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PROLOGUE IS 1 it not strange to hear a Poet say, | |
| He comes to ask you how you like the Play? | |
| You have not seen it yet! alas ’tis true; | |
| But now your Love and Hatred judge, not You. | |
| And cruel Factions (brib’d by Interest) come, | 5 |
| Not to weigh Merit, but to give their Doome. | |
| Our Poet, therefore, jealous of th’ Event, | |
| And (though much Boldness takes) not confident, | |
| Has sent me whither you, Fair ladies, too | |
| Sometimes upon as small Occasions goe, | 10 |
| And from this Scheme, drawn for the Hour and Day, | |
| Bid me inquire the Fortune of his Play. | |
The curtain drawn discovers two Astrologers;
The Prologue is presented to them. 1 Astrol. reads. A figure of the heavenly Bodies in their several Apartments, Feb. the 5th, half an hour after three after Noon, from whence you are to judge the success of a new play, called the Wild Gallant. | |
| 2 Astrol. Who must judge of it, we or these gentlemen? We’ll not meddle with it; so tell your poet. Here are, in this House, the ablest Mathematicians in Europe for his purpose. | |
| They will resolve the Question, e’r they part. | 15 |
| 1 Ast. Yet let us judge it by the Rules of Art: | |
| First Jupiter, the Ascendants Lord disgrac’d, | |
| In the twelfth House and near grim Saturn plac’d, | |
Denote short life unto the Play:—
2 Ast. —Jove yet, | |
| In his apartment Sagitary, set | 20 |
| Under his own Roof, cannot take much Wrong. | |
| 1 Ast. Why then the Life’s not very short, nor long; | |
| 2 Ast. The Luck not very good, nor very ill; | |
| Prolo. That is to say, ’tis as ’tis taken still. | |
| 1 Ast. But, brother, Ptolomy the learned says, | 25 |
| ’Tis the fifth House from whence we judge of Plays. | |
| Venus, the Lady of that House, I find | |
| Is Peregrine; your Play is ill design’d; | |
| It should have been but one continued Song, | |
| Or at the least a Dance of 3 hours long. | 30 |
| 2 Ast. But yet the greatest Mischief does remain, | |
| The twelfth Apartment bears the Lord of Spain; | |
| Whence I conclude, it is your Author’s Lot, | |
| To be indanger’d by a Spanish plot. | |
| Prolo. Our Poet yet Protection hopes from you; | 35 |
| But bribes you not with any thing that’s new. | |
| Nature is old, which Poets imitate; | |
| And for Wit, those that boast their own estate | |
| Forget Fletcher and Ben before them went, | |
| Their Elder Brothers, and that vastly spent: | 40 |
| So much, ’twill hardly be repair’d again, | |
| Not though supply’d with all the wealth of Spain. | |
| This Play is English, and the growth your own; | |
| As such it yields to English Plays alone. | |
| He could have wish’d it better for your Sakes, | 45 |
| But that in Plays he finds you love Mistakes: | |
| Besides, he thought it was in vain to mend | |
| What you are bound in Honour to defend; | |
| That English wit, how e’r despis’d by some, | |
| Like English valour, still may overcome. | 50 |
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EPILOGUE The Wilde Gallant has quite play’d out his Game; | |
| He’s marry’d now, and that will make him tame. | |
| Or if you think Marriage will not reclaim him, | |
| The Critiques swear they’ll damn him, but they’ll tame him. | |
| Yet, though our Poet’s threatened most by these, | 55 |
| They are the only People he can please: | |
| For he, to humour them, has shown to day | |
| That which they only like, a wretched Play. | |
| But though his Play be ill, here have been shown | |
| The greatest Wits and Beauties of the Town; | 60 |
| And his Occasion having brought you here, | |
| You are too grateful to become severe. | |
| There is not any Person here so mean, | |
| But he may freely judge each Act and Scene. | |
| But if you bid him chuse his Judges, then | 65 |
| He boldly names true English Gentlemen; | |
| For he ne’r thought a handsome Garb or Dress | |
| So great a Crime to make their Judgment less; | |
| And with these Gallants he these Ladies joyns, | |
| To judge that Language their Converse refines. | 70 |
| But if their Censures should condemn his Play, | |
| Far from disputing, he does only pray | |
| He may Leanders Destiny obtain: | |
| Now spare him, drown him when he comes again. | |
