PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

AURENGEZEBE.

OUR author, by experience, finds it true,
'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
And out of no feigned modefty, this day
Damns his laborious trifle of a play :

Not that it's worse than what before he writ, 5
But he has now another taste of wit;

And, to confefs a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-lov'd mistress, Rhime.
Paffion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground: 10
What verfe can do, he has performed in this,
Which he prefumes the most correct of his ;
But fpite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breaft at Shakspeare's facred name:
Aw'd when he hears his godlike Romans
rage, 15
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
And to an age lefs polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does, with difdain, the foremost honours yield.
As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verfe with those who

live:

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Let him retire, betwixt two ages caft, The first of this, and hindmoft of the last. A lofing gamefter, let him sneak away; He bears no ready money from the play. The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit 25 He should not raise his fortunes by his wit. The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar; Dull heroes fatten with the fpoils of war: All fouthern vices, heaven be praised, are here; But wit's a luxury you think too dear. When you to cultivate the plant are loth, "Tis a fhrewd fign 'twas never of your growth; And wit in northern climates will not blow, Except, like orange-trees, 'tis hous'd from fnow. There needs no care to put a playhouse down, 35 'Tis the most defart place of all the town: We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are, Like monarchs, ruined with expenfive war; While, like wife English, unconcern'd you fit, And fee us play the tragedy of wit.

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EPILOGUE

TO THE

MAN OF MODE; OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER.

[BY SIR GEORGE ETHERIDGE, 1676.]

MOST modern wits fuch monftrous fools

have shown,

They seem not of heaven's making, but their

own.

Those naufeous harlequins in farce may pass; But there goes more to a fubftantial afs: Something of man must be expos'd to view, 5 That, gallants, they may more resemble you. Sir Fopling is a fool fo nicely writ,

The ladies would mistake him for a wit; And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,

I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:

So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, fo refin'd,

As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

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True fops help nature's work, and go to school, To file and finish God Almighty's fool.

Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call; 15
He's knight o' the fhire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling o'er you, like a fnow-ball grows. 20
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the tofs, and one the new French
wallow:

His fword-knot this, his cravat that defign'd; And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind. From one the facred periwig he gain'd,

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Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan’d.

Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
These fure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd,

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

ALL FOR LOVE.

POETS, like difputants, when reasons fail, Have one fure 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 difference grows, 5
Betwixt our fools in verfe, and your's in profe:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
"Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat;
And fwears at the gilt coach, but fwear's a-foot;
For 'tis obferv'd of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as faft as e'er he can ;
Prunes up, and afks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple beft become his face.
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor

prays;
Nor likes your wit juft as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr, Bayes,

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