ELEGANT EXTRACTS.

POETICAL.

BOOK THE SEVENTH.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

A honest crew, disposed to be merry wine: And his close murmurs, which, since meant

And trace the winding scenes; taught you t' The silly rogues are all undone, my dear,
admit
[wit. I'gad, not one of sense that I saw there."
What was true sense, not what did sound like Thus to himself he'd reputation gather
Thus they have arm'd you 'gainst themselves
to fight,
[write.
Made strong and mischievous from what they
You have been lately highly feasted here,
With two great wits,* that grac'd our theatre.
But, if to feed you often with delight
Will more corrupt, than mend, your appetite;
He vows to use you, which he much abhors,
As others did your homely ancestors.

Of wit, and good acquaintance, but has neither.
Wit has, indeed, a stranger been, of late;
'Mongst its pretenders,nought so strange as that.
Both houses, too, so long a fast have known,
That coarsest nonsense goes most glibly down.
Thus, though this trifler never wrote before,
Yet, faith, he ventured on the common score:
Since nonsense is so generally allow'd,
He hopes that this may pass amongst the crowd.

3. Epilogue to the Cutter of Coleman-§ 5. Epilogue to Aurengzebe. 1676. DRyden.
Street, spoken by the Person who acted Cut-
ter. 1656. COWLEY.

METHINKS a vision bids me silence break,
[Without his Peruke.
And some words to this congregation speak;
So great and gay a one I ne'er did meet
At the fifth monarch's court in Coleman-Street;
But yet I wonder much not to espy a
Brother in all this court, call'd Zephaniah.
Bless me! what are we ? what may this place be?
For I begin my vision now to see,
That this is a mere theatre-Well then,
If 't be e'en so, I'll Cutter be again.

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
blood,

The action great, yet circumscrib'd by time,
The words not forc'd, but sliding into rhymne,
The passions rais'd and calm'd by just degrees,
As tides are swell'd, and then retire to seas;
He thought in hinting these his bus'ness done,
Though he, perhaps, has fail'd in ev'ry one.
But, after all, a poet must confess,

His art's like physic, but a happy guess.
[Puts on his Peruke. Your pleasure on your fancy must depend;

Not Cutter the pretended cavalier;
For, to confess ingenuously here

To you,

who always of that party were,
I never was of any; up and down
I roll'd, a very rake-hell of this town.
But now my follies and my faults are ended,
My fortune and my mind are both amended;
And, if we may believe one who has fail'd before,
Our author says he'll mend—that is, he'll

write no more.

4. Prologue to Alcibiades. 1675. OTWAY.

NEVER did rhymer greater hazards run,
'Mongst us by your severity undone;
Though we, alas! to oblige ye, have done most,
And bought ye pleasures at our own sad cost;
Yet all our best endeavors have been lost.
So oft a statesman lab'ring to be good,
His honesty's for treason understood;
Whilst some false, flattering minion of the court
Shall play the traitor, and be honor'd for't.
To you, known judges of what's sense and wit,
Our author swears he gladly will submit ;
But there's a sort of things infest the pit,
That would be witty spite of nature too,
And, to be thought so, haunt and pester you.
Hither, sometimes, those 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, so he cocks, and out he struts
To the coffee-house, where he about him looks;
Spies friend; cries, "Jack-I've been to-night|
at th' Duke's;

* Beaumont and Fletcher.

The lady's pleas'd, just as she likes her friend.
No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll
say,

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 Monsieurs' paltry arts;
For you are all silk-weaverst 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 stare,
And mutter to himself, "Ah, gens barbare!"
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;
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 indifferent writing and the best?
For favors cheap and common who would strive,
Which, like abandon'd prostitutes, you give?
Yet, scatter'd here and there, some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel 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 presuming man)
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs

who can.

† Alluding to the rivalry of the Spitalfields manufactures with those of France.

$6. Epilogue to the Duke of Guise. 1683.
Spoken by Mrs. Cook. DRYDEN.
MUCH time and trouble this poor play has cost,
And, 'faith, I doubted once the cause was lost.
Yet no one man was meant, nor great nor
small;

Our poets, like frank gamesters,* threw at all.
They took no single aim-

But, like bold boys, true to their prince and
hearty,

Huzza'd, and fir'd broadsides at the whole party.
Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right,
In battle every man is bound to fight:
For what should hinder me to sell my skin
Dear as I could, if once my heart were in?
Se defendendo never was a sin.

'Tis a fine world, my masters-right or wrong,
The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their
tongue.

They must do all they can

Grave, solemn things, (as graces are to feasts,)
Where poets begg'd a blessing from their guests.
But now no more like suppliants we come!
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum.
Arm'd with keen satire, and with pointed wit,
We threaten you, who do for judges sit,
To save our plays; or else we'll damn your pit.
But, for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We've a young author, and his first-born play:
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He's very civil, and entreats your favor.
Not but the man has malice, would he show it:
But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet;
You think that strange: no matter; he'll out
grow it.

Well, I'm his advocate: by me he prays you,
(I don't know whether I shall speak to please
you,)

He prays-O, bless me! what shall I do now?
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how!
And 'twas the prettiest prologue, as he wrote it :
Well, the deuce take me, if I ha'n't forgot it

But we, forsooth, must bear a Christian mind,
And fight like boys with one hand tied behind:
Nay, and when one boy's down,'twere wondrous, Lord! for Heaven's sake excuse the play

wise

To cry," Box fair, and give him time to rise!"
When fortune favors, none but fools will dally:
Would any of you, sparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipp'd you th' inviting wink, stand, “Shall I,
shall I ?"

A trimmer cried, (that heard me tell the story,)
"Fie, Mistress Cook! 'faith, you're too rank a
Tory!
[cases;
Wish not Whigs hang'd, but pity their hard
You women love to see men make wry faces."
Pray, sir," said I, "don't think me such a
Jew;

I say no more, but give the devil his due."
"Lenitives," says he, "best suit with our con-
dition."
[cian."
"Jack Ketch," says I, "'s an excellent physi-
"I love no blood." "Nor I, sir, as I breathe;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of death."
"We trimmers are for holding all things even."
Yes, just like him that hung 'twixt hell and
heaven."

"Have we not had men's lives enough already?"
"Yes, sure; but you're for holding all things
steady.
[brother,
Now, since the weight hangs all on one side,
You trimmers should, to poise it, hang on
t'other.
[ing,
Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steer-
Are neither fish nor flesh, nor good red-herring:
Not Whigs nor Tories they, nor this nor that;
Nor birds, nor beasts, but just a kind of bat;
A twilight animal, true to neither cause,
With Tory wings, but Whiggish teeth and
claws."

§7. Prologue to the Old Bachelor. 1693.
CONGREVE.

How this vile world is chang'd! In former days

Prologues were serious speeches before plays;

* This play was written jointly by Dryden and Lee.

Because, you know, if it be damn'd to-day,
I shall be hang'd for wanting what to say.
For my sake then-but I'm in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution. [Runs off.
8. Prologue to the Royal Mischief. 1696.
PRIOR.

LADIES, to you, with pleasure, we submit
This early offspring of a virgin-wit. [fears:
From your good nature nought our authoress
Sure you'll indulge, if not the Muse, her years;
Freely, the praise she may deserve, bestow;
Pardon, not censure, what you can't allow;
Smile on the work, be to her merits kind,
And to her faults, whate'er they are, be blind.

Let critics follow rules; she boldly writes
What Nature dictates, and what Love indites.
By no dull forms her queen and ladies move,
But court their heroes, and agnize their love.
Poor maid! she'd have (what e'en no wife
would crave)

A husband love his spouse beyond the grave:
And, from a second marriage to deter, [are.
Shows you what horrid things step-mothers
Howe'er, to constancy the prize she gives,
And, though the sister dies, the brother lives.
Bless'd with success, at last he mounts a throne,
Enjoys at once his mistress and a crown.
Learn, ladies, then, from Libaraxa's fate,
What great rewards on virtuous lovers wait.
Learn too, if Heaven and Fate should adverse
prove,
[love,)
(For Fate and Heaven don't always smile on
Learn with Zelinda to be still the same,
Nor quit your first for any second flame
Whatever fate, or death, or life, be given,
Dare to be true; submit the rest to Heaven.
§ 9. Prologue to the Constant Couple. 1700.
FARQUHAR,

POETS will think nothing so checks their fury,
As wits, cits, beaux and women, for their jury.

come,

Our spark's half-dead to think what medleys | Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true, [doom. Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. With blended judgments, to pronounce his Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed 'Tis all false fear; for in a mingled pit, [writ, Are butcher's meat, a battle's a sirloin : [join, Why, what your grave don thinks but dully Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft, and His neighbor i' th' great wig may take for wit. Some authors court the few, the wise if any: Our youth's content, if he can reach the many, Who go with much like ends to church and play,

Not to observe what priests or poets say—
No, no! your thoughts, like theirs, lie quite
another way.

The ladies safe may smile, for here's no slander,
No smut, no lewd-tongued beau, no double en-
tendre.

"Tis true, he has a spark just come from France, But then, so far from beau-why, he talks sense,

chaste,

Are water-gruel, without salt or taste.
Bawdy's fat venison, which, though stale, can
please :
[French cheese.
Your rakes love haut-gouts, like your damn'd
Your rarity, for the fair guest to gape on,
Is your nice squeaker, or Italian capon;
Or your French virgin-pullet, garnish'd round
And dress'd with sauce of some-four hundred
pound.

An opera, like an oglio, nicks the age; Farce is the hasty-pudding of the stage: For when you're treated with indifferent cheer, [from thence. You can dispense with slender stage-coach fare. Like coin, oft carried out, but-seldom brought A pastoral's whipt-cream; stage-whims, mere There's yet a gang to whom our spark submits, Your elbow-shaking fool that lives by's wits, That's only witty, though, just as he lives, by fits:

Who, lion-like, through bailiffs scours away,
Hunts, in the face of dinner, all the day,
At night with empty bowels grumbles o'er the
play.

And now the modish prentice he implores,
Who, with his master's cash, stol'n out of
doors,

And tragi-comedy, half fish and flesh. [trash;
But comedy, that, that's the darling cheer;
This night, we hope, you'll an Inconstant bear;
Wild-fowl is lik'd in play-house all the year.

Yet since each mind betrays a diff'rent taste,
And ev'ry dish scarce pleases ev'ry guest,
If aught you relish, do not damn the rest.
This favor crav'd, up let the music strike:
You're welcome all-now fall to where you
like.

11. Prologue on the proposed Union of the
Two Houses. 1703. FARQUHAR.

Now all the world's ta'en up with state affairs, [wars; Some wishing peace, some calling out for 'Tis likewise fit we should inform the age, What are the present politics o' th' stage: Two diff'rent states, ambitious both, and bold, All free-born souls, the New House and the Old,

Employs it on a brace of honorable whores:§
While their good bulky mother pleas'd sits by,
Bawd-regent of the bubble gallery.
Next to our mounted friends we humbly move,
Who all your side-box tricks are much above,
And never fail to pay us with your love.
Ah, friends! poor Dorset Garden-house is gone;
Our merry meetings there are all undone :
Quite lost to us, sure for some strange misdeeds,
That strong dog Samson's pull'd it o'er our
heads,
[told him,
Snaps rope like thread; but when his fortune's
He'll hear, perhaps, of rope will one day hold
him:

At least, I hope that our good natur'd town
Will find a way to pull his prices down.
Well, that's all! Now, gentlemen, for the
play:

On second thoughts, I've but two words to say;
Such as it is, for your delight design'd,
Hear it, read, try, judge, and speak as you find.

$10. Prologue to the Inconstant. 1702.
FARQUHAR.
LIKE hungry guests a sitting audience looks:
Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks:
The founders you: the table is the place:
The carvers we: the prologue is the grace:
Each act a course; each scene a diff'rent dish:
Though we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for
flesh.
[rough;
Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp, and
Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepper-
proof.

Have long contended, and made stout essays,
Which should be monarch absolute in plays.
Long has the battle held with bloody strife,
Where many ranting heroes lost their life;
Yet such their enmity, that e'en the slain
Do conquer death, rise up, and fight again.
Whilst from the gallery, box, the pit and all,
The audience look'd, and shook its awful
head,

Wond'ring to see so many thousands fall,

And then look'd pale to see us look so red.
For force of numbers, and poetic spell,
We've rais'd the ancient heroes too from hell,
To lead our troops; and on this bloody field
You've seen great Cæsar fight, great Pompey
yield.

Vast sums of treasure too we did advance,
To draw some mercenary troops from France;
Light-footed rogues, who, when they got their
pay,

Took to their heels-Allons-and ran away.
Here you have seen great Philip's conqu❜ring
son,
[run;
Who in twelve years did the whole world o'er-