PROLOGUE

TO

SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL.

FOOLS, which each man meets in his dish

each day,

Are yet the great regalios of a play;
In which to poets you but just appear,
To prize that highest, which coft them so dear:
Fops in the town more eafily will pass ;
One story makes a statutable ass:

But fuch in plays must be much thicker fown,
Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.
Obferving poets all their walks invade,

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As men watch woodcocks gliding through a

glade:

And when they have enough for comedy,
They ftow their feveral bodies in a pye :
The poet's but the cook to fashion it,

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For, gallants, you yourselves have found the

wit.

To bid you welcome, would your bounty

wrong;

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None welcome thofe who bring their cheer

along.

PROLOGUE

TO THE

TEMPEST *.

As when a tree's cut down, the fecret root Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;

So from old Shakspeare's honour'd duft, this day Springs up and buds a new-reviving play: Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart

To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonfon art.

He, monarch-like, gave thofe, his fubjects, law; And is that nature which they paint and draw. Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did

grow,

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While Jonfon crept, and gather'd all below. 10 This did his love, and this his mirth, digeft: One imitates him moft, the other beft.

If they have fince outwrit all other men, "Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare's

pen.

Bonarelli, in his Filli di Sciro, has introduced a fhepherdess in love with two perfons, like the alterations in the Tempeft.

Dr. J. WARTON.

The ftorm, which vanifli'd on the neighbouring fhore,

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Was taught by Shakspeare's Tempest first to

roar.

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,

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Which works by magic fupernatural things:
But Shakspeare's power is facred as a king's.
Thofe 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 will fay,
Exceeding all the magic in the play.
Let none expect, in the laft act, to find

Her fex transform'd from man to womankind.
Whate'er she was before the play began,
All you fhall fee of her is perfect man.
Or, if your fancy will be farther led
To find her woman-it must be a-bed.

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PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

TYRANNICK LOVE.

SELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood,
Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
And malice, in all critics, reigns fo high,
That for fmall errours, they whole plays decry ;
So that to fee this fondnefs, and that spite,
You'd think that none but madmen judge or

write.

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Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
To impofe 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 fense,
Is fafe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.
Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his fancy the full fcope and swing.

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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,

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Yet rafhness is a better fault than fear.
He faw his way; but in fo fwift 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.

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