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FIRST PROLOGUE.
1 HE 1 who writ this, not without Pains and Thought, | |
| From French and English Theaters has brought | |
| Th’ exactest Rules by which a Play is wrought, | |
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2 The Unities of Action, Place, and Time; | |
| The Scenes unbroken; and a mingled chime | 5 |
| Of Johnsons 2 Humour with Corneilles 3 rhyme. | |
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3 But while dead colours he with care did lay, | |
| He fears his Wit or Plot he did not weigh, | |
| Which are the living Beauties of a Play. | |
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4 Plays are like Towns, which, howe’re fortifi’d | 10 |
| By Engineers, have still some weaker side, | |
| By the o’reseen Defendant unespy’d. | |
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5 And with that Art you make approaches now; | |
| Such skilful fury in Assaults you show, | |
| That every Poet without shame may bow. | 15 |
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6 Ours therefore humbly would attend your doom, | |
| If, Souldier-like, he may have Terms to come | |
| With flying colours and with beat of Drum. The Prologue goes out, and stayes while a Tune is play’d, after which he returnes again. | |
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SECOND PROLOGUE. I had forgot one half, I do protest, | |
| And now am sent again to speak the rest. | 20 |
| He bows to every great and noble Wit; | |
| But to the little Hectors of the Pit | |
| Our Poet’s sturdy, and will not submit. | |
| He’ll be before-hand with ’em, and not stay | |
| To see each peevish Critick stab his Play; | 25 |
| Each Puny Censor, who, his skill to boast, | |
| Is cheaply witty on the Poets Cost. | |
| No Criticks Verdict should, of right, stand good, | |
| They are excepted all, as men of blood; | |
| And the same Law should shield him from their fury, | 30 |
| Which has excluded Butchers from a Jury. | |
| You’d all be Wits ————— | |
| But writing’s tedious, and that way may fail; | |
| The most compendious Method is to rail; | |
| Which you so like, you think your selves ill us’d, | 35 |
| When in smart Prologues you are not abus’d, | |
| A civil Prologue is approv’d by no man; | |
| You hate it as you do a Civil woman. | |
| Your Fancy’s pall’d, and liberally you pay | |
| To have it quicken’d, e’re you see a Play. | 40 |
| Just as old Sinners, worn from their delight, | |
| Give money to be whip’d to appetite. | |
| But what a Pox keep I so much ado | |
| To save our Poet? he is one of you; | |
| A Brother Judgment, and, as I hear say, | 45 |
| A cursed Critick as e’er damned a Play. | |
| Good salvage Gentlemen, your own kind spare; | |
| He is, like you, a very Wolf or Bear; | |
| Yet think not he’ll your ancient rights invade, | |
| Or stop the course of your free damning trade; | 50 |
| For he (he vows) at no Friend’s Play can sit, | |
| But he must needs find fault, to show his Wit; | |
| Then, for his sake, ne’er stint your own delight; | |
| Throw boldly, for the sets to all that write; | |
| With such he ventures on an even lay, | 55 |
| For they bring ready money into Play. | |
| Those who write not, and yet all Writers nick, | |
| Are Bankrupt Gamesters, for they damn on Tick. | |
