John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

For all our Women most devoutly swear, 50

  Each would be rather a poor Actress here

  Than to be made a Mamamouchi there.

  Prologue and Epilogue to Marriage-à-la-Mode

  PROLOGUE.

  LORD, how reform’d and quiet are we grown,

  Since all our Braves and all our Wits are gone:

  Fop-corner now is free from Civil War,

  White-Wig and Vizard-Mask no longer jar.

  France, and the Fleet have swept the Town so clear, 5

  That we can Act in peace, and you can hear.

  Those that durst fight are gone to get renown;

  And those that durst not, blush to stand in Town.

  ’Twas a sad sight, before they march’d from home,

  To see our Warriours, in Red Wastecoats, come, 10

  With hair tuck’d up, into our Tireing-room.

  But ’twas more sad to hear their last Adieu

  The Women sob’d, and swore they would be true;

  And so they were, as long as e’re they cou’d;

  But powerful Guinnee cannot be withstood, 15

  And they were made of Playhouse flesh and bloud.

  Fate did their Friends for double Use ordain;

  In Wars abroad, they grinning Honour gain,

  And Mistresses, for all that stay, maintain.

  Now they are gone, ’tis dead Vacation here, 20

  For neither Friends nor Enemies appear.

  Poor pensive Punk now peeps ere Plays begin,

  Sees the bare Bench, and dares not venture in;

  But manages her last Half-crown with care,

  And trudges to the Mall, on foot, for Air. 25

  Our City Friends so far will hardly roam,

  They can take up with Pleasures nearer home;

  And see gay Shows with gaudy Scenes elsewhere:

  For we presume they seldom come to hear.

  But they have now ta’n up a glorious Trade, 30

  And cutting Moorcraft struts in Masquerade.

  There’s all our hope, for we shall show to day

  A Masquing Ball, to recommend our Play;

  Nay, to endear ‘em more, and let ‘em see

  We scorn to come behind in Courtesie, 35

  We’ll follow the new Mode which they begin,

  And treat ‘em with a Room, and Couch within:

  For that’s one way, how e’re the Play fall short,

  T’ oblige the Town, the City, and the Court.

  EPILOGUE

  Thus have my Spouse and I inform’d the Nation, 40

  And led you all the way to Reformation;

  Not with dull Morals, gravely writ, like those

  Which men of easy Phlegme with care compose,

  Your Poets, of stiff Words and limber sense,

  Born on the confines of indifference: 45

  But by Examples drawn, I dare to say,

  From most of you who hear, and see the Play

  There are more Rhodophils in this Theatre,

  More Palamedes, and some few Wives, I fear:

  But yet too far our Poet would not run; 50

  Though ’twas well offer’d, there was nothing done.

  He would not quite the Woman’s frailty bare,

  But stript ‘em to the waste, and left ‘em there:

  And the men’s faults are less severely shown,

  For he considers that himself is one. 55

  Some stabbing Wits, to bloudy Satyr bent,

  Would treat both Sexes with less complement:

  Would lay the Scene at home; of Husbands tell,

  For Wenches taking up their Wives i’ th’ Mell;

  And a brisk bout, which each of them did want, 60

  Made by mistake of Mistris and Gallant.

  Our modest Authour thought it was enough

  To cut you off a Sample of the stuff:

  He spared my shame, which you, I’m sure, would not,

  For you were all for driving on the Plot: 65

  You sigh’d when I came in to break the sport,

  And set your teeth when each design fell short.

  To Wives, and Servants all good wishes lend,

  But the poor Cuckold seldom finds a friend.

  Since therefore, Court and Town will take no pity, 70

  I humbly cast myself upon the City.

  Prologue and Epilogue to The Assignation, or Love in a Nunnery

  PROLOGUE.

  PROLOGUES, like Bells to Churches, toul you in

  With Chimeing Verse, till the dull Playes begin;

  With this sad difference though, of Pit and Pue;

  You damn the Poet, but the Priest damns you.

  But Priests can treat you at your own expence, 5

  And, gravely, call you Fools, without Offence

  Poets, poor Devils, have ne’er your Folly shown,

  But, to their Cost, you prov’d it was their own:

  For, when a Fop’s presented on the Stage,

  Straight all the Coxcombs in the Town ingage; 10

  For his deliverance and revenge they joyn,

  And grunt, like Hogs, about their Captive Swine.

  Your Poets daily split upon this shelf:

  You must have Fools, yet none will have himself.

  Or, if in kindness, you that leave would give, 15

  No man could write you at that rate you live:

  For some of you grow Fops with so much haste,

  Riot in nonsence, and commit such waste,

  ‘Twould Ruine Poets should they spend so fast.

  He who made this observed what Farces hit, 20

  And durst not disoblige you now with wit.

  But, Gentlemen, you overdo the Mode;

  You must have Fools out of the common Rode.

  Th’ unnatural strain’d Buffoon is only taking;

  No Fop can please you now of Gods own making. 25

  Pardon our Poet, if he speaks his Mind;

  You come to Plays with your own Follies lin’d:

  Small Fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain;

  Your own oyl’d Coats keep out all common rain.

  You must have Mamamouchi, such a Fop 30

  As would appear a Monster in a Shop;

  He’ll fill your Pit and Boxes to the brim,

  Where, Ram’d in Crowds, you see your selves in him.

  Sure there’s some spell our Poet never knew,

  In hullibabilah de, and Chu, chu, chu; 35

  But Marabarah sahem most did touch you;

  That is, Oh how we love the Mamamouchi!

  Grimace and habit sent you pleas’d away;

  You damn’d the poet, and cried up the Play.

  This Thought had made our Author more uneasie, 40

  But that he hopes I’m Fool enough to please ye.

  But here’s my grief, — though Nature, joined with Art,

  Have cut me out to act a Fooling Part,

  Yet, to your Praise, the few wits here will say,

  ’Twas imitating you taught Haynes to Play. 45

  EPILOGUE

  Some have expected, from our Bills to-day,

  To find a Satyre in our Poet’s Play.

  The Zealous Rout from Coleman-street did run,

  To see the Story of the Fryer and Nun,

  Or Tales, yet more Ridiculous to hear, 50

  Vouch’d by their Vicar of Ten pounds a year;

  Of Nuns who did against Temptation Pray,

  And Discipline laid on the pleasant Way:

  Or that, to please the Malice of the Town,

  Our Poet should in some close Cell have shown 55

  Some Sister, Playing at Content alone.

  This they did hope; the other Side did fear;

  And both, you see, alike are Couzen’d here.

  Some thought the Title of our Play to blame;

  They liked the thing, but yet abhorr’d the Name: 60

  Like modest Puncks, who all you ask afford,

  But, for the World
, they would not name that word.

  Yet, if you’ll credit what I heard him say,

  Our Poet meant no Scandal in his Play;

  His Nuns are good which on the Stage are shown, 65

  And, sure, behind our Scenes you’ll look for none.

  Prologue and Epilogue to Amboyna, or the Cruelties of the Dutch to the English Merchants

  PROLOGUE.

  AS needy Gallants in the Scriv’ners hands

  Court the rich Knave that gripes their Mortgag’d Lands,

  The first fat Buck of all the Season’s sent,

  And Keeper takes no Fee in Complement;

  The doteage of some Englishmen is such. 5

  To fawn on those who ruine them, the Dutch.

  They shall have all rather than make a War

  With those who of the same Religion are.

  The Streights, the Guiney Trade, the Herrings too,

  Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. 10

  Some are resolv’d not to find out the Cheat,

  But Cuckold-like, love him who does the Feat:

  What injuries soe’r upon us fall,

  Yet still the same Religion answers all:

  Religion wheedled you to Civil War, 15

  Drew English Blood, and Dutchmens now wou’d spare.

  Be gull’d no longer; for you’l find it true,

  They have no more Religion, faith — then you;

  Interest’s the God they worship in their State;

  And you, I take it, have not much of that. 20

  Well, Monarchys may own Religions name,

  But States are Atheists in their very frame.

  They share a sin, and such proportions fall

  That, like a stink, ’tis nothing to ‘em all.

  How they love England, you shall see this day: 25

  No Map shows Holland truer then our Play:

  Their Pictures and Inscriptions well we know;

  We may be bold one Medal sure to show.

  View then their Falshoods, Rapine, Cruelty;

  And think what once they were they still would be: 30

  But hope not either Language, Plot, or Art;

  ’Twas writ in haste, but with an English Heart:

  And lest hope Wit; in Dutchmen that would be

  As much improper as would Honesty.

  EPILOGUE

  A Poet once the Spartan’s led to fight, 35

  And made ‘em conquer in the Muses right:

  So would our Poet lead you on this day,

  Showing your tortur’d Fathers in his Play.

  To one well born th’ affront is worse and more,

  When he’s abus’d and baffled by a Bore: 40

  With an ill Grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,

  They’ve both ill Nature and ill Manners too.

  Well may they boast themselves an antient Nation,

  For they were bred e’re Manners were in fashion:

  And their new Common wealth has set ‘em free, 45

  Onely from Honour and Civility.

  Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,

  Than did their Lubber-State Mankind bestride;

  Their Sway became ‘em with as ill a Meen,

  As their own Paunches swell above their Chin: 50

  Yet is their Empire no true Growth but Humour,

  And onely two Kings’ touch can cure the Tumor.

  As Cato did his Affricque Fruits display,

  So we before your Eies their Indies lay:

  All loyal English will like him conclude, 55

  Let Cæsar Live, and Carthage be subdu’d!

  Prologue and Epilogue to the University of Oxford

  PROLOGUE.

  Spoken by MR. HART at the acting of the Silent Woman,

  WHAT Greece, when learning flourish’d, onely knew,

  (Athenian Judges,) you this day renew.

  Here too are Annual Rites to Pallas done,

  And here Poetique prizes lost or won.

  Methinks I see you crown’d with Olives sit, 5

  And strike a sacred Horrour from the Pit.

  A Day of Doom is this of your Decree,

  Where even the Best are but by Mercy free:

  A Day which none but Johnson durst have wish’d to see.

  Here they who long have known the usefull Stage 10

  Come to be taught themselves to teach the Age.

  As your Commissioners our Poets go,

  To cultivate the Virtue which you sow;

  In your Lycaeum first themselves refin’d,

  And delegated thence to Humane kind. 15

  But as Embassadours, when long from home,

  For new Instructions to their Princes come;

  So Poets who your Precepts have forgot,

  Return, and beg they may be better taught:

  Follies and Faults else-where by them are shown. 20

  But by your Manners they correct their own.

  Th’ illiterate Writer, Emperique like, applies

  To Minds diseas’d, unsafe, chance Remedies:

  The Learn’d in Schools, where Knowledge first began,

  Studies with Care th’ Anatomy of Man; 25

  Sees Vertue, Vice, and Passions in their Cause,

  And Fame from Science, not from Fortune, draws.

  So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

  An Art, in London onely is a Trade.

  There haughty Dunces, whose unlearned Pen 30

  Could ne’er spell Grammar, would be reading Men.

  Such build their Poems the Lucretian way;

  So many Huddled Atoms make a Play,

  And if they hit in Order by some Chance,

  They call that Nature which is Ignorance. 35

  To such a Fame let mere Town-Wits aspire,

  And their gay Nonsense their own Citts admire.

  Our Poet, could he find Forgiveness here,

  Would wish it rather than a Plaudit there.

  He owns no Crown from those Prætorian Bands, 40

  But knows that Right is in this Senates Hands.

  Not impudent enough to hope your Praise,

  Low at the Muses Feet, his Wreath he lays,

  And, where he took it up, resigns his Bays.

  Kings make their Poets whom themselves think fit. 45

  But ’tis your Suffrage makes Authentique Wit.

  EPILOGUE

  Spoken by MR. HART.

  No poor Dutch Peasant, wing’d with all his Fear,

  Flies with more haste, when the French Arms draw near,

  Than we with our Poetique Train come down.

  For Refuge hither from th’ infected Town; 50

  Heaven for our Sins this Summer has thought fit

  To visit us with all the Plagues of Wit.

  A French Troop first swept all things in its way;

  But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay;

  Yet, to our Cost, in that short time, we find 55

  They left their Itch of Novelty behind.

  Th’ Italian Merry-Andrews took their place,

  And quite debauch’d the Stage with lewd Grimace:

  Instead of Wit and Humours, your Delight

  Was there to see two Hobby-horses fight, 60

  Stout Scaramoucha with Rush Lance rode in,

  And ran a Tilt at Centaure Arlequin.

  For Love you heard how amorous Asses bray’d,

  And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade.

  Nature was out of Countenance, and each Day 65

  Some new-born Monster shewn you for a Play.

  But when all fail’d, to strike the Stage quite dumb,

  Those wicked Engines, call’d Machines, are come.

  Thunder and Lightning now for Wit are play’d.

  And shortly Scenes in Lapland will be lay’d: 70

  Art Magique is for Poetry profest,

  And Cats and Dogs, and each obscener Beast

  To which Ægyptian Dotards once did bow,

  Upon our English
Stage are worshipp’d now.

  Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to Renown 75

  Macbeth, the Simon Magus of the town.

  Fletcher’s despis’d, your Johnson out of Fashion,

  And Wit the onely Drug in all the Nation.

  In this low Ebb our Wares to you are shown,

  By you those Staple Authours Worth is known; 80

  For Wit’s a Manufacture of your own.

  When you, who only can, their scenes have prais’d,

  We’ll boldly back, and say their Price is rais’d.

  Prologue and Epilogue. Spoken at the opening of the New House, March 26, 1674

  PROLOGUE.

  A PLAIN built House, after so long a stay,

  Will send you half unsatisfi’d away;

  When, fall’n from your expected Pomp, you find

  A bare convenience only is designed.

  You, who each Day can Theatres behold, 5

  Like Nero’s Palace, shining all with Gold,

  Our mean ungilded Stage will scorn, we fear,

  And for the homely Room, disdain the Chear.

  Yet now cheap Druggets to a Mode are grown,

  And a plain Suit (since we can make but one 10

  Is better than to be by tarnisht gawdry known.

  They, who are by your Favours wealthy made,

  With mighty Sums may carry on the Trade;

  We, broken Banquiers, half destroy’d by Fire,

  With our small Stock to humble Roofs retire; 15

  Pity our Loss, while you their Pomp admire.

  For Fame and Honour we no longer strive;

  We yield in both, and only beg to live;

  Unable to support their vast Expense,

  Who build and treat with such Magnificence, 20

  That, like th’ Ambitious Monarchs of the Age,

  They give the Law to our Provincial Stage.

  Great Neibours enviously promote Excess,

  While they impose their Splendor on the less;

  But only Fools, and they of vast Estate, 25

  Th’ extremity of Modes will imitate,

  The dangling Knee-fringe and the Bib-cravat.

  Yet if some Pride with want may be allow’d,

  We in our plainness may be justly proud;

  Our Royal Master will’d it should be so; 30

  Whate’er he’s pleased to own can need no show;

  That sacred Name gives Ornament and Grace;

  And, like his Stamp, makes basest Mettals pass.

  ‘Twere Folly now a stately Pile to raise,

  To build a Play-house, while you throw down Plays; 35

  Whilst Scenes, Machines, and empty Opera’s reign,

  And for the Pencil you the Pen disdain;

  While Troops of famish’d Frenchmen hither drive,