John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 71
They save dull Culpritts who have Murtherd Sense.
Though Nonsense is a nauseous heavy Mass,
The Vehicle called faction makes it pass;
Faction in Play’s the Commonwealths man’s bribe,
The leaden Farthing of the Canting Tribe: 75
Though void in payment Laws and Statutes make it,
The Neighbourhood, that knows the Man, will take it.
’Tis Faction buys the Votes of half the Pit;
Theirs is the Pension-Parliament of wit.
In City-Clubs their venom let ‘em vent; 80
For there ’tis safe, in its own Element.
Here, where their Madness can have no pretence,
Let ‘em forget themselves an hour in sense.
In one poor Isle, why should two Factions be?
Small diff’rence in your Vices I can see: 85
In Drink and Drabs both Sides too well agree.
Wou’d there were more Preferments in the Land;
If Places fell, the Party could not stand.
Of this damn’d Grievance ev’ry Whigg complains;
They grunt like Hogs till they have got their Grains. 90
Mean time you see what Trade our Plots advance:
We send each Year good Money into France;
And they that know that Merchandise we need,
Send o’re true Protestants to mend our breed.
Prologue and Epilogue to the King and Queen
At the Opening of Their Theatre upon the Union of the Two Companies in 1682
PROLOGUE.
SINCE Faction ebbs, and Rogues grow out of Fashion,
Their penny-Scribes take care t’ inform the Nation
How well men thrive in this or that Plantation:
How Pennsylvania’s Air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina’s with Associators: 5
Both e’en too good for Madmen and for Traitors.
Truth is, our Land with Saints is so run o’er,
And every Age produces such a store,
That now there’s need of two New-Englands more.
What’s this, you’ll say, to Us and our Vocation? 10
Only thus much, that we have left our Station,
And made this Theatre our new Plantation.
The Factious Natives never cou’d agree;
But aiming, as they call’d it, to be Free,
Those Play-house Whiggs set up for Property. 15
Some say they no Obedience paid of late,
But would new Fears and Jealousies create,
‘Till topsy-turvy they had turned the State.
Plain Sense, without the Talent of Fore-telling
Might guess ‘twould end in down-right knocks and quelling; 20
For seldom comes there better of Rebelling.
When Men will, needlessly, their Freedom barter
For lawless Pow’r, sometimes they catch a Tartar;
(There’s a damned word that rhimes to this, call’d Charter.)
But since the Victory with Us remains, 25
You shall be call’d to Twelve in all our gains,
(If you’ll not think Us sawcy for our Pains.)
Old men shall have good old Plays to delight ‘em:
And you, fair Ladies and Galants, that slight ‘em,
We’ll treat with good new Plays, if our new Wits can write ‘em. 30
We’ll take no blundering Verse, no fustian Tumour,
No dribling Love from this or that Presumer,
No dull fat Fooll shamm’d on the Stage for humour.
For, faith, some of ‘em such vile stuff have made,
As none but Fools or Fairies ever Play’d; 35
But ’twas, as Shop-men say, to force a Trade.
We’ve giv’n you Tragedies all sense defying;
And singing men in woeful Metre dying;
This ’tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying.
All these disasters we well hope to weather; 40
We bring you none of our old Lumber hether;
Whigg Poets and Whigg Sheriffs may hang together.
EPILOGUE
New Ministers, when first they get in place,
Must have a care to please; and that’s our Case:
Some Laws for public Welfare we design, 45
If you, the Power supream, will please to join.
There are a sort of Pratlers in the Pit,
Who either have, or who pretend to Wit;
These noisy Sirs so loud their Parts rehearse,
That oft the Play is silenc’d by the Farce: 50
Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun,
Each to be thought my Lady’s eldest Son.
But stay; methinks some Vizard Mask I see
Cast out her Lure from the mid Gallery:
About her all the fluttering Sparks are rang’d; 55
The Noise continues, though the Scene is chang’d:
Now growling, sputt’ring, wauling, such a clutter,
’Tis just like Puss defendant in a Gutter;
Fine Love, no doubt; but ere two days are o’er ye,
The Surgeon will be told a woful story. 60
Let Vizard Mask her naked Face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a Nose:
Then for your laqueys, and your Train beside,
(By whate’er Name or Title dignify’d,)
They roar so loud, you’d think behind the Stairs 65
Tom Dove, and all the Brotherhood of Bears:
They’re grown a Nuisance, beyond all Disasters;
We’ve none so great but their unpaying Masters.
We beg you, Sirs, to beg your Men that they
Would please to give you leave to hear the Play. 70
Next, in the Play-house, spare your precious Lives;
Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives
Think on your Souls; but by your lugging forth,
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of these will move the warlike Mind, 75
Think on the helpless Whore you leave behind.
We beg you, last, our Scene-room to forbear
And leave our Goods and Chattels to our Care.
Alas, our Women are but washy Toys,
And wholly taken up in Stage Employs: 80
Poor willing Tits they are: but yet I doubt
This double Duty soon will wear them out.
Then you are watch’d besides with jealous Care:
What if my Lady’s Page should find you there?
My Lady knows t’ a tittle what there’s in ye; 85
No passing your gilt Shilling for a Guinea.
Thus, Gentlemen, we have summ’d up in short
Our Grievances, from Country, Town, and Court:
Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure;
But first Vote Money, then redress at leasure. 90
Prologue and Epilogue to The Duke of Guise
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. SMITH.
OUR Play’s a Parallel: The Holy League
Begot our Cov’nant; Guisards got the Whigg:
Whate’er our hot-brain’d Sheriffs did advance
Was like our Fashions, first produc’d in France;
And, when worn out, well scourg’d, and banish’d there, 5
Sent over, like their godly Beggars, here.
Cou’d the same Trick, twice play’d, our Nation gull?
It looks as if the Devil were grown dull;
Or serv’d us up in Scorn his broken Meat,
And thought we were not worth a better Cheat. 10
The fulsome Cov’nant, one wou’d think in Reason,
Had given us all our Bellys-full of Treason;
And yet, the Name but chang’d, our nasty Nation
Chaws its own Excrement, th’ Association.
’Tis true, we have not learn’d their pois’ning way, 15
For that’s a mode but newly come in play;
But your True Protestant can never fail
With that compendious Instrument, a Flail.
Go on, and bite, ev’n though the Hook lies bare, 20
Twice in one Age expel the lawful Heir,
Once more decide Religion by the Sword;
And purchase for us a new Tyrant Lord.
Pray for your King, but yet your Purses spare;
Make Him not Two-Pence richer by your Prayer. 25
To show you love Him much, chastise Him more,
And make Him very Great, and very Poor.
Push Him to Wars, but still no Pence advance;
Let Him lose England, to recover France.
Cry Freedom up with Popular noisie Votes, 30
And get enough to cut each other’s Throats,
Lop all the Rights that fence your Monarch’s Throne;
For fear of too much Pow’r, pray leave Him none.
A noise was made of Arbitrary Sway;
But in Revenge, you Whiggs have found a way, 35
An Arbitrary Duty now to pay.
Let His own Servants turn, to save their stake,
Glean from His Plenty, and His Wants forsake;
But let some Judas near His Person stay,
To swallow the last Sop, and then betray. 40
Make London independant of the Crown;
A Realm a part; the Kingdom of the Town.
Let Ignoramus juries find no Traytors,
And Ignoramus Poets scribble Satyrs.
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan, 45
Do what in Coffee-houses you began;
Pull down the Master, and Set up the Man.
EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. COOKE.
Much Time and Trouble this poor Play has cost;
And faith, I doubted once the Cause was lost.
Yet no one Man was meant, nor Great nor Small; 50
Our Poets, like frank Gamesters, threw at All.
They took no single Aim: ——
But, like bold Boys, true to their Prince and hearty,
Huzza’d, and fired Broad-sides at the whole Party.
Duels are Crimes; but, when the Cause is right, 55
In Battel every Man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder Me to sell my Skin,
Dear as I cou’d, if once my Hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a Sin.
’Tis a fine World, my Masters, right or wrong, 60
The Whiggs must talk, and Tories hold their Tongue.
They must do all they can ——
But We, Forsooth, must bear a Christian mind,
And fight, like Boys, with one Hand ty’d behind;
Nay, and when one Boy’s down, ‘twere wond’rous wise 65
To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise.
When Fortune favours, none but Fools will dally;
Would any of you Sparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipp’d you th’ inviting Wink, stand, shall I, shall I?
A Trimmer cry’d (that heard me tell this Story), 70
Fie, Mistress Cooke! Faith, you’re too rank a Tory!
Wish not Whiggs hang’d, but pity their hard Cases;
You Women love to see Men make wry Faces. —
Pray, Sir, said I, don’t think me such a Jew;
I say no more, but give the Dev’l his due. — 75
Lenitives, says he, best suit with out Condition.
Jack Ketch, says I, ‘s an excellent Physician.
I love no Bloud. — Nor I, Sir, as I breath;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of Death.
We Trimmers are for holding all things even. — 80
Yes — just like him that hung ‘twixt Hell and Heaven. —
Have we not had Men’s Lives enow already?’ —
Yes sure: — but you’re for holding all things steddy.
Now since the Weight hangs all on one side, Brother,
You Trimmers shou’d, to poize it, hang on t’ other. 85
Damn’d Neuters, in their middle way of steering,
Are neither Fish nor Flesh nor good Red-Herring:
Not Whiggs, nor Tories they: nor this, nor that;
Not Birds, nor Beasts; but just a kind of Bat:
A Twilight Animal; true to neither Cause, 90
With Tory Wings, but Whiggish Teeth and Claws.
ANOTHER EPILOGUE
Intended to have been spoken to the Play before it was forbidden last summer.
Two Houses join’d, two Poets to a Play?
You noisy Whigs will sure be pleas’d to-day;
It looks so like two Shrieves the City Way.
But since our Discords and Divisions cease, 95
You, Bilboa-gallants, learn to keep the Peace;
Make here no Tilts; let our poor Stage alone;
Or if a decent Murder must be done,
Pray take a civil Turn to Marybone.
If not, I swear we’ll pull up all our Benches; 100
Not for your Sakes, but for our Orange-wenches:
For you thrust wide sometimes, and many a Spark,
That misses one, can hit the other Mark.
This makes our Boxes full; for men of Sense
Pay their four Shillings in their own Defence: 105
That safe behind the Ladies they may stay,
Peep o’er the Fan, and judge the bloody Fray.
But other Foes give Beauty worse Alarms;
The posse-poetarum’s up in Arms:
No Woman’s Fame their libels has escap’d; 110
Their Ink runs Venom, and their Pens are clapp’d.
When Sighs and Prayers their ladies cannot move,
They rail, write Treason, and turn Whigs to love.
Nay, and I fear they worse Designs advance,
There’s a damn’d Love-trick new brought o’er from France. 115
We charm in vain, and dress, and keep a Pother,
While those false Rogues are ogling one another.
All Sins besides admit some Expiation;
But this against our Sex is plain Damnation.
They join for Libels too, these Women-haters; 120
And as they club for Love, they club for Satyres:
The best on ‘t is they hurt not: for they wear
Stings in their Tails; their only Venom’s there.
’Tis true, some shot at first the Ladies hit,
Which able Marksmen made and Men of Wit: 125
But now the Fools give Fire, whose Bounce is louder;
And yet, like mere Train-bands, they shoot but Powder.
Libels, like Plots, sweep all in their first Fury;
Then dwindle like an ignoramus Jury:
Thus Age begins with towzing and with tumbling, 130
But grunts, and groans, and ends at last in fumbling.
Epilogue to Constantine the Great
OUR Hero’s happy in the Plays Conclusion;
The holy Rogue at last has met Confusion;
Though Arius all along appeared a Saint,
The last Act showed him a true Protestant.
Eusebius (for you know I read Greek Authors) 5
Reports, that, after all these Plots and Slaughters,
The Court of Constantine was full of Glory,
And every Trimmer turn’d Addressing Tory.
They follow’d him in Herds as they were mad:
When Clause was King, then all the World was glad. 10
Whiggs kept the places they possest before,
And most were in a way of getting more;
Which was as much as saying, Gentlemen,
Here’s Power and Money to be Rogues again.
Indeed, there were a sort of peaking Tools, 15
Some call ‘em Modest, but I call ‘em Fools;
Men much more Loyal, tho’ not half so loud;
But these poor Devils were cast behind the Croud.
For bold Knaves
thrive without one grain of Sense,
But good Men starve for want of Impudence. 20
Besides all these, there were a sort of Wights,
(I think my Author calls them Teckelites),
Such hearty Rogues against the King and Laws,
They favour’d even a foreign Rebel’s Cause,
When their own damn’d Design was quash’d and aw’d; 25
At least they gave it their good Word abroad.
As many a Man, who for a quiet Life
Breeds out his Bastard, not to nose his Wife,
Thus ore their Darling Plot these Trimmers cry,
And, tho’ they cannot keep it in their Eye, 30
They bind it Prentice to Count Teckely.
They believe not the last Plot; may I be curst,
If I believe they e’er believ’d the first.
No wonder their own Plot no Plot they think,
The Man that makes it never smells the Stink. 35
And now it comes into my Head, I’ll tell
Why these damn’d Trimmers lov’d the Turks so well.
The Original Trimmer, though a Friend to no Man,
Yet in his Heart ador’d a pretty Woman;
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever 40
Kind Black-eyed Rogues for every true Believer;
And, which was more than mortal Man e’er tasted,
One Pleasure that for threescore Twelve-months lasted.
To turn for this, may surely be forgiven:
Who’d not be circumcis’d for such a Heaven? 45
Prologue to Disappointment, or the Mother in Fashion
Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.
HOW comes it, Gentlemen, that, now-a-days,
When all of you so shrewdly judge of Plays,
Our Poets tax you still with want of Sence?
All Prologues treat you at your own Expence.
Sharp Citizens a wiser way can go; 5
They make you Fools, but never call you so.
They, in good Manners, seldom make a slip,
But treat a Common Whore with Ladyship:
But here each sawcy Wit at Random writes,
And uses Ladies as he uses Knights. 10
Our Author, Young and Grateful in his Nature,
Vows that from him no Nymph deserves a Satyr.
Nor will he ever Draw — I mean his Rhime
Against the sweet Partaker of his Crime.
Nor is he yet so bold an Undertaker 15
To call MEN Fools, ’tis railing at their MAKER.
Besides, he fears to split upon that Shelf;
He’s young enough to be a FOP himself:
And, if his Praise can bring you all A-bed,
He swears such hopeful Youth no Nation ever bred. 20