And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere of chryftal fhew'd the great.
Bleft fure are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can fuit your mind:
Content to fee, and fhun, thofe ills we show
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
That Shakespear's, Fletcher's, and great Johnson's claim,
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For mufes fo fevere are worfhipp'd here,
That, confcious of their faults, they fhun the eye,
And, as prophane, from facred places fly,
Rather than fee th' offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections, but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And have been fo kind, that we may boast,
you
The greatest judges ftill can pardon moft.
Poets must ftoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd even to the level of their wit;
Difdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themfelves what their applause muft make,
But when to praise from you they would afpire,
Tho' they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher,
So far your knowledge all their power transcends,
As what should be beyond what Is extends.
PROLOGUE to CIRCE, a Tragic Opera.
[By Dr. DAVENANT', 1675.]
ERE you but half fo wife as you're fevere,
Our youthful poet fhould not need to fear:
To his green years your cenfures you would suit,
Not blaft the bloffom, but expect the fruit,
The fex, that best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t'other hand.
They check not him that's aukward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek, and fet him right.
Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd
upon his prey,
The youth may prove a man another day.
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their firft young flight,
Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and fhort excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of fome flighted maid.
Shakespear's own mufe her Pericles first bore;
The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore:
'Tis miracle to see a first good play ;
All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
A flender poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his brothers do.
Who ftill looks lean, fure with fome pox is curft:
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at firft.
Then damn not, but indulge his rude effays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praife,
That he may get more bulk before he dies;
He's not yet fed enough for facrifice.
Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.
1 Son of Sir William Davenant, and author of feveral political pieces much efteemed.
EPILOGUE',
Intended to have been spoken by the Lady HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, when CALISTO was acted at Court.
S Jupiter I made my court in vain ;
I'll now affume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be fo unkindly us'd,
And would not be a God to be refus'd.
State grows uneafy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wife remove.
Now as a nymph I need not fue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these with ftand.
'Tis here that fov'reign power admits difpute;
Beauty fometimes is juftly abfolute.
Our fullen Cato's, whatsoe'er they say,
Ev'n while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir 2, our bonds more eafy make,
And gracefully, what all muft fuffer, take:
Above thofe forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wife to be severe.
True wisdom may fome gallantry admit,
And foften bufinefs with the charms of wit.
1 The earl of Rochefter, who hated Dryden for no other reafon but because of his great genius and fuccefs as a dramatic writer, recommended Mr. John Crowne to the King to write this mask for the court, which was properly the bufinefs of the laureat, whom his lordship intended by this preference to mortify. Mr. Crowne wrote fixteen dramatic pieces, befides this, none of which are now in
2 This part of the prologue is addreffed to the King.
Thefe peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,"
And from the midst of fighting nations brought,
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And fit in peace the arbiter of war:
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise. You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
And in its happy leisure fit and fee
The promifes of more felicity:
Two glorious 3 nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whofe morning rays like noontide ftrike and fhiae:
Whom you to fuppliant monarchs fhall difpofe,
To bind your friends, and to difarm your foes.
EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE:
[By Sir GEORGE ETHERIDGE, 1676.]
OST modern wits fuch monftrous fools have shown, They feem not of heaven's making, but their own. Thofe naufeous harlequins in farce may pafs; But there goes more to a fubftantial afs : Something of man must be expos'd to view, 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 brifk, fo gay, fo travell'd, fo refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
3 The Duke of York's two daughters, Mary and Ann.
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;
He's knight o' th' 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.
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,
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-fpaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
Thefe fure he took from most of you
who write.
Yet ev'ry man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
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