John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 64
But he must needs find fault, to show his Wit;
Then, for his sake, ne’er stint your own delight;
Throw boldly, for the sets to all that write;
With such he ventures on an even lay, 55
For they bring ready money into Play.
Those who write not, and yet all Writers nick,
Are Bankrupt Gamesters, for they damn on Tick.
Prologue and Epilogue to The Wild Gallant, revived
PROLOGUE.
AS some raw Squire, by tender Mother bred,
Till one and Twenty keeps his Maidenhead;
(Pleas’d with some Sport, which he alone does find,
And thinks a Secret to all Humane kind,)
Till mightily in Love, yet half afraid, 5
He first attempts the gentle Dairymaid:
Succeeding there, and, led by the renown
Of Whetstones Park, he comes at length to Town:
Where enter’d by some School-fellow or Friend,
He grows to break Glass-Windows in the end: 10
His Valour too, which with the Watch began,
Proceeds to duell, and he kills his Man.
By such Degrees, while Knowledge he did want,
Our unfletch’d Author writ a Wild Gallant.
He thought him monstrous leud (I’ll lay my Life) 15
Because suspected with his Landlords Wife;
But, since his Knowledge of the Town began,
He thinks him now a very civil Man;
And, much asham’d of what he was before,
Has fairly play’d him at three Wenches more. 20
’Tis some amends his Frailties to confess;
Pray pardon him his want of Wickedness.
He’s towardly, and will come on apace;
His frank Confession shows he has some Grace.
You balk’d him when he was a young Beginner, 25
And almost spoyl’d a very hopeful Sinner;
But if once more you slight his weak indeavour,
For ought I know, he may turn taile for ever.
EPILOGUE
Of all Dramatique Writing, Comick Wit,
As ’tis the best, so ’tis most hard to hit. 30
For it lies all in level to the Eye,
Where all may judge, and each Defect may spye.
Humour is that which every Day we meet,
And therefore known as every publick Street;
In which, if e’r the Poet go astray, 35
You all can point, ’twas there he lost his Way,
But what’s so common to make pleasant too,
Is more than any Wit can always do.
For ’tis, like Turkes with Hen and Rice to treat,
To make Regalio’s out of common Meat. 40
But, in your Diet, you grow Salvages:
Nothing but humane Flesh your Taste can please;
And as their Feasts with slaughter’d Slaves began,
So you, at each new Play, must have a Man.
Hither you come, as to see Prizes fought; 45
If no Blood’s drawn, you cry, the Prize is naught.
But Fooles grow wary now; and, when they see
A Poet eyeing round the Company,
Straight each Man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like Seamen when a Press comes out. 50
Few of ‘em will be found for publick Use,
Except you charge an Oph upon each House,
Like the Train-Bands, and every man ingage
For a sufficient Fool to serve the Stage.
And when with much adoe you get him there, 55
Where he in all his Glory should appear,
Your Poets make him such rare Things to say,
That he’s more Wit than any Man ith’ Play:
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a Parrat’s taught to break a Jest. 60
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a Show,
As tawdry Squires in country Churches do.
Things well consider’d, ’tis so hard to make
A Comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our dull Poet, in despair to please, 65
Does humbly beg by me his writ of ease.
’Tis a Land-tax, which he’s too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other Impost lay.
Would you but change for serious Plot and Verse
This motley garniture of Fool and Farce, 70
Nor scorn a Mode, because ’tis taught at home,
Which does, like Vests, our Gravity become,
Our Poet yields you should this Play refuse:
As Tradesmen by the change of Fashions lose
With some content their Fripperies of France, 75
In Hope it may their staple Trade advance.
Prologue and Epilogue to Sir Martin Mar-all, or the Feigned Innocence
PROLOGUE.
FOOLS, which each man meets in his Dish each Day,
Are yet the great Regalio’s of a Play;
In which to Poets you but just appear,
To prize that highest which cost them so dear:
Fops in the Town more easily will pass; 5
One story makes a statutable Ass;
But such in Plays must be much thicker sown,
Like yolks of Eggs, a dozen beat to one.
Observing Poets all their walks invade,
As men watch Woodcocks gliding through a Glade: 10
And when they have enough for Comedy,
They stow their several Bodies in a Pye:
The Poet’s but the Cook to fashion it,
For, Gallants, you yourselves have found the Wit.
To bid you welcome would your bounty wrong; 15
None welcome those who bring their Chear along.
EPILOGUE
As country Vicars, when the Sermon’s done,
Run hudling to the Benediction;
Well knowing, though the better sort may stay,
The Vulgar Rout will run unblesst away: 20
So we, when once our Play is done, make haste
With a short Epilogue to close your taste.
In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly;
But, when the Curtain’s down we peep and see
A Jury of the Wits, who still stay late, 25
And in their Club decree the poor Plays fate;
Their Verdict back is to the Boxes brought,
Thence all the Town pronounces it their thought.
Thus, Gallants, we like Lilly can foresee;
But if you ask us what our doom will be, 30
We by to morrow will our Fortune cast,
As he tells all things when the Year is past.
Prologue and Epilogue to The Tempest
PROLOGUE.
AS when a Tree’s cut down, the secret root
Lives under ground, and thence new Branches shoot,
So from old Shakespear’s honoured dust this day
Springs up and buds a new reviving Play:
Shakespear, who (taught by none) did first impart 5
To Fletcher Wit, to labouring Johnson Art;
He Monarch-like, gave those his subjects law,
And is that Nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reach’d that which on his heights did grow,
Whilst Johnson crept and gather’d all below. 10
This did his Love, and this his Mirth digest:
One imitates him most, the other best.
If they have since out-writ all other men,
’Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespear’s Pen.
The Storm which vanish’d on the Neighbring shore 15
Was taught by Shakespear’s Tempest first to roar.
That Innocence and Beauty, which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this Enchanted Isle.
But Shakespear’s Magick could not copy’d be;
Within that Circle none durst walk but he. 20
I must
confess ’twas bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar Wits allow,
Which works by Magick supernatural things;
But Shakespear’s pow’r is sacred as a King’s.
Those Legends from old Priest-hood were receiv’d, 25
And he then writ, as People then believ’d.
But if for Shakespear we your grace implore,
We for our Theatre shall want it more;
Who by our dearth of Youths are forc’d t’ employ
One of our Women to present a Boy. 30
And that’s a transformation you will say
Exceeding all the Magick in the Play.
Let none expect in the last Act to find
Her Sex transform’d from Man to Womankind.
What e’re she was before the Play began, 35
All you shall see of her is perfect Man.
Or, if your fancy will be farther led
To find her Woman, it must be abed.
EPILOGUE
Gallants, by all good Signs it does appear
That Sixty Seven’s a very damning Year, 40
For Knaves aboard, and for ill Poets here.
Among the Muses there’s a gen’ral Rot;
The Rhyming Monsieur and the Spanish Plot,
Defie or court, all’s one, they go to Pot.
The Ghosts of Poets walk within this place, 45
And haunt us Actors wheresoe’re we pass,
In Visions bloodier than King Richard’s was.
Forthis poor Wretch, he has not much to say,
But quietly brings in his Part o’ th’ Play,
And begs the Favour to be damn’d to-day. 50
He sends me only like a Sh’riffs man here
To let you know the Malefactor’s neer,
And that he means to dye en cavalier.
For, if you shou’d be gracious to his Pen,
Th’ Example will prove ill to other Men, 55
And you’ll be troubled with ‘em all agen.
Prologue to Albumazar
TO say this Comedy pleas’d long ago
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, Gentlemen, your Ancestors had wit,
When few Men censur’d, and when fewer writ;
And Johnson (of those few the best) chose this 5
As the best Model of his Master-piece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by his Astrologer:
Here he was fashion’d, and we may suppose
He lik’d the fashion well who wore the Cloaths. 10
But Ben made nobly his what he did Mould;
What was another’s Lead, becomes his Gold:
Like an unrighteous Conqueror he Reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly Gains.
But this our Age such Authors does afford, 15
As make whole Plays, and yet scarce write one word;
Who, in this Anarchy of Wit, rob all,
And what’s their Plunder, their Possession call:
Who, like bold Padders, scorn by Night to prey,
But rob by Sun-shine, in the Face of Day: 20
Nay scarce the common Ceremony use
Of Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,
Mount Pegasus before the Owner’s Face.
Faith, if you have such Country Toms abroad, 25
’Tis time for all true Men to leave that Road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the Living, but these rob the Dead;
Dare with the Mummies of the Muses play,
And make Love to them the Ægyptian way; 30
Or, as a Rhiming Author would have said,
Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead.
Such Men in Poetry may claim some Part;
They have the Licence, tho’ they want the Art;
And might, where Theft was prais’d, for Laureats stand, 35
Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand.
They make the Benefits of others’ studying,
Much like the Meals of Politick Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no Man has the Courage;
’Tis all his own, when once h’ has spit i’ the Porridge. 40
But, Gentlemen, you’re all concern’d in this;
You are in Fault for what they do amiss:
For they their Thefts still undiscovered think,
And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your Decree, 45
They shou’d refund, — but that can never be;
For should you Letters of Reprisal seal,
These Men write that which no Man else would steal.
Prologue and Epilogue to An Evening’s Love, or the Mock Astrologer
PROLOGUE.
WHEN first our Poet set himself to write,
Like a young Bridegroom on his Wedding-night,
He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lye in quiet for him:
But now his Honey-moon is gone and past, 5
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil Husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you:
To write in pain, and counterfeit a Bliss,
Like the faint smackings of an after-Kiss. 10
But you, like Wives ill pleas’d, supply his want;
Each Writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant:
And though, perhaps, ’twas done as well before,
Yet still there’s something in a new Amour.
Your several Poets work with several Tools, 15
One gets you Wits, another gets you Fools:
This pleases you with some by-stroke of Wit,
This finds some cranny that was never hit.
But should these janty Lovers daily come
To do your Work, like your good Man at home, 20
Their fine small-timber’d Wits would soon decay;
These are Gallants but for a Holiday.
Others you had, who oftner have appear’d,
Whom for meer impotence you have cashier’d:
Such as at first came on with Pomp and Glory, 25
But, over-straining, soon fell flat before ye.
Their useless weight with patience long was borne,
But at the last you threw ‘em off with scorn.
As for the Poet of this present night,
Though now he claims in you an Husbands right, 30
He will not hinder you of fresh delight.
He, like a Seaman, seldom will appear,
And means to trouble home but thrice a year;
That only time from your Gallants he’ll borrow;
Be kind to day, and Cuckold him to morrow. 35
EPILOGUE
My Part being small, I have had time to day
To mark your various censures of our Play.
First, looking for a Judgement or a Wit,
Like Jews, I saw ‘em scatter’d through the Pit;
And where a lot of Smilers lent an Ear 40
To one that talk’d, I knew the Foe was there.
The Club of jests went round; he, who had none,
Borrow’d o’ th’ next, and told it for his own.
Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,
In whisp’ring that he stole th’ Astrologer; 45
And said, betwixt a French and English Plot,
He eased his halfe-tir’d Muse, on Pace and Trot.
Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o’er, and warm
In the French stoop, and the pull-back o’ th’ Arm:
Morbleu dit il, and cocks, I am a Rogue, 50
But he has quite spoil’d the fein’d Astrologue.
‘Pox, says another, here’s so great a stir
With a Son of a Whore, Farce that’s regular,
A Rule, where nothing must decorum shock!
Dam’me, ’tis as dull as Dining by the Clock. 55
An Evening! why the Devil should we be vext,
Whether he gets the Wench this night or next?
When I heard this, I to the Poet went,
Told him the House was full of Discontent,
And ask’d him what excuse he could invent. 60
He neither swore nor storm’d, as Poets do,
But, most unlike an Author, vow’d ’twas true;
Yet said, he used the French like Enemies,
And did not steal their Plots, but made ‘em Prize.
But should he all the pains and charges count 65
Of taking ‘em, the Bill so high wou’d mount,
That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come,
He should have had ‘em much more cheap at home.
He still must write, and, Banquier-like, each Day
Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay. 70
When through his hands such sums must yearly run,
You cannot think the Stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there’s no mercy for a guilty Muse;
For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall, 75
And please you to a height, or not at all.
Prologue and Epilogue to Tyrannick Love, or the Royal Martyr
PROLOGUE.
SELF-LOVE (which never rightly understood)
Makes Poets still conclude their Plays are good.
And Malice in all Criticks raigns so high,
That for small Errors, they whole Plays decry;
So that to see this fondness, and that spite, 5
You’d think that none but Mad-men judge or write.
Therefore our Poet, as he thinks not fit
T’ impose upon you what he writes for Wit
So hopes that, leaving you your censures free,
You equal Judges of the whole will be: 10
They judge but half, who only faults will see.
Poets, like Lovers, should be bold and dare,
They spoil their business with an over-care;
And he, who servilely creeps after sence,
Is safe, but ne’re will reach an Excellence. 15
Hence ’tis, our Poet, in his conjuring,
Allow’d his Fancy the full scope and swing.
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, 20
Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.
He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,
To chuse the ground might be to lose the race.
They then, who of each trip th’ advantage take,