Nor fcorn a mode, becaufe 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vefts, our gravity become,
Our
poet yields you should this play refuse: 45
As tradefmen, by the change of fashions, lofe,
With fome content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.
THE FIRST DAY OF THE KING'S HOUSE ACTING AFTER THE FIRE.
SO fhipwreck'd paffengers 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 defart fhore.
From that hard climate we must wait for bread, Whence e'en the natives, forc'd by hunger,
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen fo fadly true:
You are chang'd too, and your pretence to fee
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provifions furnish out our feasts,
While you
the founders make yourselves the
Of all mankind befide fate had fome 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 fail you mourn, Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their fcorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spar'd not temples in its furious rage.
But as our new-built city rifes higher,
So from old theatres may new afpire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far furpafs
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And, like a king, fhould in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:
Your prefence here, for which we humbly fue,
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
THEY, who have beft fucceeded on the stage,
Have ftill conformed their genius to their
Thus Jonfon did mechanic humour show,
When men were dull, and converfation low.
Then comedy was faultlefs, but 'twas coarse:
Cobb's tankard was a jeft, and Otter's horse.
And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
Except, by chance, in fome one laboured fcene,
Which must atone for an ill-written play.
They rofe, but at their height could feldom
stay.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer fped; And they have kept it fince, by being dead. But, were they now to write, when critics weigh Each line, and every word, throughout a play, None of them, no not Jonfon in his height, 15 Could pafs, without allowing grains for weight. Think it not envy, that thefe truths are told; Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold.
'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are
But, by their errors, to excufe his own.
If love and honour now are higher rais'd,
'Tis not the poet, but the age is prais'd.
Wit's now arriv'd to a more high degree;
Our native language more refin'd and free.
Our ladies and our men now speak more wit 26
In converfation, than thofe poets writ.
Then, one of thefe is, confequently, true;
That what this poet writes comes fhort of you,
And imitates you ill (which most he fears),
Or elfe his writing is not worse than theirs. 30
Yet, though you judge (as fure the critics will),
That fome before him writ with greater skill,
In this one praise he has their fame surpast,
To please an age more gallant than the last.
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