"TIs much desired, you judges of the town
Would pass a vote to put all prologues down;
For who can show me, since they first were writ,
They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
Yet the world's mended well; in former days 5
Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
For the reforming poets of our age,

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In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
Expect no more when once the prologue's done;
The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it not;
They blow out candles to give light to th' plot.
And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
Fight till they die, then rise and dance again.
Such deep intrigues you 're welcome to this day:
But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play;
Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,
Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired:

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He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows,

There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;
Therefore, kind judges

PROLOGUE

TO "THE INDIAN QUEEN."

To execute the members of their trade.
All that are writing now he would disown,
But then he must except-even all the town;
All choleric, losing gamesters, who, in spite,
Will damn to-day, because they lost last night;
All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids;
All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;
All, who are out of humour, or severe;
All, that want wit, or hope to find it here.

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To all and singular in this full meeting,
Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends ye greeting.
To all his sons, by whate'er title known,
Whether of court, or coffee-house, or town;
From his most mighty sons, whose confidence
Is placed in lofty sound, and humble sense,
Even to his little infants of the time,
Who write new songs, and trust in tune and
rhyme:

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Be't known, that Phoebus (being daily grieved
To see good plays condemn'd, and bad received)
Ordains, your judgment upon every cause,
Henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws.
He first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance
His censure, farther than the song or dance.
Your wit burlesque may one step higher climb, 15
And in his sphere may judge all doggrel rhyme;
All proves, and moves, and loves, and honours
too;

All that appears high sense, and scarce is low.
As for the coffee-wits, he says not much;
Their proper business is to damn the Dutch :
For the great dons of wit-

Phoebus gives them full privilege alone,
To damn all others, and cry up their own.
Last, for the ladies, 'tis Apollo's will,

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They should have power to save, but not to kill; 25 For love and he long since have thought it fit, Wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit.

As when a tree's cut down, the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;

So from old Shakspeare's honour'd dust, this day Springs up and buds a new-reviving play : Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart 5 To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.

He, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law; And is that nature which they paint and draw. Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did

The storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring shore,

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Was taught by Shakspeare's Tempest first to roar.
That innocence and beauty, which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle.
But Shakspeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.
I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magic supernatural things:
But Shakspeare's power is sacred as a king's.
Those legends from old priesthood were received,
And he then writ, as people then believed.
But if for Shakspeare we your grace implore,
We for our theatre shall want it more:

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*Bonarelli, in his Filli di Sciro, has introduced a shepherdess in love with two persons, like the alterations in the Tempest. Dr. J. WARTON,

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That for small errors, they whole plays decry;
So that to see this fondness, and that spite,
You'd think that none but madmen judge or write.
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
To impose upon you what he writes for wit;
So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free,
You equal judges of the whole will be:
They judge but half, who only faults will see.
Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare,
They spoil their business with an over-care;
And he, who servilely creeps after sense,
Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.
Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing.
But when a tyrant for his theme he had,
He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mæd:
And though he stumbles in a full career,
Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.
He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,
To choose the ground might be to lose the race.
They then, who of each trip the advantage take,
Find but those faults, which they want wit to
make.

EPILOGUE. ✓

TO "THE WILD GALLANT," WHEN REVIVED.

Or all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the best, so tis most hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that, which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.

For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow savages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;

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And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began,
So you, at each new play, must have a man.
Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is nought.
But fools grow wary now; and, when they see
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.
Few of them will be found for public use,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory should appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' the play:
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry squires in country churches do.
Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make
A comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
"Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other impost lay.
Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motley garniture of fool and farce,

Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vests, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you should this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN THE FIRST DAY OF THE KING'S HOUSE ACTING AFTER THE FIRE.

So shipwreck'd passengers escape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,
Expecting famine on a desert shore.

From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence e'en the natives, forced by hunger, fled.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was seen so sadly true:
You are changed too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.

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THEY, who have best succeeded on the stage, Have still conform'd their genius to their age. Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show, When men were dull, and conversation low. Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse: Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse. And, as their comedy, their love was mean; Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene, Which must atone for an ill-written play. They rose, but at their height could seldom stay. 10 Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; And they have kept it since, by being dead. But, were they now to write, when critics weigh Each line, and every word, throughout a play, None of them, no-not Jonson in his height, Could pess, without allowing grains for weight. Think it not envy, that these truths are told; Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold. Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown, But, by their errors, to excuse his own. If love and honour now are higher raised, "Tis not the poet, but the age is praised. Wit's now arrived to a more high degree; Our native language more refined and free. Our ladies and our men now speak more wit In conversation, than those poets writ. Then, one of these is, consequently, true; That what this poet writes comes short of you, And imitates you ill (which most he fears), Or else his writing is not worse than theirs. Yet, though you judge (as sure the critics will), That some before him writ with greater skill, In this one praise he has their fame surpass'd, To please an age more gallant than the last.

PROLOGUE

TO "AMBOYNA."

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Be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith-than you;
Interest's the god they worship in their state;
And you, I take it, have not much of that.
Well, monarchies may own religion's name,
But states are atheists in their very frame.
They share a sin, and such proportions fall,
That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
How they love England, you shall see this day; 25
No map shows Holland truer than our play:
Their pictures and inscriptions well we know;
We may be bold one medal sure to show.
View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty;

And think what once they were, they still would be:

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But hope not either language, plot, or art;
'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart:
And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be
As much improper, as would honesty.

EPILOGUE

TO "AMBOYNA."

A POET Once the Spartans led to fight,
And made them conquer in the muse's right;
So would our poet lead you on this day,
Showing your tortured fathers in his play.

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To one well-born the affront is worse, and more,
When he's abused, and baffled by a boor:
With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,
They've both ill-nature and ill-manners too.
Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
For they were bred ere manners were in fashion;
And their new commonwealth has set them free,
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;
Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches swell above their chin:
Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour,
And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.
As Cato did his Afric fruits display,
So we before your eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will, like him, conclude,
Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued!

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The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment:
The dotage of some Englishmen is such,

To fawn on those who ruin them-the Dutch.
They shall have all, rather than make a war
With those who of the same religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
But, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat:

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When, fall'n from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is design'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gaudry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire:
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live:
Unable to support their vast expense,
Who build and treat with such magnificence;
That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendour on the less.
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
The extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainness may be justly proud:
Our royal master will'd it should be so;
Whate'er he's pleased to own, can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass,
"Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,

To build a playhouse while you throw down plays,

While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign, And for the pencil you the pen disdain :

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While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,

opened their house in Drury-lane. The reflection cast upon the taste of the town in these three lines,

"Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,

To build a playhouse while you throw down plays,
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign:

is certainly levelled at the Duke's company, who had exhibited the siege of Rhodes, and other expensive operas, and who now were getting up Psyche, Circe, &c. DERRICK.

Ver. 30. Our royal master] It is to be lamented, that after the fire of London a magnificent theatre had not been built at the expense of the public, or of the King. Few princes have so much encouraged theatrical spectacles as Leo the Tenth. He ordered a magnificent stage to be erected, and actors to be brought from Florence to Rome, to act the Mandragola of Machiavel, though a most licentious drama, and abounding in the most severe ridicule on the Popish ceremonies, particularly in Act v. Scene i. and Act iii. Scene v.; yet this same Pope, with that inconsistency that is to be found in almost all human characters, addressed a solemn brief to Sannazarius, thanking him for his famous poem, De Partu Virginis, and also Providence, for raising up such a champion, at a time when the Holy Church was so violently attacked, and in such danger. Dr. J. WARTON.

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And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know.
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere of crystal show'd the great.
Blest sure are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can suit your mind:
Content to see, and shun, those ills we show,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's

claim

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For muses so severe are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the

eye,

And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see the offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections, but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our

pit,

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