In the Prologue to the Unhappy Favourite; or the Earl of Essex.
The Merchant, joyful with th' hopes of Gain,
Ventures his Life and Fortunes on the Main;
But the poor Poet oft'ner does expose
More than his Life, his Credit, for Applause.
In the Epilogue to the same Play.
Let those who call us Wicked, change their Sence,
For never Men liv'd more on Providence:
Not Lott'ry Cavaliers 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.
So Wretched, that if Pharaoh could Divine, }
He might have spar'd his Dream of seven lean Kine,}
And chang'd the Vision for the Muses Nine. }
And a little after.
'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,
For then the Printer's Press would suffer more:
Their Pamphleteers their Venom daily spit,
They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit.
Now I do not blame these Ingenuous Gentlemen for inveighing against the thing to which they owe their Ruin; nor were it to any purpose to endeavour to conceal a Truth so generally taken notice of: For who is Ignorant of this, that a Man, in all Professions, except that of Poetry, may with Honour advance a Livelihood? But that (though it may be sometimes found proper for the Divertisement of those few who have leisure to read it) was ever known to be most unprofitable to the Authors; for few or none have been Advanced by it, though many have been hindred by this Art of Versifying, from making their Fortune otherwise in the World. Yea, this Profession is grown so Vile and abject, that whereas others count it an Honour to be stiled Physicians, Barristers, or the like; these are offended with the very Name of Poet: And that with good Reason too, since Poetry only glories in Disguising the Truth; for which cause it begins to be Banished even from Theatres, to which alone it was Destinated; and Prose is now come in request, being prefer'd for its Gracefulness and Naturalness above it: By which means this Art is in danger to be confin'd to the Corners of Streets; to serve only for Songs and Ballads. Hence it was that Ovid was so severely Punished by his Father, to make him leave off this Art, which proved so unlucky to him, that he became of a Rich Roman Knight, a Miserable Exile among Barbarians. Hence Plato was pleased to Banish it out of his imaginary Common-Wealth. And Philip, the first Christian Emperour, denied them those Immunities which he granted to all others. Numerous Instances of this Nature offer themselves to my Pen, but I must take care not to stretch my Epistle too far, for fear you should Reflect on it, what was formerly said on Sir William D'avenant's Preface before his Gondibert,
A Preface to no Book, a Porch to no House,
Here is the Mountain, but where is the Mouse?
However, I must not neglect to desire this one Favour of you, that after you have taken the pains to peruse these undigested Lines, you would be pleased to bestow on them a Funeral Fire; or if you apprehend that Sentence to be too severe, I do most earnestly beg of you to keep them Secret to your self, without shewing them to your trustiest Friend, at least, with my Name to them. It were superfluous now to engage you not to convey them to the Censorious World through the Press, since that, and more was already by the precedent Caution imply'd; besides, the Opinion I have of your Candour, is better grounded, than to admit of any such Jealousie.