But they have now ta'n up a glorious Trade, And cutting Moorcraft struts in Masquerade. There's all our hope, for we shall show to day A Masquing Ball, to recommend our Play; Nay, to endear 'em more, and let 'em see We scorn to come behind in Courtesie, We'll follow the new Mode which they begin, And treat 'em with a Room, and Couch within: For that's one way, how e're the Play fall short, T'oblige the Town, the City, and the Court. EPILOGUE. Thus have my Spouse and I inform'd the Nation, And led you all the way to Reformation; Not with dull Morals, gravely writ, like those Which men of easy Phlegme with care com pose, Your Poets, of stiff Words and limber sense, And a brisk bout, which each of them did want, Made by mistake of Mistris and Gallant. For you were all for driving on the Plot: To Wives, and Servants all good wishes lend, But the poor Cuckold seldom finds a friend. Since therefore, Court and Town will take no pity, I humbly cast myself upon the City. 31 PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE ASSIGNATION, OR LOVE IN A NUNNERY. For some of you grow Fops with so much haste, Riot in nonsence, and commit such waste, 'Twould Ruine Poets should they spend so fast. Ile who made this observed what Farces hit, 20 And durst not disoblige you now with wit. But, Gentlemen, you overdo the Mode; You must have Fools out of the common Rode. Th'unnatural strain'd Buffoon is only taking; No Fop can please you now of Gods own making. Pardon our Poet, if he speaks his Mind; You come to Plays with your own Follies lin'd: Small Fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain ; Your own oyl'd Coats keep out all common rain. You must have Mamamouchi, such a Fop Sure there's some spell our Poet never knew, 40 But that he hopes I'm Fool enough to please ye. Some Sister, Playing at Content alone. This they did hope; the other Side did fear; And both, you see, alike are Couzen'd here. Some thought the Title of our Play to blame; They liked the thing, but yet abhorr'd the Name: Like modest Puncks, who all you ask afford, But, for the World, they would not name that word. Yet, if you'll credit what I heard him say, 20 And, sure, behind our Scenes you'll look for none. PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO AMBOYNA, OR THE CRUELTIES OF THE DUTCH TO THE ENGLISH MERCHANTS. What injuries soe'r upon us fall, Be gull'd no longer; for you'l find it true, EPILOGUE. A Poet once the Spartan's led to fight, And made 'em conquer in the Muses right : So would our Poet lead you on this day, Showing your tortur'd Fathers in his Play. To one well born th'affront is worse and more, When he's abus'd and baffled by a Bore: Interest's the God they worship in their With an ill Grace the Dutch their mischiefs do, State; 19 They've both ill Nature and ill Manners too. Well may they boast themselves an antient Nation, And you, I take it, have not much of that. No Map shows Holland truer then our Play: And lest hope Wit; in Dutchmen that would be As much improper as would IIonesty. And their new Commonwealth has set 'em free, Their Sway became 'em with as ill a Meen, And onely two Kings' touch can cure the As Cato did his Affricque Fruits display, PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY PROLOGUE. Spoken by MR. HART at the acting of the WHAT Greece, when learning flourish'd, onely (Athenian Judges,) you this day renew. PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY of Oxford, 1673. Printed in 1684, again in 1692. A French Troop first swept all things in its way; But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay; Yet, to our Cost, in that short time, we find They left their Itch of Novelty behind. 10 Th' Italian Merry-Andrews took their place, And quite debauch'd the Stage with lewd Instead of Wit and Humours, your Delight And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade. Some new-born Monster shewn you for a Play. 20 But when all fail'd, to strike the Stage quite dumb, Those wicked Engines, call'd Machines, are PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE Spoken at the opening of the New House, MARCH 26, 1674. PROLOGUE. A Plain built House, after so long a stay, Will send half unsatisfi'd away; you find That sacred Name gives Ornament and Grace; And, like his Stamp, makes basest Mettals pass. When, fall'n from your expected Pomp, you "Twere Folly now a stately Pile to raise, A bare convenience only is designed. And a plain Suit (since we can make but one) 10 Is better than to be by tarnisht gawdry known. They, who are by your Favours wealthy made, With mighty Sums may carry on the Trade; We, broken Banquiers, half destroy'd by Fire, With our small Stock to humble Roofs retire ; Pity our Loss, while you their Pomp admire. For Fame and Honour we no longer strive; 21 They give the Law to our Provincial Stage. Great Neibours enviously promote Excess, While they impose their Splendor on the less; Whilst Scenes, Machines, and empty Opera's reign, And for the Pencil you the Pen disdain; While Troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive, And laugh at those upon whose Alms they live: 39 Old English Authors vanish, and give place 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, Keep time, cry Ben, and humour the Cadence. |