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 flight,
Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write;
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.
Shakspeare's own Muse her Pericles first bore;
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:
Tis miracle to see a first good play;

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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 cursed;
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.
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

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As Jupiter I made my court in vain;
I'll now assume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be so unkindly used,
And would not be a god, to be refused.
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. 10
Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
Even 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 'tis not to be wise to be severe.

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Circe was an Opera. Tragedy among the ancients was throughout accompanied with music. Dr. J. WARTON. Ver. 1. As Jupiter] It was a sister of the Duchess of Marlborough, a maid of honour, and afterwards Duchess of Tireonnel, celebrated by Grammont, that acted in the Masque of Calisto at court, 1675. Dr. J. Warton.

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But he has now another taste of wit;
And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-loved 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 Shakspeare's sacred name:
Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.
As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verse with those who

live :

Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,
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 southern vices, Heaven be praised, are here;
But wit's a luxury you think too dear.
When you to cultivate the plant are loth,
"Tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your growth;
And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except, like orange-trees, 'tis housed 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 sit,
And see us play the tragedy of wit.

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EPILOGUE

ΤΟ "THE MAN OF MODE; OR, SIK FOPLING FLUTTER." [BY SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.]

MOST modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,

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They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a substantial ass:
Something of man must be exposed 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,

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I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:
So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined,
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 snow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French
wallow:

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His sword-knot 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 profaned.
Another's diving bow he did adore,

Which with a shog casts all 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.

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Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the

pit;

And this is all their equipage of wit.

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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 thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat;
And swears at the gilt coach, but swears a-foot: 10
For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can ;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple best become his face.

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; 15
Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays;

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And dulness flourish'd at the actor's cost.
Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done,
Satire and humour the same fate have run,
And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.
Now our machining lumber will not sell,
And you no longer care for heaven or hell;
What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell.
Let them, who the rebellion first began
To wit, restore the monarch, if they can;
Our author dares not be the first bold man.
He, like the prudent citizen, takes care
To keep for better marts his staple ware;
His toys are good enough for Stourbridge fair.
Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,
'Tis time enough at Easter to invent;
No man will make up a new suit for Lent.
If now and then he takes a small pretence,
To forage for a little wit and sense,
Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.
Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,
That all the critics shall be shipp'd away,
And not enow be left to damn a play.
To every sail beside, good Heaven, be kind;
But drive away that swarm with such a wind,
That not one locust may be left behind!

And e'en those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent desire;
Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our sex, the name examined well,
Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis of subtle interest made:
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool presume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold;
But glorious beauty is not to be sold:

Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,

That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated 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 Swissers, for their pay.

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Your neighbours would not look on you as men,
But think the nation all turn'd Picts again.
Faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit
You should suspect yourselves of too much wit: 20
Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece;
And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece.
See twice! do not pell-mell to damning fall,
Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all:
Pray be advised; and though at Mons you won,
On pointed cannon do not always run.
With some respect to ancient wit proceed;
You take the four first councils for your creed.

But, when you lay tradition wholly by,
And on the private spirit alone rely,

You turn fanatics in your poetry.

If, notwithstanding all that we can say,

You needs will have your pen'orths of the play, And come resolved to damn, because you pay, Record it, in memorial of the fact,

The first play buried since the woollen act.

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PROLOGUE

TO "EDIPUS."

WHEN Athens all the Grecian state did guide,
And Greece gave laws to all the world beside;
Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,
Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit:
And wit from wisdom differ'd not in those,
But, as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose.
Then, Edipus, on crowded theatres,
Drew all admiring eyes and listening ears:
The pleased spectator shouted every line,
The noblest, manliest, and the best design!
And every critic of each learned age,
By this just model has reform'd the stage.
Now, should it fail, (as Heaven avert our fear)
Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear.
For were it known this poem did not please,
You might set up for perfect savages:

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arises from the prevailing custom of describing only those distresses that are occasioned by the passion of love: a passion, which, from the universality of its dominion, may justly claim a large share in representations of human life but which, by totally engrossing the theatre, hath contributed to degrade that noble school of virtue into an academy of effeminacy. When Racine persuaded the celebrated Arnauld to read his Phædra, "Why," said that severe critic to his friend, "have you falsified the manners of Hippolitus, and represented him in love?" "Alas!" replied the poet, "without that circumstance, how would the ladies and the beaux have received my piece?" And it may well be imagined, that to gratify so considerable and important a part of his audience, was the powerful motive that induced Corneille to enervate even the matchless and affecting story of Edipus, by the frigid and impertinent episode of Thesens's passion for Dirce. Shakspeare has shown us, by his Hamlet, Macbeth, and Cæsar, and above all by his Lear, that very interesting tragedies may be written, that are not founded on gallantry and love; and that Boileau was mistaken, when he affirmed,

The monumental sword that conquer'd France;
So you, by judging this, your judgment teach,
Thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach.
Since then the vote of full two thousand years
Has crown'd this plot, and all the dead are theirs,
Think it a debt you pay, not alms you give,
And, in your own defence, let this Play live.
Think them not vain, when Sophocles is shown,
To praise his worth they humbly doubt their

own.

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Yet as weak states each other's power assure,
Weak poets by conjunction are secure.
Their treat is what your palates relish most,
Charm! song! and show! murder and a ghost!
We know not what you can desire or hope,
To please you more, but burning of a Pope.

PROLOGUE

TO "TROILUS AND CRESSIDA." SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE GHOST OF SHAKSPEARE.

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SEE, my loved Britons, see your Shakspeare rise,
An awful ghost confess'd to human eyes!
Unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd I had been
From other shades, by this eternal green,
About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,
And with a touch, their wither'd bays revive.
Untaught, unpractised, in a barbarous age,
I found not, but created first the stage.
And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store,
"Twas, that my own abundance gave me more.
On foreign trade I needed not rely,
Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.
In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold
Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold,
That he who meant to alter, found 'em such,
He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch.
Now, where are the successors to my name?
What bring they to fill out a poet's fame?
Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age;
Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage!
For humour farce, for love they rhyme dispense,
That tolls the knell for their departed sense.
Dulness might thrive in any trade but this:
"Twould recommend to some fat benefice.
Dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace,
Might meet with reverence in its proper place.
The fulsome clench, that nauseates the town,
Would from a judge or alderman go down,
Such virtue is there in a robe and gown!
And that insipid stuff which here you hate,
Might somewhere else be call'd a grave debate;
Dulness is decent in the church and state.
But I forget that still 'tis understood,
Bad plays are best decried by showing good.
Sit silent then, that my pleased soul may see
A judging audience once and worthy me;
My faithful scene from true records shall tell,
How Trojan valour did the Greek excel;
Your great forefathers shall their fame regain,
And Homer's angry ghost repine in vain.

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What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,
Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.
That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or whore is meant :
Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms;
From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms:
Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,
In the blest time poor poets live by chance.
Either you come not here, or, as you grace
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish with a yawning face:
You sleep o'er wit, and by my troth you may;
Most of your talents lie another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious tale,
The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.
News is your food, and you enough provide,
Both for yourselves, and all the world beside.
One theatre there is of vast resort,
Which whilome of Requests was call'd the Court;
But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,
And full of hum and buz from noon 'till night.
Up stairs and down you run, as for a race,
And each man wears three nations in his face.
So big you look, though claret you retrench,
That, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the French.
But all your entertainment still is fed
By villains in your own dull island bred.
Would you return to us, we dare engage

To show you better rogues upon the stage.

You know no poison but plain ratsbane here; Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere.* They have a civil way in Italy,

By smelling a perfume to make you die;

A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by. Murder's a trade, so known and practised there, That 'tis infallible as is the chair.

But, mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks;

The Pope says grace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks.

PROLOGUE

TO "SOPHONISBA," at oxford, 1680.

• Successit vetus his Comoedia, etc., i. e. Comedy began to be cultivated and improved from the time that tragedy had obtained its end, irzi rèv laurës çúriv, under Eschylns. There is no reason to suppose, with some critics, that Horace meant to date its origin from hence. The supposition is, in truth, contradicted by experience and the order of things. For, as a celebrated French writer observes, "Le talent d'imiter, qui nous est naturel, nous porte plutôt à la comédie, qui roule sur des choses de nôtre connoissance, qu'à la | tragédie, qui prend des sujets plus éloignés de l'usage commun; et en effect, en Grèce aussi bien qu'en France, la comédie est l'aînée de la tragédie.”—[Hist. du Théât. Franc. par M. de Fontenelle.] The latter part of this assertion is clear from the piece referred to; and the other, which respects Greece, seems countenanced by Aristotle himself, [ỊT, X. L.] "Tis true, comedy, though its rise be everywhere, at least, as early as that of tragedy, is perfected much later. Menander,

Yet Athens never knew your learned sport
Of tossing poets in a tennis-court.
But 'tis the talent of our English nation
Still to be plotting some new reformation:
And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter shall here erect his throne,
Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,
And every prayer be longer than a play.
Then all your heathen wits shall go to pot,
For disbelieving of a Popish-plot:
Your poets shall be used like infidels,
And worst, the author of the Oxford bells:
Nor should we 'scape the sentence, to depart,
Een in our first original, a cart.

No zealous brother there would want a stone,
To maul us cardinals, and pelt Pope Joan :
Religion, learning, wit, would be suppress'd,
Rags of the whore, and trappings of the beast:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief supporters of the triple crown;
And Aristotle's for destruction ripe;
Some say, he call'd the soul an organ-pipe,
Which, by some little help of derivation,
Shall then be proved a pipe of inspiration.

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Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
Or see what's worse, the devil and the pope.
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.
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 oppress'd,
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 poach'd in rhyme;

If these should fail

we know, appeared long after Eschylus. And, though the French tragedy, to speak with Aristotle, ioxs rèv jautās cur in the hands of Corneille, this cannot be said of their comedy, which was forced to wait for a Moliere, before it arrived at that pitch of perfection. But then this is owing to the superior difficulty of the comic drama. Nor is it any objection that the contrary of this happened at Rome. For the Romans, when they applied themselves in earnest to the stage, had not to invent, but to imitate, or rather translate, the perfect models of Greece. And it chanced, for reasons which I shall not stay to deduce, that their poets had better success in copying their comedy than tragedy.

The two happiest subjects, said Fontenelle, for tragedy and comedy among the moderns, are the Cid, and l'Ecole des Femmes. But, unluckily, the respective authors that wrote on each, were not arrived at the full force of their geniuses when they treated these subjects. Events that have actually happened, are, after all, the properest subjects for poetry. The best eclogue of Virgil, the best ode of Horace,† are founded on real incidents. If we briefly cast our eyes over the most interesting and affecting stories, ancient or modern, we shall find that they are such, as, however adorned and a little diversified, are yet grounded on true history, and on real matters of fact. Such, for instance, among the ancients, are the stories of Joseph, of Edipus, the Trojan War and its consequences, of Virginia, and the Horatii; such, among the moderns, are the stories of King Lear, the Cid, Romeo and Juliet, and Oronooko. The series of events contained in these stories seem far to surpass the utmost powers of human imagination. In the best conducted fiction, some mark of improbability and incoherence will still appear. Dr. J. WARTON.

PROLOGUE

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1681.

THE famed Italian muse, whose rhymes 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 earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd, 5
Set to his nose, snuff'd 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 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,

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May come, and find their last provision here:
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,
Who neither carried back, nor brought one cross.
We look'd what representatives would bring;
But they help'd 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.

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