatever they
were, the eyes of the rout were pointed at them, and lusty shouts
were raised, which was all the adoration could be paid before the
grand procession came up. I could fix in no nearer post than
the Green-Dragon Tavern, below in Fleet-Street; but, before I
settled in my quarters, I rounded the crowd, to observe, as well as
I could, what was doing, and saw much, but afterwards heard
more of the hard battles and skirmishes, that were maintained
from windows and balconies of several parties with one and the
other, and with the floor, as the fancy of Whig and Tory incited.
All which were managed with the artillery of squibs, whereof
thousands of vollies went off, to the great expence of powder and
paper, and profit to the poor manufacturer; for the price of ammunition
rose continually, and the whole trade could not supply
the consumption of an hour or two.
"When we had posted ourselves at windows, expecting the play
to begin, it was very dark, but we could perceive the street to fill,
and the hum of the crowd grew louder and louder; and, at length,
with help of some lights below, we could discern, not only upwards
towards the Bar, where the squib war was maintained, but
downwards towards Fleet-Bridge, the whole street was crowded
with people, which made that which followed seem very strange;
for, about eight at night, we heard a din from below, which came
up the street, continually increasing, till we could perceive a motion;
and that was a row of stout fellows, that came, shouldered
together, cross the street, from wall to wall, on each side. How
the people melted away, I cannot tell; but it was plain these fellows
made clear board, as if they had swept the street for what
was to come after. They went along like a wave; and it was
wonderful to see how the crowd made way: I suppose the good
people were willing to give obedience to lawful authority. Behind
this wave (which, as all the rest, had many lights attending)
there was a vacancy, but it filled a-pace, till another like wave
came up; and so four or five of these waves passed, one after another;
and then we discerned more numerous lights, and throats
were opened with hoarse and tremendous noise; and, with that,
advanced a pageant, borne along above the heads of the crowd,
and upon it sat an huge Pope, in pontificalibus, in his chair, with
a reasonable attendance for state; but his premier minister, that
shared most of his ear, was, Il Signior Diavolo, a nimble little
fellow, in a proper dress, that had a strange dexterity in climbing
and winding about the chair, from one of the pope's ears to the
other.
"The next pageant was of a parcel of Jesuits; and after that
(for there was always a decent space between them) came another,
with some ordinary persons with halters, as I took it, about their
necks; and one with a stenterophonic tube, sounded—Abhorrers!
Abhorrers! most infernally; and, lastly, came one, with a single
person upon it, which, some said, was the pamphleteer Sir Roger
L'Estrange, some the King of France, some the Duke of York;
but, certainly, it was a very complaisant civil gentleman, like the
former, that was doing what every body pleased to have him, and,
taking all in good part, went on his way to the fire; and however
some, to gratify their fancy, might debase his character, yet certainly
he was a person of high quality, because he came in the
place of state, which is last of all. When these were passed, our
coast began to clear, but it thickened upwards, and the noise increased;
for, as we were afterwards informed, these stately figures
were planted in a demilune about an huge fire, that shined upon
them; and the balconies of the club were ready to crack with
their factious load, till the good people were satiated with the
fine show; and then the hieroglyphic monsters were brought condignly
to a new light of their own making, being, one after another,
added to increase the flames: all which was performed
with fitting salvos of the rabble, echoed from the club, which
made a proper music to so pompous a sacrifice. Were it not for
the late attempts to have renewed these barbarities,[369] it had been
more reasonable to have forgot the past, that such a stain might
not have remained upon the credit of human kind, whom we
would not have thought obnoxious to any such; but, as it is now
otherwise, all persons, that mean humanely, ought to discourage
them; and one way is, to expose the factious brutality of such
unthinking rabble sports, by showing, as near as we can, how
really they were acted; the very knowledge of which, one would
think, should make them for ever to be abhorred and detested of
all rational beings."—North's Examen.
PROLOGUE
TO THE
LOYAL BROTHER, or the PERSIAN PRINCE.
BY MR SOUTHERNE, 1682.
Poets, like lawful monarchs, ruled the stage,
Till critics, like damned Whigs, debauched our age.
}
Mark how they jump! critics would regulate }
Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state; }
Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!) hate. }
The critic humbly seems advice to bring,
The fawning Whig petitions to the king;
But one's advice into a satire slides,
T'other's petition a remonstrance hides.
These will no taxes give, and those no pence;
Critics would starve the poet, Whigs the prince.
The critic all our troops of friends discards;
Just so the Whig would fain pull down the guards.
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
As watchful shepherds, that fright beasts of prey.
Kings, who disband such needless aids as these,
Are safe—as long as e'er their subjects please;
And that would be till next Queen Bess's night,
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
[370]Sir Edmondbury first, in woful wise,
Leads up the show, and milks their maudlin eyes.
There's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part,
And pities the poor pageant from her heart;
Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
And, with a civil congé, does retire:
But guiltless blood to ground must never fall;
There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.
The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,
A lewd old gentleman of seventy years;
Whose age in vain our mercy would implore,
For few take pity on an old cast whore.
}
The devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part; }
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart, }
Like thief and parson in a Tyburn-cart. }
The word is given, and with a loud huzza
The mitred poppet from his chair they draw:
On the slain corpse contending nations fall—
Alas! what's one poor pope among them all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring;
And next, for fashion, cry, "God save the king!"
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms.
}
But after he's once saved, to make amends, }
In each succeeding health they damn his friends: }
So God begins, but still the devil ends. }
What if some one, inspired with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, "God save him at Whitehall?"
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him e'er the safer for this prayer.
Five praying saints
[371] are by an act allowed,
But not the whole church-militant in crowd;
}
Yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain }
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain, }
Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain. }
EPILOGUE
TO
THE SAME.
A virgin poet was served up to-day,
Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.
}
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory boy; }
But, like a girl, whom several would enjoy, }
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural toy. }
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The King's House would instruct me by the name.
[372]There's loyalty to one; I wish no more:
A commonwealth sounds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious spirit should rebel,
Our sex, with ease, can every rising quell.
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They save dull culprits, who have murdered sense.
Though nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass,
The vehicle called Faction makes it pass;
Faction in play's the commonwealth-man's bribe;
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe:
Though void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will take it.
[373]'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Their's is the pension-parliament
[374] of wit.
In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis safe, in its own element.
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of sense.
}
In one poor isle, why should two factions be? }
Small difference in your vices I can see: }
In drink and drabs both sides too well agree. }
Would there were more preferments in the land!
If places fell, the party could not stand.
Of this damned grievance every Whig complains,
They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains.
Mean time, you see what trade our plots advance;
We send each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandize we need,
Send o'er true Protestants
[375] to mend our breed.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,
SPOKEN BY MR HART
AT THE ACTING OF THE SILENT WOMAN.
What Greece, when learning flourished, only knew,
Athenian judges, you this day renew.
Here, too, are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes lost or won.
Methinks I see you, crowned with olives, sit,
And strike a sacred horror from the pit.
}
A day of doom is this of your decree, }
Where even the best are but by mercy free; }
A day, which none but Jonson durst have wished to see. }
Here they, who long have known the useful stage,
Come to be taught themselves to teach the age.
As your commissioners our poets go,
To cultivate the virtue which you sow;
In your Lycæum first themselves refined,
And delegated thence to human kind.
But as ambassadors, when long from home,
For new instructions to their princes come,
So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your manners they correct their own.
The illiterate writer, emp'ric-like, applies
To minds diseased, unsafe chance remedies:
The learned in schools, where knowledge first began,
Studies with care the anatomy of man;
Sees virtue, vice, and passions in their cause,
And fame from science, not from fortune, draws;
So Poetry, which is in Oxford made
An art, in London only is a trade.
There haughty dunces, whose unlearned pen
Could ne'er spell grammar, would be reading men.
[376]Such build their poems the Lucretian way;
So many huddled atoms make a play;
And if they hit in order by some chance,
They call that nature, which is ignorance.
To such a fame let mere town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.
He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands,
[377]But knows that right is in the senate's hands.
}
Not impudent enough to hope your praise, }
Low at the Muses' feet his wreath he lays, }
And, where he took it up, resigns his bays. }
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY THE SAME.
No poor Dutch peasant, winged with all his fear,
Flies with more haste, when the French arms draw near,
Than we, with our poetic train, come down,
For refuge hither, from the infected town:
Heaven, for our sins, this summer has thought fit
To visit us with all the plagues of wit.
A French troop first swept all things in its way;
But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay:
Yet, to our cost, in that short time, we find
They left their itch of novelty behind.
The Italian merry-andrews took their place,
And quite debauched the stage with lewd grimace:
Instead of wit, and humours, your delight
Was there to see two hobby-horses fight;
Stout Scaramoucha with rush lance rode in,
And ran a tilt at centaur Arlequin.
For love you heard how amorous asses brayed,
And cats in gutters gave their serenade.
Nature was out of countenance, and each day
Some new-born monster shown you for a play.
But when all failed, to strike the stage quite dumb,
Those wicked engines, called machines, are come.
Thunder and lightning now for wit are played,
And shortly scenes in Lapland will be laid:
Art magic is for poetry profest,
[378]And cats and dogs, and each obscener beast,
To which Egyptian dotards once did bow,
Upon our English stage are worshipped now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown
Macbeth
[379] and Simon Magus of the town.
Fletcher's despised, your Jonson's out of fashion,
And wit the only drug in all the nation.
}
In this low ebb our wares to you are shown, }
By you those staple authors' worth is known, }
For wit's a manufacture of your own. }
When you, who only can, their scenes have praised,
We'll back, and boldly say, their price is raised.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.