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PROLOGUE. THEY who write Ill, and they who ne’r durst write, | |
| Turn Critiques out of meer Revenge and Spight: | |
| A Play-house gives ’em Fame; and up there starts, | |
| From a mean Fifth-rate Wit, a Man of Parts. | |
| (So Common Faces on the Stage appear; | 5 |
| We take ’em in, and they turn Beauties here.) | |
| Our Authour fears those Critiques as his Fate; | |
| And those he Fears, by consequence, must Hate, | |
| For they the Trafficque of all Wit invade, | |
| As Scriv’ners draw away the Bankers Trade. | 10 |
| Howe’re, the Poet’s safe enough to day; | |
| They cannot censure an unfinish’d Play. | |
| But, as when Vizard Masque appears in Pit, | |
| Straight every Man who thinks himself a Wit | |
| Perks up; and, managing his Comb with grace, | 15 |
| With his white Wigg sets off his Nut-brown Face; | |
| That done, bears up to th’ prize, and views each Limb, | |
| To know her by her Rigging and her Trimm; | |
| Then, the whole noise of Fops to wagers go, | |
| Pox on her, ’t must be she; and Damm’ee no: | 20 |
| Just so, I Prophecy, these Wits to-day | |
| Will blindly guess at our imperfect Play: | |
| With what new Plots our Second Part is fill’d, | |
| Who must be kept alive, and who be kill’d. | |
| And as those Vizard Masques maintain that Fashion, | 25 |
| To soothe and tickle sweet Imagination; | |
| So, our dull Poet keeps you on with Masquing; | |
| To make you think there’s something worth your asking: | |
| But when ’tis shown, that which does now delight you | |
| Will prove a Dowdy, with a Face to fright you. | 30 |
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EPILOGUE They who have best succeeded on the Stage, | |
| Have still conform’d their Genius to their Age. | |
| Thus Jonson did Mechanique humour show | |
| When men were dull, and conversation low. | |
| Then, Comedy was faultless, but ’twas course; | 35 |
| Cobbs Tankard was a Jest and Otter’s horse. | |
| And as their Comedy, their Love was mean; | |
| Except, by chance, in some one labour’d Scene, | |
| Which must attone for an ill-written play, | |
| They rose, but at their height could seldome stay. | 40 |
| Fame then was cheap, and the first commer sped; | |
| And they have kept it since, by being dead, | |
| But, were they now to write, when Critiques weigh | |
| Each Line, and ev’ry Word, throughout a Play, | |
| None of ’em, no, not Jonson in his height, | 45 |
| Could pass, without allowing grains for weight. | |
| Think it not envy, that these truths are told; | |
| Our Poet’s not malicious, though he’s bold. | |
| ’Tis not to brand ’em that their faults are shown, | |
| But by their errours to excuse his own. | 50 |
| If Love and Honour now are higher rais’d, | |
| ’Tis not the Poet, but the Age is prais’d. | |
| Wit’s now ariv’d to a more high degree; | |
| Our native Language more refin’d and free; | |
| Our Ladies and our men now speak more wit | 55 |
| In conversation, than those Poets writ. | |
| Then, one of these is, consequently, true; | |
| That what this Poet writes comes short of you, | |
| And imitates you ill (which most he fears) | |
| Or else his writing is not worse than theirs. | 60 |
| Yet, though you judge (as sure the Critiques will) | |
| That some before him writ with greater skill, | |
| In this one praise he has their fame surpast, | |
| To please an Age more Gallant than the last. | |
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