In France, the oldest man is always young, Sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long, Till foot, hand, head keep time with every song: Each sings his part, echoing from pit and box, With his hoa.r.s.e voice, half harmony, half pox: _Le plus grand roi du monde_ is always ringing, They show themselves good subjects by their singing: 40 On that condition, set up every throat: You Whigs may sing, for you have changed your note.

Cits and citesses raise a joyful strain, 'Tis a good omen to begin a reign: Voices may help your charter to restoring, And get by singing what you lost by roaring.

XL.

EPILOGUE TO "ALBION AND ALBANIUS."

After our aesop's fable shown to-day, I come to give the moral of the play.

Feign'd Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace: But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race: Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known; But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown.

When Heaven made man, to show the work divine, Truth was His image stamp'd upon the coin: And when a king is to a G.o.d refined, On all he says and does he stamps his mind: 10 This proves a soul without alloy, and pure; Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure.

To dare in fields is valour; but how few Dare be so thoroughly valiant,--to be true!

The name of great let other kings affect: He's great indeed, the prince that is direct.

His subjects know him now, and trust him more Than all their kings, and all their laws before.

What safety could their public acts afford?

Those he can break; but cannot break his word. 20 So great a trust to him alone was due; Well have they trusted whom so well they knew.

The saint, who walk'd on waves, securely trod, While he believed the beckoning of his G.o.d: But when his faith no longer bore him out, Began to sink, as he began to doubt.

Let us our native character maintain; 'Tis of our growth to be sincerely plain.

To excel in truth we loyally may strive, Set privilege against prerogative: 30 He plights his faith, and we believe him just; His honour is to promise, ours to trust.

Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid, As by a word the world itself was made.

XLI.

PROLOGUE TO "ARVIRGUS AND PHILICIA REVIVED."

BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ., 1690.

SPOKEN BY MR HART.

With sickly actors and an old house too, We're match'd with glorious theatres and new; And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn, Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.

If all these ills could not undo us quite, A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight; Who with broad b.l.o.o.d.y bills call you each day To laugh and break your b.u.t.tons at their play; Or see some serious piece, which we presume Is fallen from some incomparable plume; 10 And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace, Send lackeys early to preserve your place.

We dare not on your privilege intrench, Or ask you why you like them? they are French.

Therefore some go, with courtesy exceeding, Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding: Each lady striving to out-laugh the rest; To make it seem they understood the jest.

Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay, To teach us English where to clap the play: 20 Civil, egad! our hospitable land Bears all the charge, for them to understand: Mean time we languish and neglected lie, Like wives, while you keep better company; And wish for your own sakes, without a satire, You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.

XLII.

PROLOGUE TO "DON SEBASTIAN."

SPOKEN BY A WOMAN.

The judge removed, though he's no more my lord, May plead at bar, or at the council board: So may cast poets write; there's no pretension To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.

Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place I see not one that wears a d.a.m.ning face.

The British nation is too brave to show Ign.o.ble vengeance on a vanquish'd foe.

At last be civil to the wretch imploring; And lay your paws upon him without roaring. 10 Suppose our poet was your foe before, Yet now, the business of the field is o'er; 'Tis time to let your civil wars alone, When troops are into winter quarters gone.

Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian; And you well know, a play's of no religion.

Take good advice, and please yourselves this day; No matter from what hands you have the play.

Among good fellows every health will pa.s.s, That serves to carry round another gla.s.s: 20 When with full bowls of Burgundy you dine, Though at the mighty monarch you repine, You grant him still Most Christian in his wine.

Thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle, And all the rest is purely from his noddle.

You have seen young ladies at the senate door Prefer pet.i.tions, and your grace implore; However grave the legislators were, Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair.

Reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, I bring; 30 But I could bribe you with as good a thing.

I heard him make advances of good nature; That he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire.

Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again The sacred names of fops and beaux profane.

Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear, As times go now, he offers very fair.

Be not too hard on him with statutes neither; Be kind; and do not set your teeth together, To stretch the laws, as cobblers do their leather. 40 Horses by Papists are not to be ridden, But sure the Muses' horse was ne'er forbidden; For in no rate-book it was ever found That Pegasus was valued at five pound; Fine him to daily drudging and inditing: And let him pay his taxes out in writing.

XLIII.

PROLOGUE TO "THE PROPHETESS."[65]

BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON. 1690.

What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetess?

A play which, like a perspective set right, Presents our vast expenses close to sight; But turn the tube, and there we sadly view Our distant gains; and those uncertain too: A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better days; When will our losses warn us to be wise?

Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. 10 Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops; We raise new objects to provoke delight, But you grow sated ere the second sight.

False men, e'en so you serve your mistresses: They rise three storeys in their towering dress; And, after all, you love not long enough To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.

Never content with what you had before, But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er. 20 Now honour calls you hence; and all your care Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.

In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade, Your silver goes, that should support our trade.

Go, unkind heroes![66] leave our stage to mourn, Till rich from vanquished rebels you return; And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw, His firkin-b.u.t.ter, and his usquebaugh.

Go, conquerors of your male and female foes!

Men without hearts, and women without hose: 30 Each bring his love a Bogland captive home; Such proper pages will long trains become; With copper collars, and with brawny backs, Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.

Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows, And furnish all their laurels for your brows; Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights; We want not poets fit to sing your flights.

But you, bright beauties! for whose only sake Those doughty knights such dangers undertake, 40 When they with happy gales are gone away, With your propitious presence grace our play; And with a sigh their empty seats survey: Then think, on that bare bench my servant sat; I see him ogle still, and hear him chat; Selling facetious bargains, and propounding That witty recreation, call'd dumfounding.

Their loss with patience we will try to bear; And would do more, to see you often here; That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes, 50 Under a female regency may rise.

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