22

That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim,
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;

For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here,

That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see the offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debased even to the level of their wit;
Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowledge all their power transcends,
As what should be beyond what is extends.

30

XV.

PROLOGUE TO "CIRCE," A TRAGIC OPERA ;

BY DR DAVENANT,1 1675.

WERE you but half so wise as you're severe,

Our youthful poet should not need to fear:

To his green years your censures you would suit,

Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.

1 Son of Sir William Davenant, and author of several political pieces, much esteemed.

The sex, the best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on the other hand.
They check not him that's awkward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set 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 first young flight,
Did no Volpone, nor Arbaces write ;

But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid.
Shakspeare's own muse her Pericles first bore;
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:
"Tis miracle to see a first good play;
All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
A slender poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish, as his brothers do.

Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is cursed :
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.

Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays;
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies :
He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice.
Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

XVI.

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE LADY HEN.

66

MAR. WENTWORTH, WHEN CALISTO "1 WAS ACTED AT

COURT.

As Jupiter I made my court in vain ;
I'll now assume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be so unkindly used,
And would not be a god to be refused.
State grows uneasy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wise remove.
Now, as a nymph I need not sue, 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 withstand.
"Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,

Even while they frown, and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty sir,2 our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:
Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And soften business with the charms of wit.

These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,

And sit in peace the arbiter of war :

10

20

''Calisto:' a Masque, written by Crowne, Dryden's rival and Rochester's protégé; this Epilogue was through Rochester's influence rejected.-2 This part of the Epilogue is addressed to the King.

Peace, the loathed manna, which hot brains despise. 25 You knew its worth, and made it early prize :

And in its happy leisure sit and see

The promises of more felicity:

Two glorious nymphs,1 of your own godlike line,
Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine: 30
Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,

To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

XVII.

PROLOGUE TO "AURENGZEBE.”

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

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

And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
Which he presumes the most correct of his ;
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name :
Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.

'The Duke of York's two daughters, Mary and Ann.

10

As with the greater dead he dares not strive,

He would not match his verse with those who live :
Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,

The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
A losing gamester, let him sneak away ;
He bears no ready money from the play.
The fate which governs poets, thought it fit
He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.
The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;
Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:
All southern 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 shrewd sign, 'twas never of your growth;
And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except, like orange trees, 'tis housed with snow.
There needs no care to put a playhouse down,
'Tis the most desert place of all the town:
We, and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,
Like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war;
While, likewise English, unconcern'd you sit,
And see us play the tragedy of wit.

19

30

40

XVIII.

EPILOGUE TO "THE MAN OF MODE; OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER;"

BY SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.

Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,
They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.