So wretched that if Pharaoh could divine,
He might have spar'd his dream of seven lean kine.
And chang'd 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,
Foreshows our change of state, and thin-third days.
'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor,
For then the printers' 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?
Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democritus's Wars with Heraclitus?
Such are the authors who have run us down,
And exercis'd you, critics of the Town.
Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes;
Y' 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 the 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 wrong'd a dame,
Throw down his pen; and give her, as he can,
The satisfaction of a gentleman.
EPILOGUE to the LOYAL BROTHER or the PERSIAN PRINCE, 1682.
VIRGIN poet was serv'd 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 sev'ral would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own natʼral toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The King's House would instruct me by the name.
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 ev'ry 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 murder'd sense;
Tho' nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass,
The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pass.
Faction in plays 's the Commonwealth-man's bribe,
The leaden farthing of the Canting tribe;
Tho' void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man will take it.
'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Theirs is the pension-parliament 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 diff'rence in your vices I can see;
In drink and drabs, both sides too well
Would there were more preferments in the land!
If places fell, the party could not stand,
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains: They grunt, like hogs, till they have got their grains. Meantime 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 to mend our breed.
TO THE DUKE OF GUISE, 1683.
MUCH time and trouble this poor play has cost; And, faith! I doubted once the cause was lost, Yet no one man was meant ; nor great, nor small; Our poets, like frank gamesters, threw at all. They took no single aim
But, like bold boys, true to their Prince and hearty, Huzza'd, and fir'd broadsides at the whole party. Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right, In battle every man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder me to sell my skin
Dear as I could, if once my hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a sin.
'Tis a fine world, my masters; right or wrong, The Whigs must talk; and Tories hold their tongue.
They must do all they can
But we, forsooth, must bear a christian mind,
And fight, like boys, with one hand tied behind.
Nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wond'rous
Το cry, 'box fair,' and give him time to rise. [nice,
When fortune favours, none but fools will dally:"
Would any of you sparks, if Nan or Mally,'
Tipt you th' inviting wink, stand shall I; shall I?'
A Trimmer cried (that heard me tell the story)
Fie, Mistress Cooke *! faith, you're too rank a
Tory!
'Wish not Whigs hang'd; but pity their hard cases; • You women love to see men make wry faces.'
Pray, Sir,' said I, 'don't think me such a Jew; 'I say no more; but give the devil his due.' 'Lenitives,' says he, 'Jack Ketch,' says I,
suit best with our condition.' 's an excellent physician.' 'I love no blood.'-' Nor I, Sir, as I breathe; 'But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.'
'We Trimmers are for holding all things even'Yes-just like him that hung 'twixt hell and hea
'Have we not had mens' lives enough already?' "Yes, sure; but you're for holding all things steady; * The actress who spake the Epilogue. N.
Now, since the weight hangs all on our side, 'brother,
You, Trimmers, should, to poise it, hang on 't'other.'
Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steering,
Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red-herring:
Not Whigs, nor Tories they; nor this, nor that;
Nor birds, nor beasts; but, just, a kind of bat;
A twilight animal, true to neither cause,
With Tory wings, but Whiggish teeth and claws
ANOTHER EPILOGUE,
Intended to have been spoken to the Play before it was forbidden last Summer*.
Two houses joined, two poets to a play,
You noisy Whigs will sure be pleas'd to-day;
It looks so like two shrieves the city way.
But since our discords and divisions cease,
You, Bilboa gallants, learn to keep the peace;
Here make no tilts: let our poor stage alone;
Or, if a decent murther must be done,
Pray take a civil turn to Marybone.
If not; I swear, we'll pull up all our benches; Not for your sakes, but for our orange wenches; For you thrust wide sometimes; and many a spark That misses one, can hit the other mark.
*Langbaine says, this play found many enemies at its first appearance on the stage.
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