But one Sir Topaz drefs'd with art,
And, if a fhape could win a heart,

He had a shape to win.
Edwin, if right I read my song,
With flighted paffion pac'd along
All in the moony light;
'Twas near an old inchanted court,
Where fportive fairies made refort,

To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was crofs'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was loft

That reach'd the neighbour town;
With weary steps he quits the fhades,
Refolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.
But fcant he lays him on the floor,
When hellow winds remove the door,
A trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once an hundred tapers light

On all the walls around.
Now founding tongues affail his ear,
Now founding feet approachen near,
And now the founds increase:
And from the corner where he lay,
He fees a train profufely gay

Come prankling o'er the place.
But (trust me, gentles!) never yet
Was dight a mafquing half fo neat,
Or half fo rich, before;
The country lent the fweet perfumes,
The fea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its filken ftore.
Now, whilst he gaz'd, a gallant, drest
In flaunting robes above the reft,

With awful accent cried:
What mortal, of a wretched mind,
Whofe fighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here prefum'd to hide?

At this the fwain, whofe vent'rous foul No fears of magic art controul,

Advanc'd in open fight; "Nor have I caufe of dread," he faid, "Who view, by no prefumption led,

Your revels of the night. 'Twas grief, for fcorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove Amid the nightly dew." "Tis well, the gallant cries again, We fairies never injure men

Who dare to tell us true.

Exalt thy love-dejected heart ;
Be mine the task, or ere we part,
To make thee grief refign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce;
Whilft I with Mab, my partner, daunce,
Be little Mable thine."

He fpoke, and, all a fudden, there
Light mufic floats in wanton air;

The Monarch leads the Queen :
The reft their fairic partners found:
And Mable trimly tript the ground,
With Edwin of the green.
The dauncing paft, the board was laid,
And fiker fuch a feaft was made

As heart and lip defire :
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glaffes with a wish come nigh,
And with a with retire.

But now, to please the fairie king,
Full ev'ry deal they laugh and fing,
And antic feats devife;

Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other-fome transmute their shape
In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.

Till one, at laft, that Robin hight, Renown'd for pinching maids by night, Has bent him up aloof;

And full against the beam he flung, Where by the back the youth he hung, To fprawl unneath the roof.

From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries, "And let it fairly now fuffice

The gambol has been fhewn."
But Oberon anfwers with a fmile,
Content thee, Edwin, for awhile,

The vantage is thine own.
Here ended all the phantom play;
They finelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind, that bore the crowd,
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
Then, fcreaming, all at once they fly,
And all at once the tapers die;

Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his ftate, and dark the place,
Was never wight in fuch a cafe
Thro' all the land before.
But, foon as dan Apollo rofe,
Full jolly creature home he goes,

He feels his back the lets;
His honeft tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,

Which made him want fuccefs.
With lufty livelyhed he talks,
He feems a dauncing as he walks;
His ftory foon took wind;
And beauteous Edith fees the youth
Endow'd with courage, fenfe, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.
The ftory told, Sir Topaz mov'd,
The youth of Edith erst approv'd,

To fee the revel scene:

At clofe of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.
As there he bides, it fo befel,
The wind came ruftling down a deil,
A fhaking feiz'd the wall:
Up fprung the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And mufic fills the hall.
But, certes, forely funk with woe
Sir Topaz fees the Elphin fhow,

His fpirits in him die;
When Oberon cries, "A man is near;
A mortal paffion, cleeped fear,

Hangs flagging in the sky."

With

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents falt'ring, ay for ruth,

Intreats them pity graunt;
For als he been a mifter wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night

To tread the circled haunt.
Ah, lofel vile !" at once they roar,
"And little skill'd of fairie lore,

Thy caufe to come we know:
Now has thy keftrell courage fell;
And fairies, fince a lye you tell,

Are free to work thee woe."
Then Will, who bears the wifpy fire
To trail the fwains among the mire,
The captive upward flung:
There, like a tortoife in a fhop,
He dangled from the chamber top,

Where whilom Edwin hung.
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frifk it o'er the place,

They fit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while, Till all the rout retreat.

By this the stars began to wink,
They fhriek, they fly, the tapers fink,
And down ydrops the knight:
For never fpell by fairie laid
With ftrong enchantment bound a glade
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay,
Till up the welkin rofe the day,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er:

But wot ye well his harder lot;
His feely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin loft afore.
This tale a Sybil nurse ared;
She foftly ftroak'd my youngling head;
And when the tale was done,
"Thus fome are born, my fon," the cries,
"With base impediments, to rise,

And fome are born with none.
But virtue can itself advance
To what the fav'rite fools of chance
By Fortune feem'd defign'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself thake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind."

THOMSON.

§ 130. Song.
FOR ever, Fortune! wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part?
Bid us figh on from day to day,
And with, and with the foul away,
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of love is gone?
But bufy, bufy still art thou,
To bind the loveless joylefs vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune! hear my pray's,
And I abfolve thy future care;
All other bleffings I refign,

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

§1. Epilogue to a Woman kill'd with Kindness, 1617.

AN honeft crew, difpofed to be merry,

Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine: The drawer brought it (fmiling like a cherry) And told them it was pleafant, neat, and fine. Tafte it, quoth one; he did: O, fie! (quoth he) This wine was good; now 't runs too near the Ice.

Another fipp'd, to give the wine his due,

And faid unto the reft, it drank too flat; The third faid, it was old; the fourth, too new; Nay, quoth the fifth, the sharpness likes me not. Thus, gentlemen, you fee how in one hour The wine was new, old, flat, fharp, sweet,

and four.

Unto this wine do we allude our play;
Which fome will judge too trivial, fome too grave:
You, as our guests, we entertain this day,

And bid you welcome to the best we have.

Excufe us then; good wine may be difgrac When ev'ry fev'ral mouth hath fundry taite.

§ 2. Prologue to the Unfortunate Lovers, Sykes at Black-Friars, 1643. DAVENANT

WERE you but half fo humble to confels,

As you are wife to know your happiness;
Our author would not grieve to fee you fit
Ruling with fuch unqueftion'd pow'r his wit:
What would I give, that I could still preferve
My loyalty to him, and yet deferve
Your kind opinion, by revealing now
The caufe of that great ftorm which clouds his
brow,

And his clofe murmurs, which, fince meant to you,
I cannot think or mannerly or true!
Well; I begin to be refolv'd, and let
My melancholic tragic Monfieur fret;
Let him the fev'ral harmless weapons ufe
Of that all-daring trifle, call'd his Mufe;

Nay, what's yet worse, t kill me in the prime
Of Eafter-term, in tart and cheesecake time!
I'll fit the fop; for I'll not one word fay,
T'excufe his godly, out-of-fathion play;
A play which if you dare but twice fit out,
You'll all be flander'd, and be thought devout.
But farewel, gentlemen; inake hafte to me;
I'm fure ere long to have, your company.
As for my epitaph, when I am gone,
I'll truft no poet, but will write my own.

Here Nelly lies, who tho' fhe liv'd a flattern,
Yet died a princefs, acting in St. Cath'rine †

}

6. Prologue to Alcibiades; 1675. OTWAY.
NEVER did rhymer greater hazard's run,
'Mongft us by your feverity undone :
Tho' wc, alas! to oblige ye have done moft,
And bought ye pleasures at our own fad cost,
Yet all our beft endeavours have been loft.
So oft a statesman, lab'ring to be good,
His honefty's for treafon understood.
Whilft fome falfe, flattering minion of the court,
Shall play the traitor, and be honour'd for't.
To you, known judges of what's fenfe and wit,
Our author fwears he gladly will submit :
But there's a fort of things infeft the pit,
That would be witty spite of nature too,
And to be thought fo, haunt and pefter you.
Hither fometimes thofe would-be-wits repair,
In quest of you; where if
you don't appear,
Cries one-Pugh! D-n me, what do we do
here?

Straight up he starts, his garniture then puts
In order, fo he cocks, and out he ftruts
To th' coffee-houfe, where he about him looks:
Spies friend; cries, Jack-I've been to-night at
th' Duke's:

The filly rogues are all undone, my dear,
I gad! not one of fenfe that I faw there.
Thus to himself he'd reputation gather
Of wit, and good acquaintance, but has neither.
Wir has indeed a ftranger been, of late,
'Mongft its pretenders nought fo ftrange as that.
Both houfes too, fo long a fast have known,
That coarfeft nonfenfe goes moft glibly down.
Thus though this trifier never wrote before,
Yet faith he ventur'd on the common fcore:
Since nonfenfe is fo generally allow'd,

The action great, yet circumfcrib'd by time,
The words not forc'd, but fliding into rhyme,
The paffions rais'd and calm'd by juft degrees,
As tides are fwell'd, and then retire to feas;
He thought in hinting these his bus’nefs done,
Though he, perhaps, has fail'd in ev'ry one.
But, after all, a poet must confefs,
His art's like phyfic, but a happy guess.
Your pleasure on your fancy muft depend;
The lady's pleas'd, just as the likes her friend.
No fong! no dance! no show! he fears you'll fax,
You love all naked beauties, but a play.
He much mistakes your methods to delight,
And, like the French, abhors our target fight:
But thofe damn'd dogs can never be i' th'
right.

True English hate your Monfieurs' paltry arts;
For you are all filk-weavers in your hearts."
Bold Britons, at a brave bear-garden fray
Are rous'd; and clatt'ring sticks, cry, Play, play,
play!

Mean time, your fribbling foreigner will ftare,
And mutter to himself, db, gens barbare!
And, 'gad, 'tis well he mutters, well for him;
Our butchers elfe would tear him limb from
limb.

'Tis true, the time may come, your fons may be
Infected with this French civility:
But this in after ages will be done;
Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.
This age comes on too flow, or he too faft;
And early fprings are subject to a blast!
Who would excel, when few can make a teft
Betwixt indifferent writing and the beft.
For favours cheap and common who would
ftrive,

Which, like abandon'd proftitutes, you give?
Yet fcatter'd here and there I fome behold,
Who can difcern the tinfel from the gold;
To these he writes; and, if by them allow'd,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd;
For he more fears (like a prefuming man)
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs whe

can.

When conventicling is fo much in fathion.
And yet-

That mutinous tribe lefs factions do beget,
Than your
continual differing in wit.
Your judgment (as your paffion)'s a difcafe;
Nor Mufe nor Mifs your appetite can please;
You 're grown as nice as queafy confciences,
Whofe each convulfion, when the fpirit moves,
Damns every thing that maggot difapproves.

Alluding to the rivalry of

With

With canting rule you would the stage refine,
And to dull method all our fenfe contine.
With th infolence of commonwealths you rule,
Where each gay fop, and politic brave fool,
On monarch Wit impofe without controul.
As for the laft, who seldom fees a play,
Unless it be the old Black-Friars way,
Shaking his empty noddle o'er Bamboo,
He cries, Good faith, these plays will never do.
Ah, Sir in my young days, what lofty wit,
What high-ftrain'd fcenes of fighting there were
writ!

These are flight airy toys. But tell me, pray,
What has the Houfe of Commons done to-day?
Then fhews his politics, to let you see,
Of ftate affairs he'll judge as notably
As he can do of wit and poetry.

The Cry

younger sparks, who hither do refort,

Pox o' your gentle things! give us more sport;
Damme I'm fure 'twill never please the court.

Such fops are never pleas'd, unless the play
Be ftuff'd with fools, as brisk and dull as they ;
Such might the half-crown fpare, and in a glafs
At home behold a more accomplish'd afs;
Where they may fet their cravats, wigs, and faces,
And practice all their buffoon'ry grimaces-
See how this huff becomes-this damme ftare,
Which they at home may act, because they dare;
But muft with prudent caution do elsewhere.
O, that our Nokes. or Tony Lee, could fhew
A fop but half fo much to th' life as you!

§ 9. Epilogue to The Round-Heads, or The
Good Old Caufe; 1682. Spoken by Lady
Defbro'.
Mrs. BEHN.
THE vizor's off, and now I dare appear
High for the royal caufe, en cavalier ;
Tho' once as true a whig as most of you,
Could cant and lye, preach, and diffemble too:
So far you drew me in; but faith I'll be
Reveng'd on you, for thus debauching me :
Some of your pious cheats I'll open lay,
That lead your ignoramus flock aftray;
For fince I cannot fight, I will not fail
To exercise my talent-that's to rail.
Ye race of hypocrites, whofe cloak of zeal
Covers the knave that cants for commonweal,
All laws, the church, and state to ruin brings,
And impudently fets a rule on kings :
Ruin, deftroy, all's good that you decree,
By your infallible prefbytery;

Profperous at firft, in ills you grew so vain,
You thought to play the old game o'er again;
And thus the cheat was put upon the nation,
First with long parliaments, next reformation,
And now you hop'd to make a new invafion:
And when you can't prevail by open force,
To cunning tickling tricks you have recourse,
And raise fedition forth without remorse.
"Confound thefe curfed Tories," then they cry,
[In a preaching tone.
"Those fools, thofe loyal pimps to monarchy,

"Thofe that exclude the faints, yet ope the doos “To introduce the Babylonian Whore ! "By facred Oliver, the nation's mad! "Beloved, 'twas not fo when he was head: "But then, as I have faid it oft before ye, "A Cavalier was but a type of Tory. "The curs then durft not bark, but all the breed "Is much increas'd fince that good man is "dead:

"Yet then they rail'd against the Good Old "Cause,

66

"Rail'd foolishly for loyalty and laws; "But when the faints had put them to a stand, "We left them loyalty, and took their land; Yea, and the pious work of reformation "Rewarded was with plunder, fequestration." Thus cant the faithful; nay they're so uncivil, To pray us harmless prayers to the devil. When this is all th' exception they can make, They damn us for our glorious mafter's fake, But why 'gainst us do you unjustly arm? Our finall religion fure can do no harm: Or if it do, fince that's the only thing, We will reform, when you are true to th' king.

§ 10. Epilogue to the Lancashire Witches; 1682. Spoken by Mrs. Barry and Teague.

SHADWELL.

To keep a peevish crazy lover's heart.
His aukward limbs, forgetful of delights,
Must be urg'd on by tricks and painful nights
Which the poor creature is content to bear,
Fine mentuas and new petticoats to wear.
And, Sirs, your fickly appetites to raise,
The ftarving players try a thousand
You had a Spanish Friar of intrigue,
And now we have prefented you a Teague,
Which with much coft from Ireland we have got:
If he be dull, e'en hang him for the plot.
Teague. Now have a care; for by my fhoul's
fhaulvaation,

Difh vill offend a party in de nation.

ways:

Mrs. Barry. They that are angry must be very beafts;

For all religions laugh at foolish priests. Teague. By Creefht, I fwear, de poet has undone me;

Some fimple Tory will make beat upon me. Mrs. Barry. Good Proteftants, I hope you will not fee

A martyr made of our poor Tony Lee.
Our popes and friars on one fide attend,
And yet, alas! the city's not our friend :
The city neither like us nor our wit;
They fay their wives learn ogling in the pit:
They're from the boxes taught to make ad-