x.x.xV.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THE SAME.

No poor Dutch peasant, wing'd with all his fear, Flies with more haste, when the French arms draw near, Than we with our poetic train come down, For refuge hither, from the infected town: Heaven, for our sins, this summer has thought fit To visit us with all the plagues of wit.

A French troop first swept all things in its way; But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay: Yet, to our cost, in that short time, we find They left their itch of novelty behind. 10 The Italian Merry-Andrews took their place, And quite debauch'd the stage with lewd grimace: Instead of wit and humours, your delight Was there to see two hobby-horses fight; Stout Scaramoucha with rush-lance rode in, And ran a tilt at centaur Arlequin.

For love you heard how amorous a.s.ses bray'd, And cats in gutters gave their serenade.

Nature was out of countenance, and each day Some new-born monster shown you for a play. 20 But when all fail'd, to strike the stage quite dumb, Those wicked engines call'd machines are come.

Thunder and lightning now for wit are play'd, And shortly scenes in Lapland will be laid: Art magic is for poetry profess'd; And cats and dogs, and each obscener beast, To which Egyptian dotards once did bow, Upon our English stage are worshipp'd now.

Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown Macbeth and Simon Magus of the town, 30 Fletcher's despised, your Jonson's out of fashion, And wit the only drug in all the nation.

In this low ebb our wares to you are shown; By you those staple authors' worth is known; For wit's a manufacture of your own.

When you, who only can, their scenes have praised, We'll boldly back, and say, their price is raised.

x.x.xVI.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN AT OXFORD, BY MRS MARSHALL.

Oft has our poet wish'd, this happy seat Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat: I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find He sought for quiet, and content of mind; Which noiseful towns, and courts can never know, And only in the shades like laurels grow.

Youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest, And age returning thence concludes it best.

What wonder if we court that happiness Yearly to share, which hourly you possess; 10 Teaching even you, while the vex'd world we show, Your peace to value more, and better know?

'Tis all we can return for favours past, Whose holy memory shall ever last; For patronage from him whose care presides O'er every n.o.ble art, and every science guides: Bathurst,[64] a name the learn'd with reverence know, And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe; Whose age enjoys but what his youth deserved, To rule those Muses whom before he served. 20 His learning, and untainted manners too, We find, Athenians, are derived to you: Such ancient hospitality there rests In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Whose kindness was religion to their guests.

Such modesty did to our s.e.x appear, As, had there been no laws, we need not fear, Since each of you was our protector here.

Converse so chaste, and so strict virtue shown, As might Apollo with the Muses own. 30 Till our return, we must despair to find Judges so just, so knowing, and so kind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 64: Dr Ralph Bathurst, President of Trinity College, Oxford.]

x.x.xVII.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Discord and plots, which have undone our age, With the same ruin have o'erwhelm'd the stage.

Our house has suffer'd in the common woe, We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.

Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed, And of our sisters, all the kinder-hearted, To Edinburgh gone, or coach'd, or carted.

With bonny bluecap there they act all night For Scotch half-crown, in English three-pence hight.

One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean, 10 There with her single person fills the scene.

Another, with long use and age decay'd, Dived here old woman, and rose there a maid.

Our trusty doorkeepers of former time There strut and swagger in heroic rhyme.

Tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit, And there's a hero made without dispute: And that, which was a capon's tail before, Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.

But all his subjects, to express the care 20 Of imitation, go, like Indians, bare: Laced linen there would be a dangerous thing; It might perhaps a new rebellion bring; The Scot, who wore it, would be chosen king.

But why should I these renegades describe, When you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe?

Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit, With Irish action slander'd English wit: You have beheld such barbarous Macs appear, As merited a second ma.s.sacre: 30 Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace, And had their country stamp'd upon their face.

When strollers durst presume to pick your purse, We humbly thought our broken troop not worse.

How ill soe'er our action may deserve, Oxford's a place where wit can never starve.

x.x.xVIII.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Though actors cannot much of learning boast, Of all who want it, we admire it most: We love the praises of a learned pit, As we remotely are allied to wit.

We speak our poet's wit, and trade in ore, Like those who touch upon the golden sh.o.r.e: Betwixt our judges can destinction make, Discern how much, and why, our poems take: Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice; Whether the applause be only sound or voice. 10 When our fop gallants, or our city folly, Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.

Judge then, if we who act, and they who write, Should not be proud of giving you delight.

London likes grossly; but this nicer pit Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit; The ready finger lays on every blot; Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20 Nature herself lies open to your view; You judge by her, what draught of her is true, Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint, Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.

But by the sacred genius of this place, By every Muse, by each domestic grace, Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.

Our poets. .h.i.ther for adoption come, As nations sued to be made free of Rome: 30 Not in the suffragating tribes to stand, But in your utmost, last, provincial band.

If his ambition may those hopes pursue, Who with religion loves your arts and you, Oxford to him a dearer name shall be, Than his own mother university.

Thebes did his green, unknowing youth engage; He chooses Athens in his riper age.

x.x.xIX.

PROLOGUE TO "ALBION AND ALBANIUS."

Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage Has lost on this incorrigible age: Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation, Have seem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation: But still no sign remains; which plainly notes, You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.

What can we do, when mimicking a fop, Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?

Faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you, Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you. 10 Satire was once your physic, wit your food: One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood: We now prescribe, like doctors in despair, The diet your weak appet.i.tes can bear.

Since hearty beef and mutton will not do, Here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and show: Give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady: You're come to farce,--that's a.s.ses' milk,--already.

Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit, Who one day may be men, if Heaven think fit: 20 Sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown, Like leading-strings till they can walk alone.

But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know, The wise Italians first invented show: Thence into France the n.o.ble pageant pa.s.s'd: 'Tis England's credit to be cozen'd last.

Freedom and zeal have choused you o'er and o'er: Pray give us leave to bubble you once more; You never were so cheaply fool'd before:

We bring you change, to humour your disease; 30 Change for the worse has ever used to please: Then, 'tis the mode of France; without whose rules None must presume to set up here for fools.