Aw'd when he hears his Godlike Romans He thought in hitting these his bus'ness 20 Let him retire, betwixt two Ages cast, But Wit's a Luxury you think too dear. 30 And Wit in Northern Climates will not blow, Except, like Orange-trees, 'tis hous'd from Snow. There needs no care to put a Play-house down, 'Tis the most desart place of all the Town : We and our Neighbours, to speak proudly, are Like Monarchs, ruin'd with expensive War; While, like wise English, unconcern'd you sit, And see us play the Tragedy of Wit. EPILOGUE. done, Though he perhaps has fail'd in ev'ry one : 10 But, after all, a Poet must confess, is Art's, like Physick, but a happy ghess. Your Pleasure on your Fancy must depend : The Lady's pleas'd, just as she likes her Friend. No Song! no Dance! no Show! he fears you'l say: You love all naked Beauties, but a Play. He much mistakes your methods to delight; And, like the French, abhors our Targetfight: But those damn'd Dogs can never be i' th' right. True English hate your Monsieur's paltry Arts, 20 For you are all Silk-weavers, in your hearts. Bold Brillons, at a brave Bear-garden Fray, Are rouz'd; and, clatt'ring Sticks, cry, Play, play, play. Meantime, your filthy Forreigner will stare, And mutter to himself, Ha 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 30 Infected with this French civility: A pretty task! and so I told the Fool, He thought that, if his Characters were good, The Scenes entire, and freed from noise and bloud; The Action great, yet circumscrib'd by Time, The Words not forc'd, but sliding into Rhime, The Passions rais'd and calm'd by just Degrees, As Tides are swell'd, and then retire to Seas; EPILOGUE TO CALISTO, OR THE CHASTE NYMPH. Intended to have been spoken by the LADY HENRIETta Maria Wentworth, when Calisto was Acted at Court. As Jupiter I made my Court in vain ; No Jove could e'er the force of these with ΙΟ 'Tis here that Sovereign Power admits dis- Beauty sometimes is justly absolute. You, mighty Sir, our bonds more easie make, True wisdom may some gallantry admit, 21 And from the midst of fighting Nations You only hear it thunder from afar, You knew its worth, and made it early And in its happy leisure sit and see Whose Morning Rays like Noontide strike 30 Whom you to suppliant Monarchs shall dis- To bind your Friends and to disarm your EPILOGUE TO THE MAN OF MODE, OR SIR FOPLING FLUTTER. MOST Modern Wits such monstrous Fools | So brisk, so gay, so travail'd, so retin'd! have shown, They seem not of heav'ns making, but their own. Those Nauseous Harlequins in Farce may But there goes more to a substantial Ass! That, Gallants, they may more resemble Sir Fopling is a Fool so nicely writ, The Ladies wou'd mistake him for a Wit; And, when he sings, talks lowd, and cocks, wou'd cry, I vow methinks he's pretty Company! 10 CALISTO. Printed in 1684 but not assigned to Dryden till 1704. The play is by Crowne. As he took pains to graff upon his kind. To file and finish god-A'mighty's fool. Ilis Sword-knot this, his Crevat this design'd; And this the yard long Snake he twirls behind. From one the sacred Perriwig he gain'd, Which Wind ne'er blew, nor touch of Hat prophan'd. Another's diving Bow he did adore, 30 Till he with full Decorum brings it back, Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd; For no one fool is hunted from the herd. PROLOGUE TO CIRCE. bore; WERE you but half so wise as you're severe, | Shakespear's own Muse her Pericles first Not blast the Blossom, but expect the Fruit. The Sex that best does pleasure understand Will alwayes chuse to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's aukard in delight, But clap the young Rogues Cheek, and set him right. Thus heartn'd well, and flesh't upon his Prey, The youth may prove a man another day. 10 Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, no Arbaces write; But hopp'd about, and short Excursions made From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid, And each were guilty of some Slighted Maid.) The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore. 'Tis miracle to see a first good Play ; All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmasday. 20 A slender Poet must have time to grow, But no Man can be Falstaff-fat at first, Encourage him, and bloat him up with Praise, That he may get more bulk before he dies, He's not yet fed enough for Sacrifice. Perhaps, if now your Grace you will not grudge, He may grow up to write, and you to judge. |