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PROLOGUE. OUR 1 Author by experience finds it true, | |
| ’Tis much more hard to please himself than you; | |
| And out of no feign’d Modesty, this day, | |
| Damns his laborious Trifle of a Play; | |
| Not that its worse than what before he writ, | 5 |
| But he has now another taste of Wit; | |
| And, to confess a Truth (though out of Time,) | |
| Grows weary of his long-loved Mistris Rhyme. | |
| Passion’s too fierce to be in Fetters bound, | |
| And Nature flies him like Enchanted Ground: | 10 |
| 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 Shakespear’s sacred name: | |
| Aw’d when he hears his Godlike Romans rage. | 15 |
| 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 wou’d not match his Verse with those who live: | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| He shou’d 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, Heav’n be prais’d, are here; | |
| But Wit’s a Luxury you think too dear. | 30 |
| 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 hous’d from Snow. | |
| There needs no care to put a Play-house down, | 35 |
| ’Tis the most desart 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. | 40 |
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EPILOGUE A pretty task! and so I told the Fool, | |
| Who needs would undertake to please by Rule: | |
| He thought that, if his Characters were good, | |
| The Scenes entire, and freed from noise and bloud; | |
| The Action great, yet circumscrib’d by Time, | 45 |
| The Words not forc’d, but sliding into Rhime, | |
| The Passions rais’d and calm’d by just Degrees, | |
| As Tides are swell’d, and then retire to Seas; | |
| He thought in hitting these his bus’ness done, | |
| Though he perhaps has fail’d in ev’ry one: | 50 |
| But, after all, a Poet must confess, | |
| His Art’s, like Physick, but a happy ghess. | |
| Your Pleasure on your Fancy must depend: | |
| The Lady’s pleas’d, just as she likes her Friend. | |
| No Song! no Dance! no Show! he fears you’l say: | 55 |
| You love all naked Beauties, but a Play. | |
| He much mistakes your methods to delight; | |
| And, like the French, 2 abhors our Target-fight: | |
| But those damn’d Dogs can never be i’ th’ right. | |
| True English hate your Monsieur’s paltry Arts, | 60 |
| For you are all Silk-weavers, in your hearts. | |
| Bold Brittons, 3 at a brave Bear-garden Fray, | |
| Are rouz’d; and, clatt’ring Sticks, cry, Play, play, play. | |
| Meantime, your filthy Forreigner will stare, | |
| And mutter to himself, Ha gens Barbare! 4 | 65 |
| And, Gad, ’tis well he mutters; well for him; | |
| Our Butchers else would tear him limb from limb. | |
| ’Tis true, the time may come, your Sons may be | |
| Infected with this French 5 civility: | |
| But this in After-ages will be done: | 70 |
| Our Poet writes a hundred years too soon. | |
| This Age comes on too slow, or he too fast; | |
| And early Springs are subject to a blast! | |
| Who would excel, when few can make a Test | |
| Betwixt indiff’rent Writing and the best? | 75 |
| For Favours cheap and common, who wou’d strive, | |
| Which, like abandoned Prostitutes, you give? | |
| Yet scatter’d here and there, I some behold, | |
| Who can discern the Tinsel from the Gold: | |
| To these he writes; and, if by them allow’d, | 80 |
| ’Tis their Prerogative to rule the Crowd. | |
| For he more fears (like a presuming Man) | |
| Their Votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can. | |
