The storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring
Was taught by Shakspeare's Tempest first to
That innocence and beauty, which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted ifle.
But Shakspeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durft walk but he.
I must confefs 'twas bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magic fupernatural things:
But Shakspeare's power is facred as a king's.
Those legends from old priesthood were received,
And he then writ, as people then believed.
But if for Shakspeare we your grace implore,
We for our theatre fhall want it more:
Who, by our dearth of youths, are forc'd to
employ
One of our women to prefent a boy;
And that's a transformation, you
Exceeding all the magic in the play.
Let
none expect, in the last act, to find
Her fex transform'd from man to womankind.
Whate'er she was before the play began,
All you shall fee of her is perfect man.
Or, if your fancy will be farther led
To find her woman-it must be a-bed.
ELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood, Makes poets ftill conclude their plays are good, And malice, in all critics, reigns fo high, That for small errours, they whole plays decry; So that to fee this fondness, and that fpite, You'd think that none but madmen judge or write.
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
To impose upon you what he writes for wit;
So hopes, that, leaving you your cenfures free,)
You equal judges of the whole will be:
They judge but half, who only faults will fee.
Poets, like lovers, fhould be bold and dare,
They spoil their business with an over-care;
And he, who fervilely creeps after sense,
Is fafe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.
Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing.
But when a tyrant for his theme he had,
He loos'd the reins, and bid his muse run mad: And though he stumbles in a full career,
Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.
He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,
To choose the ground might be to lose the race.
They then, who of each trip the advantage take,
Find but thofe faults, which they want wit to
make.
OF all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the beft, fo 'tis moft hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that, which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go aftray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
But, what's fo common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow favages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please; And, as their feasts with slaughter'd flaves began, you, at each new play, muft have a man. 16
Hither you come, as to fee prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is nought.
But fools grow wary now; and, when they fee
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each man for himself begins to doubt; They fhrink like feamen when a prefs comes
Few of them will be found for public ufe,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage 25
For a fufficient fool, to ferve the ftage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory fhould' appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to fay,
That he's more wit than any man i̇' th' play: 30
But of fo ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry fquires in country churches do.
Things well confider'd, 'tis fo hard to make 33
A comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
"Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;
You therefore must fome other impoft lay. 40
Would you but change, for serious plot and
verfe,
This motley garniture of fool and farce,
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