John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

Find but those Faults, which they want Wit to make. 25

  EPILOGUE

  Spoken by MRS. ELLEN when she was to be carried off dead by the Bearers.

  TO THE BEARER. Hold! are you mad? you damn’d, confounded Dog!

  I am to rise, and speak the Epilogue.

  TO THE AUDIENCE. I come, kind Gentlemen, strange news to tell ye;

  I am the Ghost of poor departed Nelly.

  Sweet Ladies, be not frighted; I’le be civil; 30

  I’m what I was, a little harmless Devil.

  For, after death, we Sprights have just such Natures,

  We had, for all the World, when humane Creatures;

  And, therefore, I, that was an Actress here,

  Play all my Tricks in Hell, a Goblin there. 35

  Gallants, look to ‘t, you say there are no Sprights;

  But I’ll come dance about your Beds at nights;

  And faith you’ll be in a sweet kind of taking,

  When I surprise you between sleep and waking.

  To tell you true, I walk, because I dye 40

  Out of my Calling, in a Tragedy.

  O Poet, damn’d dull Poet, who could prove

  So senseless, to make Nelly dye for Love!

  Nay, what’s yet worse, to kill me in the prime

  Of Easter-term, in Tart and Cheese-cake time! 45

  I’le fit the Fopp; for I’le not one word say,

  T’ excuse his godly, out of fashion Play;

  A Play, which, if you dare but twice sit out,

  You’ll all be slander’d, and be thought devout.

  But, farewel, Gentlemen, make haste to me, 50

  I’m sure e’re long to have your company.

  As for my Epitaph when I am gone,

  I’le trust no Poet, but will write my own.

  Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a Slater’n,

  Yet dy’d a Princess, acting in S. Cathar’n. 55

  Prologue and Epilogue to The Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards

  PROLOGUE.

  Spoken by MRS. ELLEN GWYN in a broad-brimmed hat and waist-belt.

  THIS jeast was first of t’ other houses making,

  And, five times try’d, has never fail’d of taking;

  For ‘twere a shame a Poet shoud be kill’d

  Under the shelter of so broad a shield.

  This is that hat, whose very sight did win yee 5

  To laugh and clap as though the Devil were in yee.

  As then for Nokes, so now I hope you’l be

  So dull, to laugh once more for love of me.

  I’ll write a Play, sayes one, for I have got

  A broad-brim’d hat and wastbelt towards a Plot. 10

  Sayes t’ other, I have one more large than that.

  Thus they out-write each other — with a hat.

  The brims still grew with every Play they writ;

  And grew so large, they cover’d all the wit.

  Hat was the Play; ’twas language, wit, and Tale: 15

  Like them that find Meat, drink, and cloth in Ale.

  What dulness do these Mungrill-wits confess,

  When all their hope is acting of a dress!

  Thus, two the best Comedians of the Age

  Must be worn out with being Blocks o’ th’ Stage: 20

  Like a young Girl, who better things has known,

  Beneath their Poets Impotence they groan.

  See now what Charity it was to save!

  They thought you lik’d what onely you for-gave;

  And brought you more dull sence, dull sence much worse 25

  Than brisk gay Non-sence, and the heavyer Curse.

  They bring old Ir’n and glass upon the Stage,

  To barter with the Indians of our Age.

  Still they write on, and like great Authors show;

  But ’tis as Rowlers in wet gardens grow 30

  Heavy with dirt, and gath’ring as they goe.

  May none, who have so little understood,

  To like such trash, presume to praise what’s good!

  And may those drudges of the Stage, whose fate

  Is, damn’d dull farce more dully to translate, 35

  Fall under that excise the State thinks fit

  To set on all French wares, whose worst is wit.

  French Farce, worn out at home, is sent abroad;

  And, patch’d up here, is made our English mode.

  Henceforth, let Poets, ‘ere allow’d to write, 40

  Be search’d, like Duellists before they fight,

  For wheel-broad hats, dull Humour, all that chaffe,

  Which makes you mourn, and makes the Vulgar laugh:

  For these, in Playes, are as unlawful Arms,

  As, in a Combat, Coats of Mayle, and Charms. 45

  EPILOGUE

  Success, which can no more than beauty last,

  Makes our sad Poet mourn your favours past:

  For, since without desert he got a name,

  He fears to loose it now with greater shame.

  Fame, like a little Mistriss of the Town, 50

  Is gaind with ease; but then she’s lost as soon;

  For, as those taudry Misses, soon or late,

  Jilt such as keep ‘em at the highest rate,

  (And oft the Lacquey, or the Brawny Clown,

  Gets what is hid in the loose body’d gown;) 55

  So, Fame is false to all that keep her long;

  And turns up to the Fop that’s brisk and young.

  Some wiser Poet now would leave Fame first;

  But elder wits are, like old Lovers, curst:

  Who, when the vigor of their Youth is spent, 60

  Still grow more fond as they grow impotent.

  This, some years hence, our Poets case may prove;

  But yet, he hopes, he’s young enough to love.

  When forty comes, if ere he live to see

  That wretched, fumbling age of poetry; 65

  ‘Twill be high time to bid his Muse adieu:

  Well he may please him self, but never you.

  Till then, he’l do as well as he began,

  And hopes you will not finde him less a man.

  Think him not duller for this years delay; 70

  He was prepar’d, the women were away;

  And men, without their parts, can hardly play.

  If they, through sickness, seldome did appear,

  Pity the Virgins of each Theatre!

  For, at both houses, ’twas a sickly year! 75

  And pity us, your servants, to whose cost,

  In one such sickness, nine whole Months are lost.

  Their Stay, he fears, has ruin’d what he writ:

  Long waiting both disables love and wit.

  They thought they gave him Leisure to do well; 80

  But, when they forc’d him to attend, he fell!

  Yet, though he much has faild, he begs to day

  You will excuse his unperforming Play:

  Weakness sometimes great passion does express;

  He had pleas’d better, had he lov’d you less. 85

  Prologue and Epilogue to the Second Part of The Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards

  PROLOGUE.

  THEY who write Ill, and they who ne’r durst write,

  Turn Critiques out of meer Revenge and Spight:

  A Play-house gives ‘em Fame; and up there starts,

  From a mean Fifth-rate Wit, a Man of Parts.

  (So Common Faces on the Stage appear; 5

  We take ‘em in, and they turn Beauties here.)

  Our Authour fears those Critiques as his Fate;

  And those he Fears, by consequence, must Hate,

  For they the Trafficque of all Wit invade,

  As Scriv’ners draw away the Bankers Trade. 10

  Howe’re, the Poet’s safe enough to day;

  They cannot censure an unfinish’d Play.

  But, as when Vizard Masque appears in Pit,

  Straight every Man who thinks hims
elf a Wit

  Perks up; and, managing his Comb with grace, 15

  With his white Wigg sets off his Nut-brown Face;

  That done, bears up to th’ prize, and views each Limb,

  To know her by her Rigging and her Trimm;

  Then, the whole noise of Fops to wagers go,

  Pox on her, ‘t must be she; and Damm’ee no: 20

  Just so, I Prophecy, these Wits to-day

  Will blindly guess at our imperfect Play:

  With what new Plots our Second Part is fill’d,

  Who must be kept alive, and who be kill’d.

  And as those Vizard Masques maintain that Fashion, 25

  To soothe and tickle sweet Imagination;

  So, our dull Poet keeps you on with Masquing;

  To make you think there’s something worth your asking:

  But when ’tis shown, that which does now delight you

  Will prove a Dowdy, with a Face to fright you. 30

  EPILOGUE

  They who have best succeeded on the Stage,

  Have still conform’d their Genius to their Age.

  Thus Jonson did Mechanique humour show

  When men were dull, and conversation low.

  Then, Comedy was faultless, but ’twas course; 35

  Cobbs Tankard was a Jest and Otter’s horse.

  And as their Comedy, their Love was mean;

  Except, by chance, in some one labour’d Scene,

  Which must attone for an ill-written play,

  They rose, but at their height could seldome stay. 40

  Fame then was cheap, and the first commer sped;

  And they have kept it since, by being dead,

  But, were they now to write, when Critiques weigh

  Each Line, and ev’ry Word, throughout a Play,

  None of ‘em, no, not Jonson in his height, 45

  Could pass, without allowing grains for weight.

  Think it not envy, that these truths are told;

  Our Poet’s not malicious, though he’s bold.

  ’Tis not to brand ‘em that their faults are shown,

  But by their errours to excuse his own. 50

  If Love and Honour now are higher rais’d,

  ’Tis not the Poet, but the Age is prais’d.

  Wit’s now ariv’d to a more high degree;

  Our native Language more refin’d and free;

  Our Ladies and our men now speak more wit 55

  In conversation, than those Poets writ.

  Then, one of these is, consequently, true;

  That what this Poet writes comes short of you,

  And imitates you ill (which most he fears)

  Or else his writing is not worse than theirs. 60

  Yet, though you judge (as sure the Critiques will)

  That some before him writ with greater skill,

  In this one praise he has their fame surpast,

  To please an Age more Gallant than the last.

  Prologue Spoken on the First Day of the Kings House acting after the Fire

  SO shipwrackt Passengers escape to Land,

  So look they, when on the bare Beach they stand,

  Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o’er,

  Expecting Famine on a Desart Shore.

  From that hard Climate we must wait for Bread, 5

  Whence ev’n the Natives, forc’d by hunger, fled.

  Our Stage does humane Chance present to view.

  But ne’er before was seen so sadly true:

  You are chang’d too, and your Pretence to see

  Is but a Nobler Name for Charity. 10

  Your own Provisions furnish out our Feasts,

  While you, the Founders, make your selves the guests.

  Of all Mankind beside Fate had some Care,

  But for poor Wit no portion did prepare;

  ’Tis left a Rent Charge to the Brave and Fair. 15

  You cherish’d it, and now its Fall you mourn,

  Which blind unmanner’d Zelots make their scorn,

  Who think that Fire a Judgment on the Stage,

  Which spar’d not Temples in its furious Rage.

  But as our new-built City rises higher, 20

  So from old Theatres may new aspire,

  Since Fate contrives Magnificence by Fire.

  Our great Metropolis does far surpass

  Whate’er is now, and equals all that was:

  Our Wit as far does Foreign Wit excel, 25

  And, like a King, shou’d in a Palace dwell.

  But we with Golden Hopes are vainly fed,

  Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:

  Your Presence here (for which we humbly sue)

  Will grace Old Theatres, and build up New. 30

  Prologue to Arviragus and Philicia, revived

  WITH sickly Actors and an old House too,

  We’re match’d with glorious Theatres and new,

  And with our Ale-house scenes and Cloaths bare worn

  Can neither raise old Plays nor new adorn.

  If all these Ills could not undo us quite, 5

  A brisk French Troop is grown your dear delight;

  Who with broad bloudy Bills call you each day

  To laugh and break your Buttons at their Play;

  Or see some serious Piece, which we presume

  Is fall’n from some incomparable plume; 10

  And therefore, Messieurs, if you’ll do us Grace,

  Send Lacquies early to preserve your Place.

  We dare not on your Priviledge intrench,

  Or ask you why you like ‘em? They are French.

  Therefore some go with Courtesie exceeding, 15

  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, Igad; Our Hospitable Land

  Bears all the Charge, for them to understand:

  Mean time we languish, and neglected lye,

  Like Wives, while you keep better Company;

  And wish for our own sakes, without a Satyr, 25

  You’d less good Breeding or had more good Nature.

  Prologue, for the Women, when they Acted at the Old Theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields

  WERE none of you, Gallants, e’er driven so hard,

  As when the poor kind Soul was under guard,

  And could not do’t at home, in some By-street

  To take a Lodging, and in private meet?

  Such is our Case; We can’t appoint our House, 5

  The Lovers old and wonted Rendezvous,

  But hither to this trusty Nook remove;

  The worse the Lodging is, the more the Love.

  For much good Pastime, many a dear sweet hug

  Is stol’n in Garrets, on the humble Rugg, 10

  Here’s good Accommodation in the Pit;

  The Grave demurely in the midst may sit,

  And so the hot Burgundian on the Side

  Ply Vizard Masque, and o’er the Benches stride:

  Here are convenient upper Boxes too, 15

  For those that make the most triumphant show;

  All that keep Coaches must not sit below.

  There, Gallants, you betwixt the Acts retire,

  And at dull Plays have something to admire:

  We, who look up, can your Addresses mark, 20

  And see the Creatures coupled in the Ark:

  So we expect the Lovers, Braves, and Wits;

  The gaudy House with Scenes will serve for Cits.

  Prologue and Epilogue to The Maiden Queen, or Secret Love, When acted by the Women only

  PROLOGUE.

  Spoken by MRS. BOUTELL, in man’s clothes.

  WOMEN like us (passing for Men) you’l cry,

  Presume too much upon your Secresie.

  There’s not a Fop in Town but
will pretend,

  To know the Cheat himself, or by his Friend.

  Then make no words on’t, Gallants, ’tis e’en true, 5

  We are condemn’d to look, and strut, like you.

  Since we thus freely our hard Fate confess,

  Accept us, these bad Times, in any Dress.

  You’ll find the sweet on’t, now old Pantaloons

  Will go as far, as formerly new Gowns; 10

  And from your own cast Wigs expect no Frowns.

  The Ladies we shall not so easily please.

  They’l say what impudent bold things are these,

  That dare provoke, yet cannot do us right,

  Like Men, with huffing Looks, that dare not fight. 15

  But this reproach our Courage must not daunt,

  The Bravest Souldier may a Weapon want,

  Let Her that doubts us, still send Her Gallant.

  Ladies, in us you’l Youth and Beauty find,

  All Things, but one, according to your Mind. 20

  And when your Eyes and Ears are feasted here,

  Rise up, and make out the short Meal elsewhere.

  EPILOGUE

  Spoken by MRS. REEVE, in man’s clothes.

  What think you, Sirs, was’t not all well enough?

  Will you not grant that we can strut, and huff?

  Men may be proud; but faith, for ought I see, 25

  They neither walk, nor cock, so well as we;

  And for the fighting part, we may in time

  Grow up to swagger in heroick Rhime;

  For though we cannot boast of equal Force,

  Yet at some Weapons Men have still the worse. 30

  Why should not then we Women act alone,

  Or whence are Men so necessary grown?

  Our’s are so old, they are as good as none.

  Some who have tri’d ‘em, if you’l take their Oaths,

  Swear they’re as arrant Tinsell as their Cloaths. 35

  Imagine us but what we represent,

  And we could e’en give you as good Content.

  Our Faces, Shapes, — all’s better than you see,

  And for the rest, they want as much as we.

  Oh, would the higher Pow’rs be kind to us, 40

  And grant us to set up a female House.

  Wee’l make ourselves to please both Sexes then,

  To the Men Women, to the Women Men.

  Here we presume, our Legs are no ill Sight,

  And they will give you no ill Dreams at Night. 45

  In Dreams both Sexes must their Passions ease,

  You make us then as civil as you please.

  This would prevent the Houses joyning too,

  At which we are as much displeas’d as you;