John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  And, in the kind Remembrance of the Fair,

  On each exalted Son, bestowed a Star.

  For these good deeds, as by the date appears,

  His Godship flourish’d full Two thousand Years. 65

  At last, when He and all his Priests grew old,

  The Ladies grew in their devotion cold;

  And that false Worship would no longer hold.

  Severity of Life did next begin;

  (And always does, when we no more can Sin.) 70

  That Doctrine, too, so hard, in Practice, lyes,

  That the next Age may see another rise.

  Then, Pagan Gods may, once again, succeed;

  And Jove, or Mars, be ready, at our need,

  To get young Godlings; and, so, mend our breed. 75

  Prologue to Mistakes, or the False Report

  Enter Mr. BRIGHT.

  Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here’s no Prologue to be had to day; our New Play is like to come on, without a Frontispiece; as bald as one of you young Beaux without your Perriwig. I left our young Poet sniveling and sobbing behind the Scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceiv’d him.

  Enter Mr. BOWEN.

  Hold your prating to the Audience: Here’s honest Mr. Williams just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. He swears he is inspir’d with Claret, and will come on, and that Extempore too, either with a Prologue of his own, or something like one: O here he comes to his Tryal, at all Adventures; for my part, I wish him a good Deliverance.

  [Exeunt Mr. BRIGHT and Mr. BOWEN.

  Enter Mr. WILLIAMS.

  SAVE ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopefull way.

  I shou’d speak something, in Rhyme, now, for the Play:

  But the duce take me, if I know what to say!

  I’le stick to my Friend the Authour, that I can tell ye,

  To the last drop of Claret in my belly. 5

  So far I’me sure ’tis Rhyme — that needs no granting:

  And, if my verses feet stumble — you see my own are wanting.

  Our young Poet has brought a piece of work,

  In which though much of Art there does not lurk,

  It may hold out three days — And that’s as long as Cork. 10

  But, for this Play — (which, till I have done, we show not.)

  What may be its fortune — By the Lord — I know not.

  This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;

  ’Tis Innocent of all things — ev’n of Wit.

  He’s no high Flyer — he makes no sky Rockets, 15

  His Squibbs are only levell’d at your Pockets;

  And if his Crackers light among your pelf,

  You are blown-up; if not, then he’s blown-up himself.

  By this time, I’m something recover’d of my fluster’d madness:

  And, now, a word or two in sober sadness. 20

  Ours is a Common Play: and you pay down

  A common Harlots price — just half a Crown.

  You’l say, I play the Pimp on my Friends score;

  But since ’tis for a Friend, your gibes give o’re,

  For many a Mother has done that before. 25

  How’s this? you cry: an Actor write? — we know it;

  But Shakespear was an Actor, and a Poet

  Has not great Johnson’s learning often fail’d,

  But Shakespear’s greater Genius still prevail’d?

  Have not some writing Actors, in this Age 30

  Deserv’d and found Success upon the Stage?

  To tell the truth, when our old Wits are tir’d.

  Not one of us but means to be inspir’d.

  Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer;

  Peace and the Butt is all our bus’ness here; 35

  So much for that; — and the Devil take small beer.

  Prologue and Epilogue to King Arthur, or the British Worthy

  PROLOGUE TO THE OPERA

  Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

  SURE there’s a dearth of Wit in this dull Town,

  When silly Plays so savourly go down;

  As, when Clipp’d Money passes, ’tis a sign

  A Nation is not over-stock’d with Coin.

  Happy is he, who in his own Defence, 5

  Can write just level to your humble Sence;

  Who higher than your Pitch can never go;

  And doubtless, he must creep, who Writes below.

  So have I seen, in Hall of Knight, or Lord,

  A weak Arm throw on a long Shovel-Board; 10

  He barely lays his Piece, bar Rubs and Knocks,

  Secur’d by Weakness not to reach the Box.

  A feeble Poet will his Bus’ness do,

  Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:

  For, if you like your Selves, you like him too. 15

  An Ape his own Dear Image will embrace;

  An ugly Beau adores a Hatchet Face:

  So, some of you, on pure instinct of Nature,

  Are led, by Kind, t’ admire your fellow Creature.

  In fear of which, our House has sent this Day, 20

  T’ insure our New-Built-Vessel, call’d a Play;

  No sooner Nam’d, than one crys out, These Stagers

  Come in good time, to make more Work for Wagers.

  The Town divides, if it will take or no;

  The Courtiers Bet, the Cits, the Merchants too; 25

  A sign they have but little else to do.

  Betts at the first were Fool-Traps; where the Wise

  Like Spiders, lay in Ambush for the Flies;

  But now they’re grown a common Trade for all,

  And Actions by the News-Book Rise and Fall; 30

  Wits, Cheats, and Fops are free of Wager-Hall.

  One Policy as far as Lyons carries;

  Another, nearer home sets up for Paris.

  Our Betts, at last, wou’d ev’n to Rome extend,

  But that the Pope has proved our Trusty Friend. 35

  Indeed, it were a Bargain, worth our Money,

  Cou’d we insure another Ottobuoni.

  Among the rest there are a sharping Sett,

  That Pray for us, and yet against us Bett:

  Sure Heav’n it self is at a loss to know 40

  If these wou’d have their Pray’rs be heard, or no:

  For, in great Stakes, we piously suppose,

  Men Pray but very faintly they may lose.

  Leave off these Wagers; for, in Conscience Speaking,

  The City needs not your new Tricks for Breaking: 45

  And if you Gallants lose, to all appearing

  You’ll want an Equipage for Volunteering;

  While thus, no Spark of Honour left within ye,

  When you shou’d draw the Sword, you draw the Guinea.

  THE EPILOGUE

  Spoke by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

  I’ve had to-day a Dozen Billet-Doux 50

  From Fops, and Wits, and Cits, and Bow-street Beaux:

  Some from Whitehal, but from the Temple more:

  A Covent-Garden Porter brought me four.

  I have not yet read all: But, without feigning,

  We Maids can make shrewd Ghesses at your Meaning. 55

  What if, to shew your Styles, I read ‘em here?

  Me thinks I hear one cry, Oh Lord, forbear:

  No, Madam, no; by Heav’n, that’s too severe.

  Well then, be safe ——

  But swear henceforwards to renounce all Writing, 60

  And take this Solemn Oath of my inditing, —

  As you love Ease and hate Campaigns and Fighting.

  Yet, Faith, ’tis just to make some few Examples:

  What if I shew’d you one or two for Samples?

  Pulls one out.] Heres, one desires my Ladyship to meet 65

  At the kind Couch above in Bridges-Street.

  Oh Sharping Knave! That wou’d have you know what,

  For a Poor Sneaking Treat of Chocolat.

  Pulls out another.] Now, in the Name of
Luck, I’ll break this open,

  Because I Dreamt last Night I had a Token; 70

  The Superscription is exceeding pretty,

  To the Desire of all the Town and City.

  Now, Gallants, you must know, this precious Fop

  Is Foreman of a Haberdashers-Shop:

  One who devoutly cheats, demure in Carriage, 75

  And courts me to the Holy Bands of Marriage;

  But, with a Civil Inuendo too,

  My Overplus of Love shall be for you.

  Reads.] Madam, I swear your Looks are so Divine,

  When I set up, your Face shall be my Sign; 80

  Tho Times are hard — to show how I Adore you,

  Here’s my whole Heart, and half a Guinea for you.

  But, have a Care of Beaux; They’re false, my Honey;

  And, which is worse, have not one Rag of Money.

  See how Maliciously the Rogue would wrong ye! 85

  But I know better Things of some among ye.

  My wisest way will be to keep the Stage,

  And trust to the Good Nature of the Age:

  And he that likes the Musick and the Play

  Shall be my Favourite Gallant to-day. 90

  Prologue and Epilogue to Cleomenes, the Spartan Heroe

  PROLOGUE

  Spoken by Mr. MOUNTFORD.

  I THINK, or hope at least, the Coast is clear;

  That none but Men of Wit and Sense are here;

  That our Bear-Garden Friends are all away,

  Who bounce with Hands and Feet, and cry, Play, Play,

  Who, to save Coach-Hire, trudge along the Street, 5

  Then print our matted Seats with dirty Feet;

  Who, while we speak, make Love to Orange-Wenches,

  And between Acts stand strutting on the Benches:

  Where got a Cock-horse, making vile Grimaces,

  They to the Boxes show their Booby Faces. 10

  A Merry-Andrew such a Mob will serve,

  And treat ‘em with such Wit as they deserve:

  Let ‘em go people Ireland, where there’s need

  Of such new Planters, to repair the Breed;

  Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer, 15

  But have a Care of some French Privateer;

  For, if they should become the Prize of Battle,

  They’ll take ‘em, black and white, for Irish Cattle.

  Arise, true Judges, in your own Defence,

  Controul those Foplings, and declare for Sense: 20

  For, should the Fools prevail, they stop not there,

  But make their next Descent upon the Fair.

  Then rise, ye Fair; for it concerns you most,

  That Fools no longer should your Favours boast:

  ’Tis time you should renounce ‘em, for we find 25

  They plead a senseless Claim to Woman-kind:

  Such Squires are only fit for Country-Towns,

  To stink of Ale and dust a Stand with Clowns;

  Who, to be chosen for the Land’s Protectors,

  Tope and get drunk before their wise Electors. 30

  Let not Farce-Lovers your weak Choice upbraid,

  But turn ‘em over to the Chamber-maid.

  Or, if they come to see our Tragick Scenes,

  Instruct them what a Spartan Heroe means:

  Teach ‘em how manly Passions ought to move, 35

  For such as cannot Think can never Love;

  And, since they needs will judge the Poet’s Art,

  Point ‘em with Fescu’s to each shining part.

  Our Author hopes in you; but still in Pain,

  He fears your Charms will be employ’d in vain. 40

  You can make Fools of Wits, we find each Hour;

  But to make Wits of Fools is past your Pow’r.

  EPILOGUE

  Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

  This day, the Poet, bloodily inclin’d,

  Has made me die, full sore against my Mind!

  Some of you naughty Men, I fear, will cry, 45

  Poor Rogue! would I might teach thee how to die!

  Thanks for your Love; but I sincerely say,

  I never mean to die your wicked way.

  Well, since it is decreed all Flesh must go,

  (And I am Flesh, at least, for aught you know,) 50

  I first declare, I die with pious Mind,

  In perfect Charity with all Mankind.

  Next, for my Will: —— I have in my Dispose

  Some certain Moveables would please you Beaux;

  As, first, my Youth; for, as I have been told, 55

  Some of you, modish Sparks, are devilish old.

  My Chastity I need not leave among ye:

  For to suspect old Fops were much to wrong ye.

  You swear you’re Sinners; but for all your Haste,

  Your Misses shake their Heads, and find you chaste. 60

  I give my Courage to those bold Commanders,

  That stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders.

  I leave my Truth (to make his Plot more clear)

  To Mr. Fuller, when he next shall swear.

  I give my Judgment, craving all your Mercies, 65

  To those that leave good Plays, for damn’d dull Farces.

  My small Devotion let the Gallants share,

  That come to ogle us at Evening Pray’r.

  I give my Person —— let me well consider,

  Faith e’en to him that is the fairest Bidder; 70

  To some rich Hunks, if any be so bold

  To say those dreadful Words, To have and hold.

  But stay —— to give, and be bequeathing still,

  When I’m so poor, is just like Wickham’s Will:

  Like that notorious Cheat, vast Sums I give, 75

  Only that you may keep me while I live.

  Buy a good Bargain, Gallants, while you may;

  I’ll cost you but your Half-a-Crown a Day.

  Epilogue to Henry II, King of England, with the Death of Rosamond

  THUS you the sad Catastrophe have seen,

  Occasion’d by a Mistress and a Queen.

  Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;

  But English Manufacture got the Day.

  Jane Clifford was her Name, as Books aver: 5

  Fair Rosamond was but her Nom de Guerre.

  Now tell me, Gallants, wou’d you lead your Life

  With such a Mistress, or with such a Wife?

  If one must be your Choice, which d’ye approve,

  The Curtain-Lecture or the Curtain-Love? 10

  Wou’d ye be godly with perpetual Strife,

  Still drudging on with homely Joan your Wife,

  Or take your Pleasure in a wicked way,

  Like honest Whoring Harry in the Play?

  I guess your Minds; The Mistress wou’d be taking, 15

  And nauseous Matrimony sent a packing.

  The Devil’s in ye all; Mankind’s a Rogue,

  You love the Bride, but you detest the Clog:

  After a Year, poor Spouse is left i’ th’ lurch;

  And you, like Haynes, return to Mother-Church. 20

  Or, if the Name of Church comes cross your mind,

  Chapels of Ease behind our Scenes you find.

  The Play-house is a kind of Market-place;

  One chaffers for a Voice, another for a Face;

  Nay, some of you, I dare not say how many, 25

  Would buy of me a Pen’ worth for your Peny.

  Even this poor Face (which with my Fan I hide)

  Would make a shift my Portion to provide,

  With some small Perquisites I have beside.

  Though for your Love, perhaps, I should not care, 30

  I could not hate a Man that bids me fair.

  What might ensue, ’tis hard for me to tell;

  But I was drench’d to day for loving well,

  And fear the Poyson that would make me swell.

  Prologue and Epilogue to Love Triumphant, or Nature will P
revail

  PROLOGUE.

  Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

  AS, when some Treasurer lays down the Stick,

  Warrants are Sign’d for ready Mony thick,

  And many desperate Debentures paid,

  Which never had been, had his Lordship staid:

  So now, this Poet, who forsakes the Stage, 5

  Intends to gratifie the present Age.

  One Warrant shall be Sign’d for every Man;

  All shall be Wits that will; and Beaux that can:

  Provided still, this Warrant be not shown,

  And you be Wits but to your selves alone; 10

  Provided too; you rail at one another:

  For there’s no one Wit, will allow a Brother;

  Provided also; that you spare this Story,

  Damn all the Plays that e’re shall come before ye.

  If one by chance prove good in half a score, 15

  Let that one pay for all, and Damn it more.

  For if a good one scape among the Crew,

  And you continue Judging as you do,

  Every bad Play will hope for Damning too.

  You might Damn this, if it were worth your pains, 20

  Here’s nothing you will like; no fustian Scenes,

  And nothing too of — you know what he means.

  No double Entendrès, which you Sparks allow,

  To make the Ladies look — they know not how;

  Simply as ‘twere, and knowing both together, 25

  Seeming to fan their Faces in cold Weather.

  But here’s a Story, which no Books relate,

  Coin’d from our own Old Poet’s Addle-Pate.

  The Fable has a Moral too, if sought:

  But let that go; for, upon second Thought, 30

  He fears but few come hither to be Taught.

  Yet if you will be profited, you may;

  And he would Bribe you too, to like his Play.

  He Dies, at least to us, and to the Stage,

  And what he has he leaves this Noble Age. 35

  He leaves you, first, all Plays of his Inditing,

  The whole Estate which he has got by Writing.

  The Beaux may think this nothing but vain Praise;

  They’l find it something, the Testator says:

  For half their Love is made from scraps of Plays. 40

  To his worst Foes, he leaves his Honesty;

  That they may thrive upon’t as much as he.

  He leaves his Manners to the Roaring Boys,

  Who come in Drunk and fill the House with noise.

  He leaves to the dire Critiques of his Wit 45

  His Silence and Contempt of all they Writ.

  To Shakespear’s Critique he bequeaths the Curse,