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Intended to have been spoken by the Lady HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, when CALISTO was acted at Court.
S Jupiter I made my court in vain;
I'll now affume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be fo 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 wife remove.
Now as a nymph I need not fue, 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 fov'reign power admits difpute;
Beauty fometimes is juftly abfolute.
Our fullen Cato's, whatfoe'er they fay,
Ev'n while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir 2, our bonds more eafy make,
And gracefully, what all muft fuffer, take:
Above those forms the grave affect to wear ;
For 'tis not to be wife to be fevere.
True wifdom may fome gallantry admit,
And foften bufinefs with the charms of wit.
I The earl of Rochefter, who hated Dryden for no other reason but because of his great genius and fuccefs as a dramatic writer, recommended Mr. John Crowne to the King to write this mask for the court, which was properly the bufinefs of the laureat, whom his lordship intended by this preference to mortify. Mr. Crowne wrote fixteen dramatic pieces, befides this, none of which are now in
2 This part of the prologue is addreffed to the King.
Thefe peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought,
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And fit in peace the arbiter of war:
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
And in its happy leisure fit and fee
The promifes of more felicity:
Two glorious 3 nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whofe morning rays like noontide ftrike and fhine:
Whom you to fuppliant monarchs fhall difpofe,
To bind your friends, and to difarm your foes.
EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE:
[By Sir GEORGE ETHERIDGE, 1676.}
OST modern wits fuch monftrous fools have shown,
They feem not of heaven's making, but their own.
Those naufeous harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a substantial ass:
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gailants, they may more refemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool fo nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
I vow, methinks, he's pretty company.
So brisk, fo gay, fo travell'd, so refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
3 The Duke of York's two daughters, Mary and Ann.
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' th' fhire, and reprefents 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 fnow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the tofs, and one the new French wallow.
His fword-knot this, his cravat that defign'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the facred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
These fure he took from most of you who write.
Yet ev'ry man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
TO MITHRIDATES, King of PONTUS.
'OU'VE feen a pair of faithful lovers die :
And much you care e; for moft of you will
'Twas a juft judgment on their conftancy.
For, heaven be thank'd, we live in fuch an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the ftage:
And e'en thofe martyrs are but rare in plays;
A curfed fign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent defire;
'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our fex, the name examin'd well,
'Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis of fubtle int'reft made:
Curfe on the punk that made it first a trade!
She firft did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool prefume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold;
But glorious beauty is not to be fold:
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate fo high,
That nothing but adoring it fhould buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boafting fpare;
They purchase but fophifticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
And women fight, like Swiffers, for their
Eaven fave ye, gallants, and this hopeful age; Y'are welcome to the downfal of the ftage: The fools have labour'd long in their vocation; And vice, the manufacture of the nation,
O'erstocks the town fo much, and thrives fo well, That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not fell. In vain our wares on theatres are shown,
When each has a plantation of his own.
His caufe ne'er fails; for whatfoe'er he spends,
There's ftill God's plenty for himself and friends.
Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools!
Mean time poor wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made fome French commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais'd at vaft expence;
And yet, as foon as feen, they give offence.
Time was, when none would cry, That oaf was me;
But now you ftrive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no fooner are thrown down,
But there's a mufs of more than half the town.
Each one will challenge a child's part at leait;
A the family is well increaft.
feign cattle there's no longer need, Whe.. we're fupply'd fo faft with English breed. Well! flourish, countrymen, drink, fwear, and roar; xt ev'ry free-boin fubje&t keep his whore,