John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 68
How many of your tender Kind will cry,
A proper Fellow! pity he should dye! 15
He might be sav’d, and thank us for our pains,
There’s such a stock of Love within his Veins.
These Arguments the Women may persuade,
But move not you, the Brothers of the Trade,
Who, scattering your Infection through the Pit, 20
With aking Hearts and empty Purses sit,
To take your dear five Shillings worth of Wit.
The Praise you give him in your kindest mood
Comes dribling from you, just like drops of Blood;
And then you clap so civilly, for fear 25
The loudness might offend your Neighbours ear,
That we suspect your Gloves are lin’d within,
For silence sake, and Cotten’d next the skin.
From these Usurpers we appeal to you,
The only knowing, only judging few; 30
You, who in private have this Play allow’d,
Ought to maintain your Suffrage to the Crowd.
The Captive, once submitted to your Bands,
You should protect from Death by Vulgar hands.
Prologue and Epilogue to All for Love, or the World well Lost
PROLOGUE.
WHAT Flocks of Critiques hover here to-day,
As Vultures wait on Armies for their Prey,
All gaping for the Carcase of a Play!
With croaking Notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying Poets by the scent. 5
Ours gives himself for gone; y’ have watch’d your Time;
He fights this day unarm’d, without his Rhyme,
And brings a Tale which often has been told,
As sad as Dido’s, and almost as old.
His Heroe, whom you Wits his Bully call, 10
Bates of his Mettle, and scarce rants at all;
He’s somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning mind,
Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind;
In short, a Pattern and Companion fit
For all the keeping Tonyes of the Pit. 15
I cou’d name more: A Wife, and Mistress too,
Both (to be plain) too good for most of you;
The Wife well-natur’d, and the Mistress true.
Now, Poets, if your fame has been his Care,
Allow him all the Candour you can spare. 20
A brave Man scorns to quarrel once a day,
Like Hectors in at ev’ry petty fray.
Let those find fault whose Wit’s so very small,
They’ve need to show that they can think at all.
Errors, like Straws, upon the surface flow; 25
He who would search for Pearls must dive below.
Fops may have leave to level all they can,
As Pigmies wou’d be glad to lop a Man.
Half-wits are Fleas, so little and so light,
We scarce cou’d know they live, but that they bite. 30
But, as the rich, when tir’d with daily Feasts,
For Change become their next poor Tenants Ghests;
Drink hearty Draughts of Ale from plain brown Bowls,
And snatch the homely Rasher from the Coals:
So you, retiring from much better Cheer, 35
For once may venture to do penance here.
And since that plenteous Autumn now is past,
Whose Grapes and Peaches have indulg’d your Taste,
Take in good Part from our poor Poets boord
Such rivell’d Fruits as Winter can afford. 40
EPILOGUE
Poets, like Disputants, when Reasons fail,
Have one sure Refuge left, and that’s to rail.
Fop, Coxcomb, Fool, are thunder’d through the Pit,
And this is all their Equipage of Wit.
We wonder how the Devil this diff’rence grows, 45
Betwixt our Fools in Verse, and yours in Prose:
For, ‘Faith, the Quarrel rightly understood,
’Tis Civil War with their own Flesh and Blood.
The thread bare Author hates the gawdy Coat,
And swears at the Guilt Coach, but swears afoot: 50
For ’tis observ’d of ev’ry Scribling Man,
He grows a Fop as fast as e’er he can;
Prunes up, and asks his Oracle the Glass,
If Pink or Purple best become his Face.
For our poor Wretch, he neither rails nor prays, 55
Nor likes your Wit just as you like his Plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr. Bays.
He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Wou’d quietly sue out his Writ of Ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand Jury call, 60
By the Fair Sex he begs to stand or fall.
Let Cæsar’s Pow’r the Mens Ambition move,
But grace you him, who lost the World for Love!
Yet if some antiquated Lady say,
The last Age is not copy’d in his Play; 65
Heav’n help the man who for that face must drudge,
Which only has the wrinkles of a Judge.
Let not the Young and Beauteous join with those;
For shou’d you raise such numerous Hosts of Foes,
Young Wits and Sparks he to his aid must call; 70
’Tis more than one Man’s work to please you all.
Epilogue to Mithridates, King of Pontus
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: 5
And ev’n those Martyrs are but rare in Plays;
A cursed sign how much true Faith decays:
Love is no more a violent desire;
’Tis a meer Metaphor, a painted Fire.
In all our Sex, the name examin’d well, 10
Is Pride to gain, and Vanity to tell.
In Woman, ’tis of subtil int’rest made;
Curse on the Punk that made it first a Trade!
She first did Wits Prerogative remove,
And made a Fool presume to prate of Love. 15
Let Honour and Perferment 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 shou’d 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 Swizzers, for their Pay. 25
Prologue and Epilogue to The Kind Keeper, or Mr. Limberham
PROLOGUE.
TRUE Wit has seen its best Days long ago;
It ne’er look’d up since we were dipt in Show,
When sense in dogrel Rhymes and Clouds was lost,
And Dulness flourish’d at the Actors’ Cost.
Nor stopt it here; when Tragedy was done, 5
Satire and Humour the same Fate have run,
And Comedy is sunk to Trick and Pun.
Now our machining Lumber will not sell,
And you no longer care for Heav’n or Hell;
What Stuff will please you next, the Lord can tell. 10
Let them, who the Rebellion first began
To Wit, restore the Monarch if they can;
Our Author dares not be the first bold Man.
He, like the prudent Citizen, takes care
To keep for better Marts his staple Ware; 15
His Toys are good enough for Sturbridge Fair.
Tricks were the Fashion; if it now be spent,
’Tis time enough at Easter to invent;
No man will make up a new Suit for Lent.
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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 Criticks shall be shipp’d away.
And not enow be left to damn a Play. 25
To every Sail beside, good Heav’n, be kind;
But drive away that Swarm with such a Wind
That not one Locust may be left behind!
EPILOGUE
Spoken by LIMBERHAM.
I beg a Boon, that, e’re you all disband,
Some one would take my Bargain off my hand; 30
To keep a Punk is but a common evil;
To find her false, and Marry, — that’s the Devil.
Well, I ne’re acted Part in all my life,
But still I was fobb’d off with some such Wife
I find the Trick; these Poets take no pity 35
Of one that is a Member of the City.
We Cheat you lawfully, and in our Trades;
You Cheat us basely with your Common Jades.
Now I am Married, I must sit down by it;
But let me keep my Dear-bought Spouse in quiet: 40
Let none of you Damn’d Woodalls of the Pit
Put in for Shares to mend our breed in Wit;
We know your Bastards from our Flesh and Blood,
Not one in ten of yours e’re comes to good.
In all the Boys their Fathers Vertues shine, 45
But all the Female Fry turn Pugs, like mine.
When these grow up, Lord, with what Rampant Gadders
Our Counters will be throng’d, and Roads with Padders.
This Town two Bargains has, not worth one farthing,
A Smithfield Horse, and Wife of Covent-Garden. 50
Prologue to The True Widow
HEAV’N save ye Gallants, and this hopeful Age,
Y’ are welcome to the downfal of the Stage:
The Fools have labour’d long in their Vocation;
And Vice (the Manufacture of the Nation)
O’erstocks the Town so much, and thrives so well, 5
That Fopps and Knaves grow Druggs, and will not sell.
In vain our Wares on Theaters are shown,
When each has a Plantation of his own.
His Cruse ne’r fails; for whatsoe’re he spends,
There’s still God’s Plenty for himself and friends. 10
Shou’d Men be rated by Poetick Rules,
Lord, what a Poll would there be rais’d from Fools!
Mean time poor Wit prohibited must lye,
As if ‘twere made some French Commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais’d at vast expence, 15
And yet as soon as seen, they give offence.
Time was, when none wou’d cry that Oaf was mee,
But now you strive about your Pedigree.
Bauble and Cap no sooner are thrown down,
But there’s a Muss of more than half the Town. 20
Each one will challenge a Child’s part at least;
A sign the Family is well increas’d:
Of Forreign Cattle there’s no longer need,
When w’are supply’d so fast with English Breed.
Well! Flourish, Countrymen; drink, swear, and roar; 25
Let every free-born Subject keep his Whore,
And wandring in the Wilderness about,
At end of 40 years not wear her out.
But when you see these Pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a Limb, or single share; 30
For where the Punk is common, he’s a Sot
Who needs will father what the Parish got.
Prologue and Epilogue to Œdipus
PROLOGUE.
WHEN Athens all the Græcian 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, 5
But as ’twas Sung in Verse or said in Prose.
Then Œdipus, on crowded Theaters
Drew all admiring Eyes and listning Ears:
The pleas’d Spectator shouted every Line,
The noblest, manliest, and the best Design! 10
And every Critick of each learned Age
By this just Model has reform’d the Stage.
Now, should it fail, (as Heav’n avert our fear!)
Damn it in silence, lest the World should hear.
For were it known this Poem did not please, 15
You might set up for perfect Salvages:
Your Neighbours would not look on you as men:
But think the Nation all turned Picts agen.
Faith, as you manage matters, ’tis not fit
You should suspect your selves of too much Wit. 20
Drive not the jeast too far, but spare this piece;
And for this once be not more Wise than Greece.
See twice! Do not pell-mell to Damning fall,
Like true-born Brittains, who ne’re think at all:
Pray be advis’d; and though at Mons you won, 25
On pointed Cannon do not always run.
With some Respect to antient Wit proceed,
And take the four first Councils for your Creed.
But, when you lay Tradition wholly by,
And on the private Spirit alone relye, 30
You turn Fanaticks in your Poetry.
If, notwithstanding all that we can say,
You needs will have your pen’worths of the Play,
And come resolv’d to Damn, because you pay,
Record it, in memorial of the Fact, 35
The first Play bury’d since the Wollen Act.
EPILOGUE
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 pondrous Mass from Greece; 40
A weight that bent ev’n Seneca’s strong Muse,
And which Corneille’s Shoulders did refuse:
So hard it is th’ Athenian Harp to string!
So much two Consuls yield to one just King.
Terrour and Pity this whole Poem sway; 45
The mightiest Machines that can mount a Play;
How heavy will those Vulgar Souls be found,
Whom two such Engines cannot move from Ground!
When Greece and Rome have smil’d upon this Birth,
You can but damn for one poor spot of Earth; 50
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 under-write to please.
As some strong Churle would brandishing advance 55
The monumental Sword that conquer’d France,
So you by judging this your judgments 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, 60
Think it a Debt you pay, not Alms you give,
And in your own defence let this Play live.
Think ‘em not vain, when Sophocles is shown,
To praise his worth, they humbly doubt their own.
Yet as weak States each other’s pow’r assure, 65
Weak Poets by Conjunction are secure.
Their Treat is what your Pallats rellish 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. 70
Prologue and Epilogue to Troilus and Cressida, or Truth found Too Late
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by MR. BETTERTON, representing
the Ghost of SHAKSPEAR.
SEE, my lov’d Britons, see your Shakespeare rise,
An awfull Ghost confess’d to human Eyes!
Unnam’d, methinks, distinguish’d I had been
From other Shades by this eternal Green,
About whose Wreaths the vulgar Poets strive, 5
And with a Touch, their wither’d Bays revive.
Untaught, unpractis’d, 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 fruitfull 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 15
He shook; and thought it Sacrilege to touch.
Now, where are the Successors to my Name?
What bring they to fill out a Poets Fame?
Weak, short-liv’d Issues of a feeble Age;
Scarce living to be Christen’d on the Stage! 20
For Humour Farce, for Love they Rhyme dispence,
That tolls the Knell for their departed Sence.
Dulness might thrive in any Trade but this:
‘Twould recommend to some fat Benefice.
Dulness, that in a Playhouse meets Disgrace, 25
Might meet with Reverence in its proper place.
The fulsome Clench that nauseats the town
Wou’d 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 decry’d by showing good:
Sit silent then, that my pleas’d Soul may see 35
A Judging Audience once, and worthy me:
My faithful Scene from true Records shall tell,
How Trojan Valour did the Greek excell;
Your great Forefathers shall their Fame regain,
And Homers angry Ghost repine in vain. 40
EPILOGUE
Spoken by THERSITES.
These cruel Critiques put me into Passion,
For in their lowring Looks I reade Damnation:
You except a Satyr, and I seldom fail;
When I’m first beaten, ’tis my Part to rail.
You British Fools of the old Trojan Stock, 45
That stand so thick one cannot miss the Flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping Pit,
When Womens Cullyes come to judge of Wit.