A PROLOGUE.
This Prologue was obviously spoken in 1680-1, from its frequent reference to the politics of that period: but upon what particular occasion I have not discovered.
}
If yet there be a few that take delight }
In that which reasonable men should write, }
To them alone we dedicate this night. }
The rest may satisfy their curious itch
With city-gazettes, or some factious speech,[357]
Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
Stirs up the shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
Remove your benches, you apostate pit,
And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;
Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
Or see what's worse, the devil and the pope.[358]
The plays, that take on our corrupted stage,
Methinks, resemble the distracted age;
Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,
That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.
The style of forty-one our poets write,
And you are grown to judge like forty-eight.[359]
Such censures our mistaking audience make,
That 'tis almost grown scandalous to take.
They talk of fevers that infect the brains;
But nonsense is the new disease that reigns.
Weak stomachs, with a long disease opprest,
Cannot the cordials of strong wit digest;
Therefore thin nourishment of farce ye choose,
Decoctions of a barley-water muse.
A meal of tragedy would make ye sick,
Unless it were a very tender chick.
Some scenes in sippets would be worth our time;
Those would go down; some love that's poached in rhime:
If these should fail——
We must lie down, and, after all our cost,
Keep holiday, like watermen in frost;
While you turn players on the world's great stage,
And act yourselves the farce of your own age.
EPILOGUE
SPOKEN AT
MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS,
THE FIRST PLAY ACTED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, 1681.
This Epilogue, which occurs in Luttrell's collection with many marginal corrections, seems to have been spoken by Goodman, who is mentioned with great respect by Cibber in his "Apology." It is now for the first time received into Dryden's poems.
Pox on this playhouse! 'tis an old tired jade,
'Twill do no longer, we must force a trade.
What if we all turn witnesses o' th' plot?—
That's overstockt, there's nothing to be got.
}
Shall we take orders?—That will parts require, }
And colleges give no degrees for hire; }
Would Salamanca were a little nigher! }
Will nothing do?—O, now 'tis found, I hope;
Have not you seen the dancing of the rope?
When André's[360] wit was clean run off the score,
And Jacob's capering tricks could do no more,
A damsel does to the ladder's top advance,
And with two heavy buckets drags a dance;
The yawning crowd perk up to see the sight,
And slaver'd at the mouth for vast delight.
Oh, friend, there's nothing, to enchant the mind,
Nothing like that sweet sex to draw mankind:
The foundered horse, that switching will not stir,
Trots to the mare afore, without a spur.
Faith, I'll go scour the scene-room, and engage
Some toy within to save the falling stage. [Exit.
Re-enters with Mrs Cox.
Who have we here again? what nymph's i' th' stocks?
Your most obedient slave, sweet madam Cox.
You'd best be coy, and blush for a pretence;
For shame! say something in your own defence!
Mrs Cox. What shall I say? I have been hence so long,
I've e'en almost forgot my mother-tongue;
If I can act, I wish I were ten fathom
Beneath——
Goodman. O Lord! pray, no swearing, madam!
Mrs Cox. If I had sworn, yet sure, to serve the nation,
I could find out some mental reservation.
Well, in plain terms, gallants, without a sham,
Will you be pleased to take me as I am?
Quite out of countenance, with a downcast look,
Just like a truant that returns to book:
Yet I'm not old; but, if I were, this place
Ne'er wanted art to piece a ruined face.
When greybeards governed, I forsook the stage;
You know 'tis piteous work to act with age.
Though there's no sense among these beardless boys,
There's what we women love, that's mirth and noise.
These young beginners may grow up in time,
And the devil's in't, if I am past my prime.
EPILOGUE
TO A
TRAGEDY CALLED TAMERLANE, 1681.
BY CHARLES SAUNDERS.
This play was highly applauded at its first representation. Langbaine, following perhaps this epilogue, tells us, that the genius of the author budded as early as that of the incomparable Cowley; and adds, in evidence of farther sympathy, that Saunders was, like him, a king's scholar. The play is said to be taken from a novel called "Tamerlane and Asteria," and was complimented with a copy of commendatory verses by Mr Banks. It does not appear that Saunders wrote any thing else.
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.
Though actors cannot much of learning boast,
Of all who want it, we admire it most:
We love the praises of a learned pit,
As we remotely are allied to wit.
We speak our poet's wit, and trade in ore,
Like those who touch upon the golden shore;
Betwixt our judges can distinction make,
Discern how much, and why our poems take;
Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice;
Whether the applause be only sound or voice.
When our fop gallants, or our city folly,
Clap over loud, it makes us melancholy:
We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,
And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.
Judge, then, if we who act, and they who write,
Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grossly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms, all the depths of wit;
The ready finger lays on every blot;
Knows what should justly please, and what should not.
Nature herself lies open to your view;
You judge, by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint,
Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.
But by the sacred genius of this place,
By every muse, by each domestic grace,
Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel!
Our poets hither for adoption come,
As nations sued to be made free of Rome:
Not in the suffragating tribes[380] to stand,
But in your utmost, last, provincial band.
If his ambition may those hopes pursue,
Who, with religion, loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name shall be
Than his own mother-university.
Thebes[381] did his green, unknowing, youth engage;
He chooses Athens in his riper age.
EPILOGUE
TO
CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
BY MR N. LEE, 1684.
The play, to which this is the prologue, is but a second-rate performance. It is founded on the story of Faustina and Crispus, which the learned will find in Ammianus Marcellinus, and the English reader in Gibbon. Arius, the heretic, is the villain of the piece, which concludes fortunately.
Our hero's happy in the play's conclusion;
The holy rogue at last has met confusion:
Though Arius all along appeared a saint,
The last act showed him a True Protestant.[382]
Eusebius,—for you know I read Greek authors,—
Reports, that, after all these plots and slaughters,
The court of Constantine was full of glory,
And every Trimmer turned addressing Tory.
They followed him in herds as they were mad:
When Clause was king, then all the world was glad.[383]
Whigs kept the places they possest before,
And most were in a way of getting more;
Which was as much as saying, Gentlemen,
Here's power and money to be rogues again.
Indeed, there were a sort of peaking tools,
Some call them modest, but I call them fools;
Men much more loyal, though not half so loud,
But these poor devils were cast behind the crowd;
For bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.
Besides all these, there were a sort of wights,
(I think my author calls them Tekelites,)
Such hearty rogues against the king and laws,
They favoured e'en a foreign rebel's cause,
When their own damned design was quashed and awed;
At least they gave it their good word abroad.
As many a man, who, for a quiet life,
Breeds out his bastard, not to noise his wife,
}
Thus, o'er their darling plot these Trimmers cry, }
And, though they cannot keep it in their eye, }
They bind it 'prentice to Count Tekely.[384] }
They believe not the last plot; may I be curst,
If I believe they e'er believed the first!
No wonder their own plot no plot they think,—
The man, that makes it, never smells the stink.
And, now it comes into my head, I'll tell
Why these damned Trimmers loved the Turks so well.
The original Trimmer,[385] though a friend to no man,
Yet in his heart adored a pretty woman;
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever
Kind black-eyed rogues for every true believer;
And,—which was more than mortal man e'er tasted,—
One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lasted.
To turn for this, may surely be forgiven;
Who'd not be circumcised for such a heaven?
PROLOGUE
TO THE
DISAPPOINTMENT, OR THE MOTHER IN FASHION.
BY MR SOUTHERNE, 1684.
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
This play is founded on the novel of the Impertinent Curiosity, in Don Quixote. It possesses no extraordinary merit. The satire of the Prologue, though grossly broad, is very forcibly expressed; and describes what we may readily allow to have been the career of many, who set up for persons of wit and honour about town.
How comes it, gentlemen, that, now a-days,
When all of you so shrewdly judge of plays,
Our poets tax you still with want of sense?
All prologues treat you at your own expence.
Sharp citizens a wiser way can go;
They make you fools, but never call you so.
They in good manners seldom make a slip,
But treat a common whore with—ladyship:
But here each saucy wit at random writes,
And uses ladies as he uses knights.
Our author, young and grateful in his nature,
Vows, that from him no nymph deserves a satire:
Nor will he ever draw—I mean his rhime,
Against the sweet partaker of his crime;
Nor is he yet so bold an undertaker,
To call men fools—'tis railing at their Maker.
Besides, he fears to split upon that shelf;
He's young enough to be a fop himself:
And, if his praise can bring you all a-bed,
He swears such hopeful youth no nation ever bred.
}
Your nurses, we presume, in such a case, }
Your father chose, because he liked the face, }
And often they supplied your mother's place. }
The dry nurse was your mother's ancient maid,
Who knew some former slip she ne'er betrayed.
Betwixt them both, for milk and sugar-candy,
Your sucking bottles were well stored with brandy.
}
Your father, to initiate your discourse, }
Meant to have taught you first to swear and curse, }
But was prevented by each careful nurse. }
For, leaving dad and mam, as names too common,
They taught you certain parts of man and woman.
I pass your schools; for there, when first you came,
You would be sure to learn the Latin name.
In colleges, you scorned the art of thinking,
But learned all moods and figures of good drinking;
Thence come to town, you practise play, to know
The virtues of the high dice, and the low.[386]
Each thinks himself a sharper most profound:
He cheats by pence; is cheated by the pound.
}
With these perfections, and what else he gleans, }
The spark sets up for love behind our scenes, }
Hot in pursuit of princesses and queens. }
There, if they know their man, with cunning carriage,
Twenty to one but it concludes in marriage.
He hires some homely room, love's fruits to gather,
And, garret high, rebels against his father:
But, he once dead——
Brings her in triumph, with her portion, down—
A toilet, dressing-box, and half-a-crown.[387]
Some marry first, and then they fall to scowering,
Which is refining marriage into whoring.
Our women batten well on their good nature;
All they can rap and rend for the dear creature.
But while abroad so liberal the dolt is,
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
Last, some there are, who take their first degrees
Of lewdness in our middle galleries;
The doughty bullies enter bloody drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's punk:
They caterwaul, and make a dismal rout,
Call sons of whores, and strike, but ne'er lug out:
Thus, while for paltry punk they roar and stickle,
They make it bawdier than a conventicle.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE KING AND QUEEN,
UPON THE
UNION OF THE TWO COMPANIES, IN 1686.
The two rival Companies, so long known by the names of the King's and the Duke's players, after exhausting every effort, both of poetry and machinery, to obtain a superiority over each other, were, at length, by the expence of these exertions, and the inconstancy of the public, reduced to the necessity of uniting their forces, in order to maintain their ground. "Taste and fashion," says Colley Cibber, "with us, have always had wings, and fly from one public spectacle to another so wantonly, that I have been informed, by those who remember it, that a famous puppet-show, in Salisbury-change, then standing where Cecil-street now is, so far distressed these two celebrated companies, that they were reduced to petition the king for relief against it. Nor ought we, perhaps, to think this strange, when, if I mistake not, Terence himself reproaches the Roman auditors of his time with the like fondness for the funambuli, the rope-dancers. Not to dwell too long, therefore, upon that part of my history, which I have only collected from oral tradition, I shall content myself with telling you, that Mohun and Hart now growing old, (for above thirty years before this time, they had severally borne the king's commission of major and captain in the civil wars,) and the younger actors, as Goodman, Clark, and others, being impatient to get into their parts, and growing intractable, the audiences too of both houses then falling off, the patentees of each, by the king's advice, (which, perhaps, amounted to a command,) united their interests, and both companies into one, exclusive of all others, in the year 1684. This union was, however, so much in favour of the Duke's company, that Hart left the stage upon it, and Mohun survived not long after."[388] Apology, p. 58.
It appears, that the king and queen honoured with their presence the first performance under the union they had recommended. Dryden's prologue abounds with those violent expressions of loyalty with which James loved to be greeted.
Since faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,
Their penny scribes take care t' inform the nation,
How well men thrive in this or that plantation:[389]
How Pennsylvania's air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Associators;
Both e'en too good for madmen and for traitors.[390]
Truth is, our land with saints is so run o'er,
And every age produces such a store,
That now there's need of two New Englands more.
What's this, you'll say, to us, and our vocation?
Only thus much, that we have left our station,
And made this theatre our new plantation.
The factious natives never could agree;
But aiming, as they called it, to be free,
Those play-house Whigs set up for property.[391]
Some say, they no obedience paid of late;
But would new tears and jealousies create,
Till topsy-turvy they had turned the state.
Plain sense, without the talent of foretelling,
Might guess 'twould end in downright knocks and quelling;
For seldom comes there better of rebelling.
When men will, needlessly, their freedom barter
For lawless power, sometimes they catch a Tartar;—
There's a damned word that rhimes to this, called Charter.[392]
But, since the victory with us remains,
You shall be called to twelve in all our gains,
If you'll not think us saucy for our pains.
Old men shall have good old plays to delight them;
And you, fair ladies and gallants, that slight them,
We'll treat with good new plays, if our new wits can write them.
We'll take no blundering verse, no fustain tumor,
No dribbling love, from this or that presumer;
No dull fat fool shammed on the stage for humour:[393]
For, faith, some of them such vile stuff have made,
As none but fools or fairies ever played;
But 'twas, as shopmen say, to force a trade.
We've given you tragedies, all sense defying,
And singing men, in woful metre dying;
This 'tis when heavy lubbers will be flying.
All these disasters we will hope to weather;
We bring you none of our old lumber hither;
Whig poets and Whig sheriffs[394] may hang together.
EPILOGUE
ON
THE SAME OCCASION.
New ministers, when first they get in place,
Must have a care to please; and that's our case:
Some laws for public welfare we design,
If you, the power supreme, will please to join.
There are a sort of prattlers in the pit,
Who either have, or who pretend to wit;
These noisy sirs so loud their parts rehearse,
That oft the play is silenced by the farce.
Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun,
Each to be thought my lady's eldest son.
But stay; methinks some vizard mask I see,
Cast out her lure from the mid gallery:
About her all the fluttering sparks are ranged;
The noise continues, though the scene is changed:
Now growling, sputtering, wauling, such a clutter!
'Tis just like puss defendant in a gutter:
Fine love, no doubt; but ere two days are o'er ye,
The surgeon will be told a woful story.
Let vizard mask her naked face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a nose:
Then for your lacqueys, and your train beside,
By whate'er name or title dignified,
They roar so loud, you'd think behind the stairs
Tom Dove,[395] and all the brotherhood of bears:
They're grown a nuisance, beyond all disasters;
We've none so great but—their unpaying masters.
We beg you, Sirs, to beg your men, that they
Would please to give you leave to hear the play.
Next, in the play-house, spare your precious lives;
Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives:
Think on your souls; but, by your lugging forth,[396]
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of these will move the warlike mind,
Think on the helpless whore you leave behind.
We beg you, last, our scene-room to forbear,
And leave our goods and chattels to our care.
Alas! our women are but washy toys,
And wholly taken up in stage employs:
Poor willing tits they are; but yet, I doubt,
This double duty soon will wear them out.
Then you are watched besides with jealous care;
What if my lady's page should find you there?
My lady knows t' a tittle what there's in ye;
No passing your gilt shilling for a guinea.
Thus, gentlemen, we have summed up in short
Our grievances, from country, town, and court:
Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure;
But first vote money, then redress at leisure.[397]
PROLOGUE
TO
THE PRINCESS OF CLEVES.
BY MR N. LEE, 1689.
This play is one of the coarsest which ever appeared upon the stage. The author himself seems to be ashamed of it, and gives, for the profligacy of his hero, the Duke of Nemours, the odd reason of a former play on the subject of the Paris massacre having been prohibited, at the request, I believe, of the French ambassador. See Vol. VII. p. 188.
Ladies! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper something in your ear:
A secret, which does much my mind perplex,—
There's treason in the play against our sex.
A man that's false to love, that vows and cheats,
And kisses every living thing he meets;
A rogue in mode,—I dare not speak too broad,—
One that—does something to the very bawd.
Out on him, traitor, for a filthy beast!
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest:
}
None of them stick at mark; they all deceive. }
Some Jew has changed the text, I half believe; }
There Adam cozened our poor grandame Eve. }
To hide their faults they rap out oaths, and tear;
Now, though we lie, we're too well-bred to swear.
So we compound for half the sin we owe,
But men are dipt for soul and body too;
And, when found out, excuse themselves, pox cant them,
With Latin stuff, Perjuria ridet Amantûm.
I'm not book-learned, to know that word in vogue,
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a rogue.
I'm sure, I never heard that screech-owl hollowed
In my poor ears, but separation followed.
How can such perjured villains e'er be saved?
Achitophel's not half so false to David.[398]
With vows and soft expressions to allure,
They stand, like foremen of a shop, demure:
No sooner out of sight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their favour, when they have been kissing,
We can perceive the ready money missing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and something they will sink.
But, since they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts
To trump their diamonds, as they trump our hearts.
EPILOGUE
TO
THE SAME.
A qualm of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespattered men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys,
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.
I railed at wild young sparks; but, without lying,
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying.
The prodigal of love gives each her part,
And, squandering, shows at least a noble heart.
I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon,
Have hired a friend to make their valour known.
That accusation straight this question brings,—
What is the man that does such naughty things?
The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop,
Lies at our feet:—he's scarce worth taking up.
'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far;
But chamber-practice is not like the bar.
When men such vile, such faint petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take;
Since modesty's the virtue of our kind,
Pray let it be to our own sex confined.
When men usurp it from the female nation,
'Tis but a work of supererogation.
We shewed a princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæsar[399] more than all his due;
Told her own faults; but I should much abhor
To choose a husband for my confessor.
You see what fate followed the saint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had proved,
Had she confessed so much to him she loved.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try;
But damned confessing is flat Popery.
PROLOGUE
TO
ARVIRAGUS AND PHILICIA.
BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ.
SPOKEN BY MR HART.
Lodowick Carlell, according to Langbaine, was an ancient courtier, being gentleman of the bows to King Charles I., groom of the king and queen's privy chamber, and servant to the queen-mother many years. His plays, the same author adds, were well esteemed of, and acted chiefly at the private house in Blackfriars. They were seven in number. "Arviragus and Philicia" consisted of two parts, and was first printed in 8vo, 1639. The prologue, which was spoken upon the revival of the piece, turns upon the caprice of the town, in preferring, to the plays of their own poets, the performances of a troop of French comedians, who, it seems, were then acting both tragedies and comedies in their own language.
With sickly actors, and an old house too,
We're matched with glorious theatres, and new;
And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn,
Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
If all these ills could not undo us quite,
A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call you each day,
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or see some serious piece, which, we presume,
Is fallen from some incomparable plume;
"And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preserve your place."
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you, why you like them?—they are French.
Therefore, some go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding;
Each lady striving to outlaugh the rest,
To make it seem they understood the jest.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English were to clap the play:
Civil, egad! our hospitable land
Bears all the charge for them to understand:
Mean time we languish, and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,
You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE PROPHETESS.
BY
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
REVIVED
By DRYDEN.
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
"The Prophetess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, even in its original state, required a good deal of machinery; for it contains stage directions for thunder-bolts brandished from on high, and for a chariot drawn through mid air by flying dragons; but it was now altered into an opera, with the addition of songs and scenical decorations, by Betterton, in 1690. Our author wrote the following prologue, to introduce it upon the stage in its altered state. The music was by Henry Purcell, and is said to have merited applause. Rich, whose attachment to scenery and decoration is ridiculed by Pope, revived this piece, and piqued himself particularly upon a set of dancing chairs, which he devised for the nonce.
The prologue gave offence to the court, and was prohibited by the Earl of Dorset, Lord Chamberlain, after the first day's representation. It contains, Cibber remarks, some familiar metaphorical sneers at the Revolution itself; and as the poetry is good, the offence was less pardonable. King William was at this time prosecuting his campaigns in Ireland; and the author not only ridicules the warfare in which he was engaged, and the English volunteers who attended him, but even the government of Queen Mary in his absence.
What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a perspective set right,
Presents our vast expences close to sight;
But turn the tube, and there we sadly view
Our distant gains, and those uncertain too;
A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our losses warn us to be wise?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,
Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops.
We raise new objects to provoke delight,
But you grow sated ere the second sight.
False men, even so you serve your mistresses;
They rise three stories in their towering dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er.
Now honour calls you hence; and all your care
Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.
In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,
Your silver goes, that should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn,
Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hose.
Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;
Such proper pages will long trains become;
With copper collars, and with brawny backs,
Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.[400]
Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;
We want not poets fit to sing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake
Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,
}
When they with happy gales are gone away, }
With your propitious presence grace our play, }
And with a sigh their empty seats survey; }
Then think,—On that bare bench my servant sat!
I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, called dum-founding.[401]—
Their loss with patience we will try to bear,
And would do more, to see you often here;
That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rise.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE MISTAKES.
This play was brought forward by Joseph Harris, a comedian, as his own, although it is said to have been chiefly written by another person. It was acted in 1690.
Enter Mr Bright.
Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had to-day. Our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux without your periwig. I left our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him.
Enter Mr Bowen.
Hold your prating to the audience; here's honest Mr Williams just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern.[402] He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or something like one. O here he comes to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.
[Exeunt Mr Bright and Mr Bowen.
Enter Mr Williams.
}
Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way. }
I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play }
But the deuce take me, if I know what to say. }
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret in my belly.
So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme—that needs no granting;
And, if my verses' feet stumble—you see my own are wanting.
}
Our young poet has brought a piece of work, }
In which though much of art there does not lurk, }
It may hold out three days—and that's as long as Cork.[403] }
But, for this play—(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune—by the Lord—I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things——even of wit.
He's no high-flyer——he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price—just half a crown.
}
You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; }
But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er, }
For many a mother has done that before. }
How's this? you cry: an actor write?—we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often failed?
But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevailed.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserved and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,
Not one of us but means to be inspired.
}
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; }
Peace and the butt[404] is all our business here; }
So much for that—and the devil take small beer. }
EPILOGUE
TO
HENRY II.
BY JOHN BANCROFT,
AND PUBLISHED BY MR MOUNTFORT, 1693.
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
This play is founded on the amours of Henry II. and the death of fair Rosamond. John Bancroft, the author, was a surgeon, and wrote another play called "Sertorius." He gave both the reputation and the profits of "Henry II." to Mountfort, the comedian; and probably made him no great compliment in the former particular, though, as the piece was well received, the latter might be of some consequence. Mountfort was an actor of great eminence. Cibber says, that he was the most affecting lover within his memory.
Thus you the sad catastrophe have seen,
Occasioned by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver;
Fair Rosamond was but her nom de guerre.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With such a mistress, or with such a wife?
If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan, your wife
Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honest whoring Harry in the play?
I guess your minds; the mistress would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony sent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you detest the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i'the lurch,
And you, like Haynes,[405] return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes cross your mind,
Chapels-of-ease behind our scenes you find.
The playhouse is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face;
Nay, some of you,—I dare not say how many,—
Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny.
}
E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide, }
Would make a shift my portion to provide, }
With some small perquisites I have beside. }
Though for your love, perhaps, I should not care,
I could not hate a man that bids me fair.
}
What might ensue, 'tis hard for me to tell; }
But I was drenched to-day for loving well, }
And fear the poison that would make me swell. }
A
PROLOGUE.
Gallants, a bashful poet bids me say,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauched upon the stage.
He wants the suffering part of resolution,
And comes with blushes to his execution.
Ere you deflower his Muse, he hopes the pit
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Promise him well, before the play begin;
For he would fain be cozened into sin.
}
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail; }
But, if you leave him after being frail, }
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail; }
To call you base, and swear you used him ill,
And put you in the new Deserters' bill.
Lord, what a troop of perjured men we see;
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the ladies may with patience brook;
Theirs are not the first colours you forsook.
He would be loth the beauties to offend;
But, if he should, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing;
But his friend swears, he will be worth the rearing.
His gloss is still upon him; though 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is best;
There's sweet and sour, and one side good at least.
Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,
Though not for food, are yet preserved for pickle.
So this green writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your stomachs for a better feast.
He makes this difference in the sexes too;
He sells to men, he gives himself to you.
To both he would contribute some delight;
A meer poetical hermaphrodite.
}
Thus he's equipped, both to be wooed, and woo; }
With arms offensive, and defensive too; }
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do. }
PROLOGUE
TO
ALBUMAZAR.
The old Play, to which this prologue was prefixed upon its revival, was originally acted in 1634, three or four years after the appearance of Jonson's "Alchemist;" to which, therefore, it could not possibly afford any hint. Dryden, observing the resemblance between the plays, took the plagiarism for granted, because the style of "Albumazar" is certainly the most antiquated. This appearance of antiquity is, however, only a consequence of the vein of pedantry which runs through the whole piece. It was written by —— Tomkins, a scholar of Trinity College, and acted before King James VI. by the gentlemen of that house, 9th March, 1614. It is, upon the whole, a very excellent play; yet the author, whether consulting his own taste, or that of our British Solomon, before whom it was to be represented, has contrived to give it an air of such learned stiffness, that it much more resembles the translation of a play from Terence or Plautus, than an original English composition. By this pedantic affectation, the humour of the play is completely smothered; and although there are several very excellent comic situations in the action, yet neither the attempt to revive it in Dryden's time, nor those which followed in 1748 and 1773, met with any success.
As Dryden had imputed, very rashly, however, and groundlessly, the guilt of plagiarism to Jonson, he made this supposed crime the introduction to a similar slur on Shadwell, who at that time seems to have been possessed of the laurel; a circumstance which ascertains the date of the prologue to be posterior to the Revolution.
To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose,
He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
But this our age such authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word;
Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,
And what's their plunder, their possession call;
Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,
But rob by sun-shine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of, "Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;"
But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,[406]
'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the living, but these rob the dead;
Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,
And make love to them the Egyptian way;
Or, as a rhiming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the license, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand;[407]
Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
They make the benefits of others studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i'the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
For they their thefts still undiscovered think,
And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They should refund,—but that can never be;
For, should you letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no man else would steal.
AN
EPILOGUE.
You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly tried,
And, without doubt, you are hugely edified;
For, like our hero, whom we showed to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
}
Love once did make a pretty kind of show; }
Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow; }
But 'twas heaven knows how many years ago. }
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation.
In comedy your little selves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, poets toil to write!
The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly
To some new frisk of contrariety.
You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven devils, when dispossessed of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen,
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But every inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face;
For sins like these, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;[408]
He'll do your work this summer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phœbus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place![409]
But for the pit confounders, let them go,
And find as little mercy as they show!
The actors thus, and thus thy poets pray;
For every critic saved, thou damn'st a play.
EPILOGUE
TO THE
HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.
This play was written by John Dryden, Junior, son to our poet. See the preface among our author's prose works. It was dedicated to Sir Robert Howard, and acted in 1696.
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
}
Nor is the puny poet void of care; }
For authors, such as our new authors are, }
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare; }
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
}
The poet has one disadvantage more, }
That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, }
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. }
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
}
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, }
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, }
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. }
}
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, }
At what his beauship says, but what he wears; }
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. }
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author[410] hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
}
Fools change in England, and new fools arise; }
For, though the immortal species never dies, }
Yet every year new maggots make new flies. }
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.