If now and then he takes a small pretence, 20 To forage for a little wit and sense, Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.

Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say, That all the critics shall be shipp'd away, And not enow be left to d.a.m.n a play.

To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind: But drive away that swarm with such a wind, That not one locust may be left behind!

XXI.

EPILOGUE TO "MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS;"

BY NATHAN LEE, 1678.

You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die: And much you care; for most of you will cry, 'Twas a just judgment on their constancy.

For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage: And even those martyrs are but rare in plays; A cursed sign how much true faith decays.

Love is no more a violent desire; 'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.

In all our s.e.x, the name examined well, 10 Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.

In woman, 'tis of subtle interest made: Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!

She first did wit's prerogative remove, And made a fool presume to prate of love.

Let honour and preferment go for gold; But glorious beauty is not to be sold: Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high, That nothing but adoring it should buy.

Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare; 20 They purchase but sophisticated ware.

'Tis prodigality that buys deceit, Where both the giver and the taker cheat.

Men but refine on the old half-crown way; And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.

XXII.

PROLOGUE TO "OEDIPUS."

When Athens all the Grecian state did guide, And Greece gave laws to all the world beside; Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit, Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit: And wit from wisdom differ'd not in those, But as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose.

Then, Oedipus, on crowded theatres, Drew all admiring eyes and listening ears: The pleased spectator shouted every line, The n.o.blest, manliest, and the best design! 10 And every critic of each learned age, By this just model has reform'd the stage.

Now, should it fail (as Heaven avert our fear), d.a.m.n it in silence, lest the world should hear.

For were it known this poem did not please, You might set up for perfect savages: Your neighbours would not look on you as men, But think the nation all turn'd Picts again.

Faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit You should suspect yourselves of too much wit: 20 Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece; And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece.

See twice: do not pellmell to d.a.m.ning fall, Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all: Pray be advised; and though at Mons you won, On pointed cannon do not always run.

With some respect to ancient wit proceed; You take the four first councils for your creed.

But, when you lay tradition wholly by, And on the private spirit alone rely, 30 You turn fanatics in your poetry.

If, notwithstanding all that we can say, You needs will have your penn'orths of the play, And come resolved to d.a.m.n, because you pay, Record it, in memorial of the fact, The first play buried since the woollen act.

XXIII.

EPILOGUE TO "OEDIPUS."

What Sophocles could undertake alone, Our poets found a work for more than one; And therefore two lay tugging at the piece, With all their force, to draw the ponderous ma.s.s from Greece; A weight that bent e'en Seneca's strong Muse, And which Corneille's shoulders did refuse: So hard it is the Athenian harp to string!

So much two consuls yield to one just king!

Terror and pity this whole poem sway; The mightiest machines that can mount a play. 10 How heavy will those vulgar souls be found, Whom two such engines cannot move from ground!

When Greece and Rome have smiled upon this birth, You can but d.a.m.n for one poor spot of earth: And when your children find your judgment such, They'll scorn their sires, and wish themselves born Dutch; Each haughty poet will infer, with ease, How much his wit must underwrite to please.

As some strong churl would, brandishing, advance The monumental sword that conquer'd France; 20 So you, by judging this, your judgment teach, Thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach.

Since, then, the vote of full two thousand years Has crown'd this plot, and all the dead are theirs, Think it a debt you pay, not alms you give, And, in your own defence, let this play live.

Think them not vain, when Sophocles is shown, To praise his worth they humbly doubt their own.

Yet as weak states each other's power a.s.sure, Weak poets by conjunction are secure. 30 Their treat is what your palates relish most, Charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost!

We know not what you can desire or hope To please you more, but burning of a Pope.

XXIV.

PROLOGUE TO "TROILUS AND CRESSIDA."

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE GHOST OF SHAKSPEARE.

See, my loved Britons, see your Shakspeare rise, An awful ghost, confess'd, to human eyes!

Unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd I had been From other shades, by this eternal green, About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive, And with a touch their wither'd bays revive.

Untaught, unpractised in a barbarous age, I found not, but created first the stage.

And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store, 'Twas that my own abundance gave me more. 10 On foreign trade I needed not rely, Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.

In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold Some master strokes, so manly and so bold, That he who meant to alter, found 'em such, He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch.

Now, where are the successors to my name?

What bring they to fill out a poet's fame?

Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age; Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage! 20 For humour, farce--for love they rhyme dispense, That tolls the knell for their departed sense.

Dulness might thrive in any trade, but this 'Twould recommend to some fat benefice: Dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace, Might meet with reverence in its proper place.

The fulsome clench, that nauseates the town, Would from a judge or alderman go down; Such virtue is there in a robe and gown!

And that insipid stuff, which here you hate, 30 Might somewhere else be call'd a grave debate: Dulness is decent in the church and state.

But I forget that still 'tis understood, Bad plays are best decried by showing good.

Sit silent, then, that my pleased soul may see A judging audience once, and worthy me; My faithful scene from true records shall tell, How Trojan valour did the Greek excel; Your great forefathers shall their fame regain, And Homer's angry ghost repine in vain. 40

XXV.

PROLOGUE TO "CaeSAR BORGIA;"[54]

BY NATHAN LEE, 1680.