Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation, For they were bred ere manners were in fashion, And their new commonwealth has set them free, Only from honour and civility.

Venetians do not more uncouthly ride, Than did their lubber state mankind bestride; Their sway became them with as ill a mien, As their own paunches swell above their chin: Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour, And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.

As Cato did his Afric fruits display, So we before your eyes their Indies lay: All loyal English will, like him, conclude, Let Caesar live, and Carthage be subdued!

XIII.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE, MARCH 26, 1674.

A plain-built[47] house, after so long a stay, Will send you half unsatisfied away; When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find A bare convenience only is design'd.

You, who each day can theatres behold, Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold, Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear, And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.

Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown, And a plain suit, since we can make but one, 10 Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.

They, who are by your favours wealthy made, With mighty sums may carry on the trade: We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire, With our small stock to humble roofs retire: Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.

For fame and honour we no longer strive, We yield in both, and only beg to live: Unable to support their vast expense, Who build and treat with such magnificence; 20 That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age, They give the law to our provincial stage.

Great neighbours enviously promote excess, While they impose their splendour on the less.

But only fools, and they of vast estate, The extremity of modes will imitate, The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.

Yet if some pride with want may be allow'd, We in our plainness may be justly proud: Our royal master will'd it should be so; 30 Whate'er he's pleased to own, can need no show: That sacred name gives ornament and grace, And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pa.s.s.

'Twere folly now a stately[48] pile to raise, To build a playhouse, while you throw down plays; While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign, And for the pencil you the pen disdain: While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive, And laugh at those upon whose alms they live: Old English authors vanish, and give place 40 To these new conquerors of the Norman race.

More tamely than your fathers you submit; You're now grown va.s.sals to them in your wit.

Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance The mighty merits of their men of France, Keep time, cry _Bon_, and humour the cadence.

Well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood, That French machines have ne'er done England good.

I would not prophesy our house's fate: But while vain shows and scenes you over-rate, 50 Tis to be fear'd-- That as a fire the former house o'erthrew, Machines and tempests will destroy the new.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 47: This Prologue was written for the King's company, who had just opened their house in Drury-lane.]

[Footnote 48: The reflection on the taste of the town in these four lines is levelled at the Duke's company, who had exhibited the siege of Rhodes, and other expensive operas, and were now getting up the operas of Psyche, Circe, &c.]

XIV.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1674.

SPOKEN BY MR HART.

Poets, your subjects have their parts a.s.sign'd To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind: When tired with following nature, you think fit To seek repose in the cool shades of wit, And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.

Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife You view the various turns of human life: Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go, And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know. 10 Your theories are here to practice brought, As in mechanic operations wrought; And man, the little world, before you set, As once the sphere[49] of crystal show'd the great.

Blest, sure, are you above all mortal kind, If to your fortunes you can suit your mind: Content to see, and shun, those ills we show, And crimes on theatres alone to know.

With joy we bring what our dead authors writ, And beg from you the value of their wit: 20 That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim, May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.

None of our living poets dare appear; For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here, That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye, And, as profane, from sacred places fly, Rather than see the offended G.o.d, and die.

We bring no imperfections but our own; Such faults as made are by the makers shown: And you have been so kind, that we may boast, 30 The greatest judges still can pardon most.

Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit, Debased even to the level of their wit; Disdaining that, which yet they know will take, Hating themselves what their applause must make.

But when to praise from you they would aspire, Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.

So far your knowledge all their power transcends, As what _should be_ beyond what _is_ extends.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 49: 'Sphere,' &c.: referring to the macrocosm--the universe; and the microcosm--man]

XV.

PROLOGUE TO "CIRCE," A TRAGIC OPERA;

BY DR DAVENANT,[50] 1675.

Were you but half so wise as you're severe, Our youthful poet should not need to fear: To his green years your censures you would suit, Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.

The s.e.x, the best does pleasure understand, Will always choose to err on the other hand.

They check not him that's awkward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.

Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey, The youth may prove a man another day. 10 Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, nor 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; All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.

A slender poet must have time to grow, 20 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 d.a.m.n 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 50: Son of Sir William Davenant, and author of several political pieces, much esteemed.]

XVI.

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE LADY HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, WHEN "CALISTO"[51] WAS ACTED AT COURT.