O wou’d She shine with Rays more frequent here!
How Gay wou’d then, this drooping Land appear! 25
Then, like the Sun, with Pleasure she might view,
The smiling Earth, cloath’d by her Beams anew.
O’er all the Meads, shou’d various Flowers be seen
Mix’d with the Lawrel’s never-fading Green,
The new Creation of a Gracious Queen. 30
EPILOGUE AT THE OPENING OF THE QUEEN’S THEATRE IN THE HAY-MARKET
with an Italian Pastoral: Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
WHATEVER future Fate our House may find,
At present we expect you shou’d be kind:
Inconstancy it self can claim no Right,
Before Enjoyment and the Wedding Night.
You must be fixt a little e’er you range, 5
You must be true ‘till you have time to change.
A Week at least; one Night is sure too soon,
But we pretend not to a Honey Moon.
To Novelty we know you can be true,
But what, alas! or who, is always new? 10
This Day, without Presumption, we pretend
With Novelty entire you’re entertain’d;
For not alone our House and Scenes are new,
Our Song and Dance, but ev’n our Actors too.
Our Play it self has something in’t uncommon, 15
Two faithful Lovers, and one constant Woman.
In sweet Italian Strains our Shepherds sing,
Of harmless Loves our painted Forests ring
In Notes, perhaps less Foreign than the thing.
To Sound and Show at first we make pretence, 20
In time we may regale you with some Sense,
But that, at present were too great Expence.
We only fear the Beaux may think it hard,
To be to Night from smutty Jests debarr’d:
But in good Breeding, sure, they’ll once excuse, 25
Ev’n Modesty, when in a Stranger Muse.
The Day’s at hand, when we shall shift the Scene,
And to your selves shew your dear selves again:
Paint the Reverse of what you’ve seen to Day,
And in bold Strokes the vicious Town display. 30
PROLOGUE TO PYRRHUS KING OF EPIRUS.
OUR Age has much improv’d the Warrior’s Art;
For Fighting, now, is thought the weakest Part;
And a good Head, more useful than a Heart.
This way of War, does our Example yield;
That Stage will win, which longest keeps the Field. 5
We mean not Battel, when we bid Defiance;
But starving one another to Compliance.
Our Troops encamp’d are by each other view’d,
And those which first are hungry, are subdu’d,
And there, in Truth, depends the great Decision: 10
They conquer, who cut off the Foe’s Provision.
Let Fools, with Knocks and Bruises, keep a Pother;
Our War and Trade, is to out-wit each other.
But, hold: Will not the Politicians tell us,
That both our Conduct, and our Foresight, fail us, 15
To raise Recruits, and draw new Forces down,
Thus, in the dead Vacation of the Town?
To muster up our Rhimes, without our Reason,
And forage for an Audience out of Season?
Our Author’s Fears must this false Step excuse; 20
’Tis the first Flight of a just-feather’d Muse:
Th’Occasion ta’en, when Criticks are away;
Half Wits and Beaux, those rav’nous Birds of Prey.
But, Heav’n be prais’d, far hence they vent their Wrath,
Mauling, in mild Lampoon, th’intriguing Bath. 25
Thus does our Author his first Flight commence;
Thus, against Friends at first, with Foils we fence;
Thus prudent Gimcrack try’d if he were able
(E’er he’d wet Foot) to swim upon a Table.
Then spare the Youth; or if you’ll damn the Play, 30
Let him but first have his; then take your Day.
EPILOGUE TO OROONOKO.
Spoken by Mrs. Verbruggen.
YOU see we try all Shapes, and Shifts, and Arts,
To tempt your Favours, and regain your Hearts.
We weep, and laugh, join Mirth and Grief together,
Like Rain and Sunshine mixt, in April Weather.
Your different Tastes divide our Poet’s Cares: 5
One Foot the Sock, t’other the Buskin wears:
Thus while he strives to please, he’s forc’d to do’t,
Like Volscius, Hip-hop, in a single Boot.
Criticks, he knows, for this may damn his Books:
But he makes Feasts for Friends, and not for Cooks. 10
Tho’ Errant-Knights of late no Favour find,
Sure you will be to Ladies-Errant kind.
To follow Fame, Knights-Errant make Profession:
We Damsels fly, to save our Reputation:
So they, their Valour show, we, our Discretion. 15
To Lands of Monsters and fierce Beasts they go,
We, to those Islands where rich Husbands grow:
Tho’ they’re no Monsters, we may make ’em so.
If they’re of English Growth, they’ll bear’t with Patience:
But save us from a Spouse of Oroonoko’s Nations! 20
Then bless your Stars, you happy London Wives,
Who love at large, each Day, yet keep your Lives:
Nor envy poor Imoinda’s doating Blindness,
Who thought her Husband kill’d her out of Kindness.
Death with a Husband ne’er had shewn such Charms, 25
Had she once dy’d within a Lover’s Arms.
Her Error was from Ignorance proceeding:
Poor Soul! she wanted some of our Town Breeding.
Forgive this Indian’s Fondness of her Spouse;
Their Law no Christian Liberty allows: 30
Alas! they make a Conscience of their Vows!
If Virtue in a Heathen be a Fault;
Then damn the Heathen School, where she was taught.
She might have learnt to Cuckold, Jilt and Sham,
Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam. 35
PROLOGUE TO THE HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.
A Comedy written by Mr. J. Dryden, Junior.
THIS Year has been remarkable two ways,
For blooming Poets, and for blasted Plays.
We’ve been by much appearing Plenty mock’d,
At once both tantaliz’d, and over-stock’d.
Our Authors too, by their Success of late, 5
Begin to think Third Days are out of Date.
What can the Cause be, that our Plays won’t keep,
Unless they have a Rott some Years like Sheep?
For our parts, we confess we’re quite asham’d
To read such weekly Bills of Poets damn’d. 10
Each Parish knows ’tis but a mournful Case
When Christnings fall, and Funerals encrease.
Thus ’tis, and thus ‘twill be when we are dead,
There will be Writers which will ne’er be read.
Why will you be such Wits, and write such things? 15
You’re willing to be Wasps, but want the Stings.
Let not your Spleen provoke you to that height,
‘Odslife you don’t know what you do, Sirs, when you write.
You’ll find that Pegasus has Tricks, when try’d,
Tho’ you make nothing on’t but up and ride; 20
Ladies and all, I’faith, now get astride.
Contriving Characters, and Scenes, and Plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting Knots;
With the same Ease, and Negligence of Thought,
The charming Play is writ, and Fringe is wrought. 25
Tho’ this be frightful, yet we’re more afrai
d,
When Ladies leave, that Beaux will take the Trade:
Thus far ’tis well enough, if here ‘twou’d stop,
But shou’d they write, we must e’en shut up Shop.
How shall we make this Mode of Writing sink? 30
A Mode said I. ’Tis a Disease, I think,
A stubborn Tetter that’s not cur’d with Ink.
For still it spreads, ‘till each th’Infection takes,
And seizes ten, for one that it forsakes.
Our Play to Day is sprung from none of these, 35
Nor should you Damn it, tho’ it does not please,
Since born without the Bounds of your four Seas.
For if you grant no Favour as ’tis new,
Yet as a Stranger, there is something due:
From Rome (to try its Fate) this Play was sent, 40
Start not at Rome, for there’s no Popery meant;
Tho’ there the Poet may his Dwelling chuse,
Yet still he knows his Country claims his Muse.
Hither an Offering his First-born he sends,
Whose good, or ill Success, on you depends. 45
Yet he has hope some Kindness may be shown,
As due to greater Merit than his own,
And begs the Sire may for the Son attone.
There’s his last Refuge, if the Play don’t take,
Yet spare young Dry den for his Father’s sake. 50
PROLOGUE TO THE COURT; ON THE QUEEN’S BIRTH-DAY, 1704.
THE happy Muse, to this high Scene preferr’d,
Hereafter shall in loftier Strains be heard;
And, soaring to transcend her usual Theme,
Shall Sing of Virtue and Heroick Fame.
No longer shall she toil upon the Stage, 5
And fruitless War with Vice and Folly wage;
No more in mean Disguise she shall appear,
And Shapes she wou’d reform be forc’d to wear:
While Ignorance and Malice join to blame,
And break the Mirror that reflects their Shame. 10
Henceforth she shall pursue a nobler Task,
Shew her bright Virgin Face, and scorn the Satyr’s Mask.
Happy her future Days! which are design’d
Alone to paint the Beauties of the Mind.
By just Originals to draw with Care, 15
And Copy from the Court a faultless Fair:
Such Labours with Success her Hopes may crown,
And shame to Manners an incorrigible Town.
While this Design her eager Thought pursues,
Such various Virtues all around she views,
She knows not where to fix, or which to chuse.
Yet still ambitious of the daring Flight,
ONE only awes her with Superior Light.
From that Attempt the Conscious Muse retires,
Nor to Inimitable Worth aspires; 25
But secretly Applauds, and silently Admires.
Hence she reflects upon the genial Ray
That first enliven’d this Auspicious Day:
On that bright Star, to whose Indulgent Pow’r
We owe the Blessings of the Present Hour. 30
Concurring Omens of propitious Fate
Bore, with One Sacred Birth, an equal Date:
Whence we derive whatever we possess,
By Foreign Conquest, or Domestick Peace.
Then, Britain, then thy Dawn of Bliss begun: 35
Then broke the Morn that lighted up this Sun!
Then was it doom’d whose Councils shou’d succeed;
And by whose Arm the Christian World be freed;
Then the fierce Foe was pre-ordain’d to yield,
And then the Battel won at Blenheim’s Glorious Field. 40
THE TEARS OF AMARYLLIS FOR AMYNTAS.
A PASTORAL.
Lamenting the DEATH of The late Lord Marquis of BLANFORD.
Inscrib’d to the
Right Honourable the Lord GODOLPHIN,
Lord High-Treasurer of England.
Qualis populeâ mœrens Philomela sub umbra
Amissos queritur fetus —
— miserabile Carmen
Intégrât, & mœstis late loca qucestibus implet.
Virg. Geor. 4.
‘TWAS at the time, when new returning Light,
With welcome Rays begins to chear the Sight;
When grateful Birds prepare their Thanks to pay,
And warble Hymns to hail the dawning Day;
When woolly Flocks their bleating Cries renew, 5
And from their fleecy Sides first shake the silver Dew.
’Twas then that Amaryllis, Heav’nly Fair,
Wounded with Grief, and wild with her Despair,
Forsook her Myrtle Bow’r and Rosie Bed,
To tell the Winds her Woes, and mourn Amyntas dead. 10
Who had a Heart so hard, that heard her Cries
And did not weep? Who such relentless Eyes?
Tygers and Wolves their wonted Rage forgo,
And dumb Distress and new Compassion shew,
As taught by her to taste of Human Woe. 15
Nature her self attentive Silence kept,
And Motion seem’d suspended while she wept;
The rising Sun restrain’d his fiery Course,
And rapid Rivers listen’d at their Source;
Ev’n Eccho fear’d to catch the flying Sound, 20
Lest Repetition should her Accents drown;
The very Morning Wind with-held his Breeze,
Nor fann’d with fragrant Wings the noiseless Trees;
As if the gentle Zephyr had been dead,
And in the Grave with lov’d Amyntas laid. 25
No Voice, no whisp’ring Sigh, no murm’ring Groan,
Presum’d to mingle with a Mother’s Moan;
Her Cries alone her Anguish could express,
All other Mourning would have made it less.
Hear me, she cry’d, ye Nymphs and Silvan Gods, 30
Inhabitants of these once lov’d Abodes;
Hear my Distress and lend a pitying Ear,
Hear my Complaint — you would not hear my Pray’r;
The Loss which you prevented not, deplore,
And mourn with me Amyntas now no more. 35
Have I not Cause, ye cruel Pow’rs, to mourn?
Lives there like me another Wretch forlorn?
Tell me, thou Sun that round the World dost shine,
Hast thou beheld another Loss like mine?
Ye Winds, who on your Wings sad Accents bear, 40
And catch the Sounds of Sorrow and Despair,
Tell me if e’er your tender Pinions bore
Such weight of Woe, such deadly Sighs before?
Tell me, thou Earth, on whose wide-spreading Base
The wretched Load is laid of Human Race, 45
Dost thou not feel thy self with me opprest?
Lye all the Dead so heavy on thy Breast?
When hoary Winter on thy shrinking Head
His Icy, Cold, depressing Hand has laid,
Hast thou not felt less Chilness in thy Veins? 50
Do I not pierce thee with more freezing Pains?
But why to thee do I relate my Woe,
Thou cruel Earth, my most remorseless Foe,
Within whose darksome Womb the Grave is made,
Where all my Joys are with Amyntas laid? 55
What is’t to me, tho’ on thy naked Head
Eternal Winter should his Horror shed,
Tho’ all thy Nerves were numb’d with endless Frost,
And all thy Hopes of future Spring were lost?
To me what Comfort can the Spring afford? 60
Can my Amyntas be with Spring restor’d?
Can all the Rains that fall from weeping Skies,
Unlock the Tomb where my Amyntas lies?
No, never! never! — Say then, rigid Earth,
What is to me thy everlasting Dearth? 65
Tho�
�� never Flow’r again its Head should rear,
Tho’ never Tree again should Blossom bear;
Tho’ never Grass should cloath the naked Ground,
Nor ever healing Plant or wholsom Herb be found.
None, none were found when I bewail’d their Want; 70
Nor wholsom Herb was found, nor healing Plant,
To ease Amyntas of his cruel Pains;
In vain I search’d the Valleys, Hills and Plains;
But wither’d Leaves alone appear’d to view,
Or pois’nous Weeds distilling deadly Dew. 75
And if some naked Stalk, not quite decay’d,
To yield a fresh and friendly Bud essay’d,
Soon as I reach’d to crop the tender Shoot,
A shrieking Mandrake kill’d it at the Root.
Witness to this, ye Fawns of ev’ry Wood, 80
Who at the Prodigy astonish’d stood.
Well I remember what sad Signs ye made,
What Show’rs of unavailing Tears ye shed;
How each ran fearful to his mossie Cave,
When the last Gasp the dear Amyntas gave. 85
For then the Air was fill’d with dreadful Cries,
And sudden Night o’erspread the darken’d Skies;
Phantoms, and Fiends, and wand’ring Fires appear’d,
And Skreams of ill-presaging Birds were heard.
The Forest shook, and flinty Rocks were cleft, 90
And frighted Streams their wonted Channels left;
With frantick Grief o’erflowing fruitful Ground,
Where many a Herd and harmless Swain was drown’d.
While I forlorn and desolate was left,
Of ev’ry Help, of ev’ry Hope bereft; 95
To ev’ry Element expos’d I lay,
And to my Griefs a more defenceless Prey.
For thee, Amyntas, all these Pains were born,
For thee these Hands were wrung, these Hairs were torn;
For thee my Soul to sigh shall never leave, 100
These Eyes to weep, this throbbing Heart to heave.
To mourn thy Fall I’ll fly the hated Light,
And hide my Head in Shades of endless Night:
For thou wert Light, and Life, and Health to me;
The Sun but thankless shines that shews not thee. 105
Wert thou not Lovely, Graceful, Good and Young?
The Joy of Sight, the Talk of ev’ry Tongue?
Did ever Branch so sweet a Blossom bear?
Or ever early Fruit appear so fair?
Did ever Youth so far his Years transcend? 110
Complete Works of William Congreve Page 8
