I must confess 't was bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magic supernatural things:
But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's.
Those legends from old priesthood were re-
ceived,

And he then writ, as people then believed.
But if for Shakespeare we your grace implore,
We for our theatre shall want it more: [ploy
Who, by our dearth of youths, are forc'd to em-
One of our women to present a boy;
And that's a transformation, you will say,
Exceeding all the magic in the play.
Let none expect in the last act to find
Her sex transform'd from man to womankind.
Whate'er she was before the play began,
All you shall see of her is perfect man.

PROLOGUE TO TYRANNIC LOVE.

SELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood,
Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
And malice in all critics reigns so high,
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
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit [write.
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 't is, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing.
But when a tyrant for his theme he had,
He loos'd the reins, and bid his muse run mad:
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.

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, 't was there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 't is 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;
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
Few of them will be found for public use, [out.
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
Like the train bands, and every man engage
Where he in all his glory should appear,
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' 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, 't is 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
This motly garniture of fool and farce, [verse,
Nor scorn a mode, because 't is 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,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.
With some content, their fripperies of France,

Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce
Expecting famine on a desert shore. [o'er,
From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence e'en the natives, forc'd by hunger, fled.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was seen so sadly true :
You are chang'd too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.

Your own provisions furnish out our feasts, While you, the founders, make yourselves the guests.

Of all mankind beside fate had some care, But for poor Wit no portion did prepare, "T is left a rent-charge to the brave and fair. You cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn, Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their scorn,

Who think that fire a judgment on the stage, Which spar'd not temples in its furious rage. But as our new built city rises higher, So from old theatres may new aspire, Since fate contrives magnificence by fire. Our great metropolis does far surpass Whate'er is now, and equals all that was: Our wit as far does foreign wit excel, And, like a king, should in a palace dwell. But we with golden hopes are vainly fed, Talk high, and entertain you in a shed : Your presence here, for which we humbly sue, Will grace old theatres, and build up new.

EPILOGUE TO THE SECOND PART OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 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 't was 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 writen play. They rose, but at their hight could seldom stay. 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 pass, without allowing grains for weight Think it not envy, that these truths are told: Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold. 'T is not to brand them, that their faults are But, by their errors, to excuse his own. [shown, If love and honour now are higher rais'd, "T is not the poet, but the age is prais'd.

you,

Wit's now arriv'd to a more high degree
Our native language more refin'd 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
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 surpast,
To please an age more gallant than the last.

PROLOGUE TO AMBOYNA.

As needy gallants in the scriveners' hands,
Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgag'd
The first fat buck of all the season's sent, [lands,
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.

So would our poet lead you on this day,
Showing your tortur'd fathers in his play.
To one well born the affront is worse, and more,
When he's abus'd, 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 comonwealth 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,
Le: Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued!

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW
HOUSE, MARCH 26, 1674.

A PLAIN built house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfied away;
When, fallen from your expected pomp, you
A bare convenience only is design'd.
[find
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 gawdry known.
They, who are by your favour 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 yeld in both, and only beg to live:

This prologue must certainly have been writen for the King's company, which I suppose at this time might have opened their house in Drury Lane. The reflection cast upon the taste of the town in these three lines,

"T were folly now a stately pile to raise, [plays, To build a playhouse while you throw down While scenes, machines, and empty operas

reign:

is certainly levelled at the Duke's company, who had exhibited the Siege of Rhodes, and other expen. sive operas and who now were getting up Psyche. Circe, &c. D.

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 pleas'd to own, can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass.
'T were folly now a stately pile to raise,
To build a playhouse while you throw down
plays,
[reign,
While scenes, machines, and empty operas
And for the pencil you the pen disdain: [drive,
While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither.
And laugh at those upon whose alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you submit ;
You're now grown vassals to them in your wit.
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops ad-

vance,

The mighty merits of their men of France, Keep time, cry Bon, and humour the cadence. Well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood, [land good. That French machines have ne'er done EngI would not prophesy our house's fate : But while vain shows and scenes you overrate, 'T is to be fear'd . . . . . .

That as a fire the former house o' erthrew, Machines and tempests will destroy the new.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,

1674. SPOKEN BY MR HART.*

POETS, your subjects, have the parts assign'd To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind: When tir'd with following nature, you think fit To seek repose in the cool shades of wit,

Several gentlemen, who had adhered to their principles of loyalty during the usurpation of Cromwell, and the exile of the royal family being left un-provided for at the Restoration, they applied themselves to different occupations for a livelihood: among them was Mr. Hart, the speaker of his prologue, who had served his magesty as a captain in the civil war, and was now an actor in a capital cast, and in great estimation. D.

And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife,
You view the various turns of human life: [go,
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you
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 chrystal 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 joys we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
That Shakespeare's, Fletcher's, and great
Jonson's claim
[fame.
May be renew'd from those who gave them
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. [pit,
Poets must stoop, when they would please our
Debas'd e'en to the level of their wit;
Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must
make.

But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is
higher.
[scends,
So far your knowledge all their power tran-
As what should be beyond what is extends.

PROLOGUE TO CIRCE.*

BY DR. DAVENANT, 1675.

WERE you but half so wise as you're severe,
Our youthful poet should not need to fear:
To his green years your censures you would
suit,

Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.
The sex, that best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t' other hand.
They check him not that's awkward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him
right.

Circe was an opera. Tragedy among an. cients was throughout accompained with music. Dr. J. W.

Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey,
The youth may prove a man another day.
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young
Did no Valpone, nor no Arbaces write; [flight,
But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid.
Shakespear's own muse her Pericles first bore;
The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor;
'Tis miracle to see a first good play;
All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
A slender poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his brothers do.
Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first. [curst;
Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies:
He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice.
Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE
LADY HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, WHEN
CALISTO WAS ACTED AT COUKT.

As Jupiter* I made my court in vain ;
I'll now asume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be so unkindly us'd,
And would not be a god, to be refus'd.
State grows uneasy when it hinders love,
A glorious burden, which the wise remove.
Now, as a nymph, I need not sue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a god command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
E' en while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty sir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:
Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
For 't is not to be wise to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And soften business with the charms of wit.
These peaceful triumphs with your cares you
bought,

And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And sit in peace the arbiter of war:

*As Jupiter] It was a sister of Duchess of the Markborougli, a maid of honour, and afterwards Duchess of Tirconnel, celebrated by Grammont, that acted in the Masque of Calisto at court, 1676. Dr. J. W.

Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise,

You knew its worth, and made it early prize: And in its happy leisure sit and see

The promises of more felicity:

Too glorious nymphs of your own godlike line, Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine :

Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose, To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

PROLOGUE TO AURENGZEBE.

OUR author, by experience, finds it true, [you;
'Tis much more hard to please himself than
And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
Damns his laborious trifle of a play:

Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of wit ;
And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-lov'd mistress, Rhyme.
Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
Which he presumes the most correct of his ;
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred

name:

Aw'd when he hears his godlike Romans rage, He, in a just despair, would quit the stage; And to an age less polish'd, more unski l'd, Does, with disdain, the foremost honours field,

As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verse with those who
Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast, [live:
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.

A losing gamester, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready money from the play.
The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit
He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.
The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;
Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:
All southren vices, heaven be praised, are here;
But wit's a luxury you think too dear.
When you to cultivate the plant are loath,
'Tis a shrewd sign' t was never of your
growth;

And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except,like orange trees, 'tis hous'd from snow
There needs no care to put a playhouse down,
'Tis the most desert place of all the town:
We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,
Like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war;
While, like wise English, unconcern'd you
And see us play the tragedy of wit. [sit,

EPILOGUE TO THE MAN OF MODE;

OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER. BY SIR GEORGE ETHERIDGE, 1676.

MOST modern wits such monstrous fools have
shown,
[own.
They seem not of heaven's making, but their
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a substantial ass:
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks,
would cry,

I vow, methinks he's pretty company :
So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refin❜d,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can,
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling o'er you, like a snowball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French

wallow:

His swordknot this, his cravat that design'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat pro-
Another's diving bow he did adore, [fan'd.
Which with a shog casts ail the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs, the ladies dear delight,
These sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

EPILOGUE TO ALL FOR LOVE.

[pit;

POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left-and that's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows,
Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;
And swears at the gilt coach, but wears &foot: