by John Dryden
Whereas we cannot much lament our Loss,
Who neither carried back nor brought one Cross.
We look’d what Representatives wou’d bring,
But they help’d us, just as they did the King. 20
Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth
The Sybill’s Books to those who know their Worth;
And tho the first was Sacrific’d before,
These Volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our Poet bade us hope this Grace to find, 25
To whom by long Prescription you are kind.
He, whose undaunted Muse with Loyal Rage
Has never spar’d the Vices of the Age,
Here finding nothing that his Spleen can raise,
Is forced to turn his Satire into Praise. 30
Second Prologue to the University of Oxford
DISCORD and Plots, which have undone our Age,
With the same ruine have o’erwhelmed the Stage.
Our House has suffered in the common Woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch Rebels too.
Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed, 5
And of our Sisters all the kinder-hearted
To Edenborough gone, or coached or carted.
With bonny Blewcap there they act all night
For Scotch half-crown, in English Three-pence hight.
One Nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff’s lean, 10
There with her single Person fills the Scene.
Another, with long Use and Age decay’d,
Div’d here old Woman, and rose there a Maid.
Our trusty Door-keepers of former time
There strut and swagger in Heroique Rhyme. 15
Tack but a copper Lace to drugget Suit,
And there’s a Heroe made without Dispute;
And that which was a Capon’s tayl before
Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.
But all his Subjects, to express the Care 20
Of Imitation, go, like Indians, bare;
Lac’d Linen there would be a dangerous Thing;
It might perhaps a new Rebellion bring;
The Scot who wore it wou’d be chosen King.
But why should I these Renegades describe, 25
When you yourselves have seen a lewder Tribe?
Teag has been here, and to this learned Pit
With Irish Action slandered English Wit;
You have beheld such barbarous Macs appear
As merited a second Massacre; 30
Such as like Cain were branded with Disgrace,
And had their Country stampt upon their Face.
When Strollers durst presume to pick your purse,
We humbly thought our broken Troop not worse.
How ill soe’er our Action may deserve, 35
Oxford’s a place where Wit can never sterve.
Third Prologue to the University of Oxford
THO’ Actors cannot much of Learning boast,
Of all who want it, we admire it most:
We love the Praises of a learned Pit,
As we remotely are ally’d to Wit.
We speak our Poet’s Wit, and trade in Ore, 5
Like those who touch upon the Golden Shore;
Betwixt our Judges can distinction make,
Discern how much and why our Poems take;
Mark if the Fools, or Men of Sense, rejoice;
Whether th’ Applause be only Sound or Voice. 10
When our Fop Gallants, or our City Folly,
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:
We doubt that Scene which does their wonder raise,
And for their Ignorance contemn their Praise.
Judge then, if we who act and they who write 15
Shou’d not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grosly; but this nicer Pit
Examines, fathoms, all the Depths of Wit;
The ready Finger lays on every Blot;
Knows what shou’d justly please, and what shou’d not. 20
Nature her self lyes open to your view,
You judge by her what draught of her is true,
Where Out-lines false, and Colours seem too faint,
Where Bunglers dawb, and where true Poets Paint.
But by the sacred Genius of this Place, 25
By every Muse, by each Domestick Grace,
Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our Poets hither for Adoption come,
As Nations su’d to be made free of Rome: 30
Not in the suffragating Tribes to stand,
But in your utmost, last, Provincial Band.
If his Ambition may those Hopes pursue,
Who with Religion loves your Arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer Name shall be, 35
Than his own Mother University.
Thebes did his green unknowing Youth ingage,
He chuses Athens in his riper Age.
Prologue to The Unhappy Favourite
Spoken to the King and the Queen at Their Coming to the House
WHEN first the Ark was landed on the Shore,
And Heav’n had vowed to curse the Ground no more,
When Tops of Hills the longing Patriark saw,
And the new Scene of Earth began to draw,
The Dove was sent to View the Waves Decrease, 5
And first brought back to Man the Pledge of Peace.
’Tis needless to apply, when those appear
Who bring the Olive, and who Plant it here.
We have before our Eyes the Royal Dove,
Still Innocence is Harbinger to Love. 10
The Ark is open’d to dismiss the Train,
And people with a better Race the Plain.
Tell me, you Pow’rs, why should vain Man pursue
With endless Toyl each object that is new,
And for the seeming Substance leave the true? 15
Why should he quit for Hopes his certain good,
And loath the Manna of his daily food?
Must England still the Scene of Changes be,
Tost and Tempestuous like our Ambient Sea?
Must still our Weather and our Wills agree? 20
Without our Blood our Liberties we have;
Who that is Free would fight to be a Slave?
Or what can Wars to after Times Assure,
Of which our Present Age is not secure?
All that our Monarch would for us Ordain 25
Is but t’ injoy the Blessings of his Reign.
Our Land’s an Eden and the Main’s our Fence,
While we preserve our State of Innocence:
That lost, then Beasts their Bruital Force employ,
And first their Lord and then themselves destroy. 30
What Civil Broils have cost we knew too well;
Oh! let it be enough that once we fell,
And every Heart conspire, with every Tongue,
Still to have such a King, and this King Long.
Epilogue to The Unhappy Favourite, or the Earl of Essex
WE act by Fits and Starts, like drowning Men,
But just peep up, and then Dop down again.
Let those who call us Wicked change their Sence,
For never Men liv’d more on Providence.
Not Lott’ry Cavaliers are half so poor, 5
Nor Broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore;
Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents
Of the three last ungiving Parliaments;
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could Divine,
He might have spar’d his Dream of Seven lean Kine, 10
And chang’d his Vision for the Muses Nine.
The Comet which, they say, portends a Dearth
Was but a Vapour drawn from Play-house Earth,
Pent there since our last Fire, and Lilly sayes,
Foreshows our change of State and t
hin Third-dayes. 15
’Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,
For then the Printers Press would suffer more.
Their Pamphleteers each Day their Venom spit;
They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid 20
Four Farthings out to buy the Hatfield Maid?
Or, what is duller yet and more does spite us,
Democritus his Wars with Heraclitus?
These are the Authors that have run us down,
And Exercise you Critticks of the Town. 25
Yet these are Pearls to your Lampooning Rhimes,
Y’ abuse your selves more dully than the Times.
Scandal, the Glory of the English Nation,
Is worn to Raggs, and Scribled out of Fashion;
Such harmless Thrusts as if like Fencers Wise, 30
You had agreed your Play before their Prize.
Faith, you may hang your Harps upon the Willows,
’Tis just like Children when they box with Pillows.
Then put an end to Civil Wars for shame,
Let each Knight Errant who has wrong’d a Dame 35
Throw down his Pen and give her if he can,
The satisfaction of a Gentleman.
Prologue to his Royal Highness upon his first appearance at the Duke’s Theatre since his Return from Scotland
IN those cold Regions which no Summers chear,
When brooding darkness covers half the year,
To hollow Caves the shivering Natives go,
Bears range abroad and hunt in tracks of Snow;
But when the tedious Twilight wears away 5
And Stars grow paler at the approach of Day,
The longing crowds to frozen Mountains run,
Happy who first can see the glimmering Sun;
The surly Salvage Off-spring disappear;
And curse the bright Successor of the Year. 10
Yet though rough Bears in covert seek defence,
White Foxes stay with seeming Innocence;
That crafty kind with day-light can dispense.
Still we are throng’d so full with Reynard’s race
That Loyal Subjects scarce can find a place: 15
Thus modest Truth is cast behind the Crowd,
Truth speaks too Low, Hypocrisie too Loud.
Let them be first to flatter in success;
Duty can stay, but Guilt has need to press.
Once, when true Zeal the Sons of God did call, 20
To make their solemn show at Heaven’s White-hall,
The fawning Devil appear’d among the rest
And made as good a Courtier as the best.
The friends of Job, who rail’d at him before,
Came Cap in hand when he had three times more. 25
Yet, late Repentance may perhaps be true;
Kings can forgive, if Rebels can but sue.
A Tyrant’s Pow’r in rigour is exprest:
The Father yearns in the true Prince’s breast.
We grant an Ore’grown Whig no grace can mend, 30
But most are Babes that know not they offend.
The Crowd, to restless motion still enclin’d,
Are clouds that rack according to the wind.
Driv’n by their Chiefs, they storms of Hail-stones pour,
Then mourn, and soften to a silent showre. 35
O welcome to this much offending land
The Prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus Angels on glad messages appear;
Their first Salute commands us not to fear:
Thus Heav’n, that cou’d constrain us to obey, 40
(With rev’rence if we might presume to say,)
Seems to relax the rights of Sov’reign sway,
Permits to Man the choice of Good and Ill,
And makes us Happy by our own Free-will.
Prologue to the Duchess on her Return from Scotland
WHEN factious Rage to cruel Exile drove
The Queen of Beauty, and the Court of Love,
The Muses droop’d with their forsaken Arts,
And the sad Cupids broke their useless Darts.
Our fruitful Plains to Wilds and Deserts turn’d, 5
Like Eden’s Face when banish’d Man it mourned:
Love was no more when Loyalty was gone,
The great Supporter of his awful Throne.
Love could no longer after Beauty stay,
But wander’d northward to the Verge of Day, 10
As if the Sun and he had lost their Way.
But now the illustrious Nymph, return’d again,
Brings every Grace triumphant in her Train:
The wondering Nereids, though they rais’d no Storm,
Foreslow’d her Passage to behold her Form; 15
Some cried a Venus, some a Thetis past,
But this was not so fair nor that so chaste.
Far from her Sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride,
And Envy did but look on her, and died.
Whate’er we suffer’d from our sullen Fate, 20
Her Sight is purchased at an easy rate:
Three gloomy Years against this Day were set,
But this one mighty Sum has clear’d the debt.
Like Joseph’s Dream, but with a better Doom;
The Famine past, the Plenty still to come. 25
For her the weeping Heavens become serene,
For her the Ground is clad in cheerful green,
For her the Nightingales are taught to sing,
And Nature has for her delay’d the Spring.
The Muse resumes her long-forgotten Lays, 30
And Love, restor’d, his ancient Realm surveys,
Recalls our Beauties and revives our Plays;
His waste Dominions peoples once again,
And from her Presence dates his second Reign.
But awful Charms on her fair Forehead sit, 35
Dispensing what she never will admit;
Pleasing yet cold, like Cynthia’s silver Beam,
The People’s Wonder and the Poet’s Theme.
Distemper’d Zeal, Sedition, canker’d Hate
No more shall vex the Church and tear the State; 40
No more shall Faction civil Discords move,
Or only Discords of too tender Love:
Discord like that of Music’s various Parts,
Discord that makes the Harmony of Hearts,
Discord that only this Dispute shall bring, 45
Who best shall love the Duke and serve the King.
Prologue and Epilogues to The Loyal Brother, or the Persian Prince
PROLOGUE.
POETS, like Lawful Monarchs, rul’d the Stage,
Till Criticks, like Damn’d Whiggs, debauch’d our Age.
Mark how they jump; Criticks wou’d regulate
Our Theatres, and Whiggs reform our State;
Both pretend love, and both (Plague rot ‘em) hate. 5
The Critick humbly seems Advice to bring,
The fawning Whigg Petitions to the King;
But ones Advice into a Satyr slides,
T’ other’s Petition a Remonstrance hides.
These will no Taxes give, and those no Pence; 10
Criticks wou’d starve the Poet, Whiggs the Prince.
The critick all our Troops of friends discards;
Just so the Whigg wou’d fain pull down the Guards.
Guards are illegal that drive foes away,
As watchful Shepherds that fright beasts of prey. 15
Kings who Disband such needless Aids as these
Are safe — as long as e’re their Subjects please;
And that would be till next Queen Besses night,
Which thus grave penny Chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmond-berry first, in woful wise 20
Leads up the show, and Milks their Maudlin Eyes.
There’s not a Butcher’s Wif
e but Dribs her part,
And pities the poor Pageant from her heart;
Who, to provoke Revenge, rides round the Fire,
And with a civil congee does retire: 25
But guiltless blood to ground must never fall:
There’s Antichrist behind, to pay for all.
The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears,
A lewd Old Gentleman of seventy years;
Whose Age in vain our Mercy wou’d implore, 30
For few take Pity on an Old-cast Whore.
The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;
Sits cheek by jowl in black to chear his heart,
Like Thief and Parson in a Tiburn-Cart.
The word is given, and with a loud Huzzaw 35
The Miter’d Moppet from his Chair they draw:
On the slain Corps contending Nations fall:
Alas, what’s one poor Pope among ‘em all!
He burns; now all true hearts your Triumphs ring,
And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King. 40
A needful Cry in midst of such Alarms,
When Forty thousand Men are up in Arms.
But after he’s once sav’d, to make amends,
In each succeeding Health they Damn his Friends:
So God begins, but still the Devil ends. 45
What if some one inspir’d with Zeal shou’d call,
Come, let’s go cry, God save him at White-hall?
His best Friends wou’d not like this overcare,
Or think him e’re the safer for that pray’r.
Five praying Saints are by an Act allow’d, 50
But not the whole Church-Militant in crowd;
Yet, should Heav’n all the true Petitions drain
Of Presbyterians who wou’d Kings maintain,
Of Forty thousand five wou’d scare remain.
EPILOGUE
A Virgin Poet was serv’d up to day, 55
Who till this Hour ne’re cackl’d for a Play.
He’s neither yet a Whigg nor Tory-Boy,
But, like a Girl, whom several wou’d enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural Toy.
Were I to play my callow Author’s game, 60
The King’s House wou’d instruct me by the Name:
There’s Loyalty to one; I wish no more;
A Commonwealth sounds like a common Whore.
Let Husband or Gallant be what they will,
One part of Woman is true Tory still. 65
If any factious spirit should rebell,
Our Sex with ease can every rising quell.
Then, as you hope we shou’d your failings hide,
An honest Jury for our play provide.
Whiggs at their Poets never take offence; 70
