John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 67
And laugh at those upon whose Alms they live:
Old English Authors vanish, and give place 40
To these new Conqu’rors of the Norman Race.
More tamely than your Fathers you submit;
You’re now grown Vassals to ‘em in your Wit.
Mark, when they play, how our fine Fops advance
The Mighty Merits of these Men of France, 45
Keep time, cry Ben, and humour the Cadence.
Well, please your selves; but sure ’tis understood,
That French Machines have ne’er done England good.
I would not prophesie our Houses Fate;
But while vain Shows and Scenes you overrate, 50
’Tis to be feared ——
That, as a Fire the former House o’erthrew,
Machines and Tempests will destroy the new.
EPILOGUE
Though what our Prologue said was sadly true,
Yet, Gentlemen, our homely House is new, 55
A Charm that seldom fails with wicked you.
A Country Lip may have the Velvet touch:
Tho’ she’s no Lady, you may think her such:
A strong Imagination may do much.
But you, loud Sirs, who thro’ your Curls look big, 60
Criticks in plume and white vallancy Wig,
Who lolling on our foremost Benches sit,
And still charge first, (the true forlorn of Wit)
Whose favours, like the Sun, warm where you roul,
Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor Soul; 65
So may your Hats your Foretops never press,
Untouch’d your Ribbons, sacred be your Dress;
So may you slowly to old Age advance,
And have th’ Excuse of Youth for Ignorance;
So may Fop corner full of Noise remain, 70
And drive far off the dull, attentive Train;
So may your Midnight Scowrings happy prove,
And Morning Batt’ries force your way to love;
So may not France your Warlike Hands recal,
But leave you by each other’s Swords to fall, 75
As you come here to ruffle Vizard Punk,
When sober rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the Wits we can some Merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been said:
Our House relieves the Ladies from the frights 80
Of ill-pav’d Streets, and long dark Winter Nights;
The Flanders Horses from a cold bleak Road,
Where Bears in Furs dare scarcely look abroad;
The Audience from worn Plays and Fustian Stuff
Of Rhime, more nauseous than three Boys in Buff. 85
Though in their House the Poets Heads appear,
We hope we may presume their Wits are here.
The best which they reserv’d they now will play,
For, like kind Cuckcolds, tho’ w’ have not the way
To please, we’ll find you abler Men who may. 90
If they shou’d fail, for last Recruits we breed
A Troop of frisking Monsiers to succeed.
(You know the French sure Cards at time of need.)
Prologue and Epilogue to the University of Oxford
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by MR. HART.
POETS, your Subjects, have their Parts assign’d,
T’ unbend and to divert their Sov’reign’s Mind:
When, tyr’d with following Nature, you think fit
To seek repose in the cool shades of Wit,
And from the sweet Retreat, with Joy survey 5
What rests, and what is conquer’d, of the way.
Here, free your selves from Envy, Care, and Strife,
You view the various Turns of humane Life;
Safe in our Scene, through dangerous Courts you go,
And undebauch’d the Vice of Cities know. 10
Your Theories are here to Practice brought,
As in Mechanick Operations wrought;
And Man, the little World, before you set,
As once the Sphere of Chrystal Shew’d the Great.
Blest sure are you above all Mortal Kind, 15
If to your Fortunes you can suit your Mind;
Content to see, and shun, those ills we show,
And Crimes, on Theatres alone, to know.
With joy we bring what our dead Authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their Wit: 20
That Shakespear’s, Fletcher’s, and great Johnson’s Claim
May be renew’d from those who gave them Fame.
None of our living Poets dare appear;
For Muses so severe are worshipt here
That, conscious of their Faults, they shun the Eye, 25
And, as Prophane, from sacred Places fly,
Rather than see th’ offended God, and dye.
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, 30
The greatest Judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our Pit,
Debas’d even to the Level of their Wit;
Disdaining that which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their Applause must make. 35
But when to Praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like Eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your Knowledge all their Pow’r transcends,
As what should be beyond what Is, extends.
EPILOGUE
Spoken by MRS. MARSHALL.
Oft has our Poet wisht, this happy Seat 40
Might prove his fading Muses last Retreat:
I wonder’d at his Wish, but now I find
He sought for quiet, and content of mind;
Which noisefull Towns and Courts can never know,
And onely in the shades, like Laurels, grow. 45
Youth, e’er it sees the World, here studies Rest,
And Age, returning thence, concludes it best.
What wonder if we court that happiness,
Yearly to share, which hourly you possess;
Teaching ev’n you, while the vext World we show, 50
Your Peace to value more, and better know
’Tis all we can return for favours past,
Whose holy Memory shall ever last,
For Patronage from him whose care presides
O’er every noble Art, and every Science guides: 55
Bathurst, a name the learn’d with reverence know,
And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe;
Whose Age enjoys but what his Youth deserv’d,
To rule those Muses whom before he serv’d.
His Learning, and untainted Manners too, 60
We find (Athenians) are deriv’d to you;
Such Antient Hospitality there rests
In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian Breasts,
Whose kindness was Religion to their Guests.
Such Modesty did to our Sex appear, 65
As had there been no Laws we need not fear,
Since each of you was our Protector here.
Converse so chast, and so strict Vertue shown,
As might Apollo with the Muses own.
Till our return, we must despair to find 70
Judges so just, so knowing, and so kind.
Prologue and Epilogue to Aureng-Zebe
PROLOGUE.
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 its worse than what before he writ, 5
But he has now another taste of Wit;
And, to confess a Truth (though out of Time,)
Grows weary of his long-loved Mistris Rhyme.
Passion’
s too fierce to be in Fetters bound,
And Nature flies him like Enchanted Ground: 10
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 Shakespear’s sacred name:
Aw’d when he hears his Godlike Romans rage. 15
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.
As with the greater Dead he dares not strive,
He wou’d not match his Verse with those who live: 20
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, 25
He shou’d 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, Heav’n be prais’d, are here;
But Wit’s a Luxury you think too dear. 30
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 hous’d from Snow.
There needs no care to put a Play-house down, 35
’Tis the most desart place of all the Town:
We and our Neighbours, to speak proudly, are
Like Monarchs, ruin’d with expensive War;
While, like wise English, unconcern’d you sit,
And see us play the Tragedy of Wit. 40
EPILOGUE
A pretty task! and so I told the Fool,
Who needs would undertake to please by Rule:
He thought that, if his Characters were good,
The Scenes entire, and freed from noise and bloud;
The Action great, yet circumscrib’d by Time, 45
The Words not forc’d, but sliding into Rhime,
The Passions rais’d and calm’d by just Degrees,
As Tides are swell’d, and then retire to Seas;
He thought in hitting these his bus’ness done,
Though he perhaps has fail’d in ev’ry one: 50
But, after all, a Poet must confess,
His Art’s, like Physick, but a happy ghess.
Your Pleasure on your Fancy must depend:
The Lady’s pleas’d, just as she likes her Friend.
No Song! no Dance! no Show! he fears you’l say: 55
You love all naked Beauties, but a Play.
He much mistakes your methods to delight;
And, like the French, abhors our Target-fight:
But those damn’d Dogs can never be i’ th’ right.
True English hate your Monsieur’s paltry Arts, 60
For you are all Silk-weavers, in your hearts.
Bold Brittons, at a brave Bear-garden Fray,
Are rouz’d; and, clatt’ring Sticks, cry, Play, play, play.
Meantime, your filthy Forreigner will stare,
And mutter to himself, Ha gens Barbare! 65
And, Gad, ’tis well he mutters; well for him;
Our Butchers else would tear him limb from limb.
’Tis true, the time may come, your Sons may be
Infected with this French civility:
But this in After-ages will be done: 70
Our Poet writes a hundred years too soon.
This Age comes on too slow, or he too fast;
And early Springs are subject to a blast!
Who would excel, when few can make a Test
Betwixt indiff’rent Writing and the best? 75
For Favours cheap and common, who wou’d strive,
Which, like abandoned Prostitutes, you give?
Yet scatter’d here and there, I some behold,
Who can discern the Tinsel from the Gold:
To these he writes; and, if by them allow’d, 80
’Tis their Prerogative to rule the Crowd.
For he more fears (like a presuming Man)
Their Votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.
Epilogue to Calisto, or the Chaste Nymph
Intended to have been spoken by the LADY HENRIETTA MARIA WENTWORTH, when Calisto 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 us’d,
And would not be a God to be refus’d.
State grows uneasie when it hinders Love; 5
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 with-stand. 10
’Tis here that Sovereign Power admits dispute,
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Catoes, whatsoe’er they say,
Even while they frown and dictate Laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir, our bonds more easie make, 15
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. 20
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:
Peace, the loath’d 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 of your one God-like 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.
Epilogue to The Man of Mode, or Sir Fopling Flutter
MOST Modern Wits such monstrous Fools have shown,
They seem not of heav’ns making, but their own.
Those Nauseous Harlequins in Farce may pass;
But there goes more to a substantial Ass!
Something of man must be expos’d to View, 5
That, Gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a Fool so nicely writ,
The Ladies wou’d mistake him for a Wit;
And, when he sings, talks lowd, and cocks, wou’d cry,
I vow methinks he’s pretty Company! 10
So brisk, so gay, so travail’d, so refin’d!
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True Fops help Natures work, and go to school,
To file and finish god-A’mighty’s fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call; 15
He’s Knight o’ th’ Shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate’re he can,
Legion’s his name, a people in a Man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o’re you, like a Snow-ball growes. 20
His various Modes from various Fathers follow;
One taught the Toss, and one the new French Wallow;
His Sword-knot this, his Crevat this design’d;
And this the yard long Snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred Perriwig he gain’d, 25
Which Wind ne’er blew, nor touch of Hat prophan’d.
Another’s diving Bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he with full Decorum b
rings it back,
And rises with a Water Spaniel shake. 30
As for his Songs (the Ladies dear Delight)
Those sure he took from most of you who Write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear’d;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
Prologue to Circe
WERE you but half so wise as you’re severe,
Our youthfull Poet shou’d not need to fear;
To his green years your Censures you would suit,
Not blast the Blossom, but expect the Fruit.
The Sex that best does pleasure understand 5
Will alwayes chuse to err on t’ other hand.
They check not him that’s aukard in delight,
But clap the young Rogues Cheek, and set him right.
Thus heartn’d well, and flesh’t upon his Prey,
The youth may prove a man another day. 10
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
Did no Volpone, no Arbaces write;
But hopp’d about, and short Excursions made
From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid,
And each were guilty of some Slighted Maid. 15
Shakespear’s own Muse her Pericles first bore;
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore.
’Tis miracle to see a first good Play;
All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
A slender Poet must have time to grow, 20
And spread and burnish as his Brothers do.
Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is curst,
But no Man can be Falstaff-fat at first,
Then damn not, but indulge his stew’d Essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with Praise, 25
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.
Earlier version of Prologue to Circe
WERE you but half so wise as y’ are severe,
Our youthful Poet shou’d not need to fear;
To his green years your Censures you wou’d suit,
Not blast the Blossom, but expect the Fruit.
The Sex that best does pleasure understand 5
Will alwayes chuse to err on t’ other hand.
They check not him that’s Aukward in delight,
But clap the young Rogues Cheek, and set him right.
Thus heartn’d well, and flesh’t upon his Prey,
The youth may prove a man another day. 10
For your own sakes, instruct him when he’s out,
You’ll find him mend his work at every bout.
When some young lusty Thief is passing by,