The Poems of John Dryden

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO ALL FOR LOVE, OR THE WORLD WELL LOST.

PROLOGUE.

WHAT Flocks of Critiques hover here to-day,) As Vultures wait on Armies for their Prey, All gaping for the Carcase of a Play!) With croaking Notes they bode some dire event,

And follow dying Poets by the scent. Ours gives himself for gone; y' have watch'd your Time;

He fights this day unarm'd, without his Rhyme,

And brings a Tale which often has been told, As sad as Dido's, and almost as old.

His Heroe, whom you Wits his Bully call, 10 Bates of his Mettle, and scarce rants at all; He's somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning mind,

Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind;

In short, a Pattern and Companion fit
For all the keeping Tonyes of the Pit.
I cou'd name more: A Wife, and Mistress
too,

Both (to be plain) too good for most of you;

The Wife well-natur'd, and the Mistress

A brave Man scorns day,

to quarrel once a Like Hectors in at ev'ry petty fray. Let those find fault whose Wit's so very small,

They've need to show that they can think at all.

Errors, like Straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for Pearls must dive below.

Fops may have leave to level all they can, As Pigmies wou'd be glad to lop a Man. Half-wits are Fleas, so little and so light, We scarce cou'd know they live, but that they bite.

But, as the rich, when tir'd with daily Feasts,

For Change become their next poor Tenants Ghests;

Drink hearty Draughts of Ale from plain brown Bowls,

And snatch the homely Rasher from the Coals:

So you, retiring from much better Cheer, For once may venture to do penance here.

And since that plenteous Autumn now is

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

For our poor Wretch, he neither rails nor

prays,

Nor likes your Wit just as you like his Plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr. Bays.
He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Wou'd quietly sue out his Writ of Ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand Jury call, 20
By the Fair Sex he begs to stand or fall.
Let Casar's Pow'r the Mens Ambition move,
But grace you him, who lost the World for
Love!

Yet if some antiquated Lady say,
The last Age is not copy'd in his Play;
Heav'n help the man who for that face must
drudge,

Which only has the wrinkles of a Judge.
Let not the Young and Beauteous join with
those;

For shou'd you raise such numerous Hosts of Foes,

Young Wits and Sparks he to his aid must call;

'Tis more than one Man's work to please you all.

EPILOGUE TO MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS.

YOU'VE seen a Pair of faithful Lovers die:

And much you care, for most of you will cry,

'Twas a just Judgment on their Constancy. For, Heaven be thank'd, we live in such an Age,

When no man dies for Love, but on the Stage:

And ev'n those Martyrs are but rare in Plays;

A cursed sign how much true Faith decays:

Love is no more a violent desire;
'Tis a meer Metaphor, a painted Fire.
In all our Sex, the name examin'd well,
Is Pride to gain, and Vanity to tell.

MITHRIDATES, 1678. The play is by Lee.

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE KIND KEEPER,
OR MR. LIMBERHAM.

Let them, who the Rebellion first began
To Wit, restore the Monarch if they can;
Our Author dares not be the first bold Man.
He, like the prudent Citizen, takes care
To keep for better Marts his staple Ware;
His Toys are good enough for Sturbridge Fair.
Tricks were the Fashion; if it now be spent,
'Tis time enough at Easter to invent;
No man will make up a new Suit for Lent.
If now and then he takes a small Pretence, 20
To forage for a little Wit and Sense,
Pray pardon him, he meant you no Offence,
Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,
That all the Criticks shall be shipp'd away.
And not enow be left to damn a Play.
To every Sail beside, good Heav'n, be
kind;

But drive away that Swarm with such a
Wind

That not one Locust may be left behind!

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by LIMBERHAM.

I beg a Boon, that, e're you all disband,
Some one would take my Bargain off my
hand;

To keep a Punk is but a common evil;
To find her false, and Marry,-that's the
Devil.

Well, I ne're acted Part in all my life,
But still I was fobb'd off with some such Wife
I find the Trick; these Poets take no pity
Of one that is a Member of the City.
We Cheat you lawfully, and in our Trades ;
You Cheat us basely with your Common
Jades.

Now I am Married, I must sit down by it;
But let me keep my Dear-bought Spouse in
quiet :

Let none of you Damn'd Woodalls of the Pit
Put in for Shares to mend our breed in Wit;
We know your Bastards from our Flesh and
Blood,

Not one in ten of yours e're comes to good.
In all the Boys their Fathers Vertues shine,
But all the Female Fry turn Pugs, like mine.
When these grow up, Lord, with what Ram-
pant Gadders

Our Counters will be throng'd, and Roads
with Padders.

This Town two Bargains has, not worth one
farthing,

A Smithfield Horse, and Wife of Covent-
Garden.

PROLOGUE TO THE TRUE WIDOW.

Heav'n save ye Gallants, and this hopeful | In vain our Wares on Theaters are shown,
Age,

Y' are welcome to the downfal of the Stage:
The Fools have labour'd long in their
Vocation;

And Vice (the Manufacture of the Nation)
O'erstocks the Town so much, and thrives

When each has a Plantation of his own.
Ilis Cruse ne'r fails; for whatsoe're he
spends,

There's still God's Plenty for himself and
friends.

THE TRUE WIDOW, 1678. The play is by Shadwell. The Prologue was reprinted in 1690 with Aphra Behn's The Widow Ranter.

9 Cruse Editors till Christie absurdly give Cause

Shou'd Men be rated by Poetick Rules, Lord, what a Poll would there be rais'd from Fools!

Mean time poor Wit prohibited must lye, As if 'twere made some French Commodity. Fools you will have, and rais'd at vast expence,

And yet as soon as seen, they give offence. Time was, when none wou'd cry that Oaf

was inee,

But now you strive about your Pedigree. Bauble and Cap no sooner are thrown down, But there's a Muss of more than half the Town.

Of Forreign Cattle there's no longer need,

When w'are supply'd so fast with English Breed.

Well! Flourish, Countrymen; drink, swear, and roar;

Let every free-born Subject keep his
Whore,

And wandring in the Wilderness about,
At end of 40 years not wear her out.
But when you see these Pictures, let none
dare

To own beyond a Limb, or single share; 30 20 For where the Punk is common, he's a Each one will challenge a Child's part at Sot least ;

A sign the Family is well increas'd:

Who needs will father what the Parish got.

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO DIPUS.

PROLOGUE.

WHEN Athens all the Græcian State did guide,
And Greece gave Laws toall the World beside;
Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,
Supreme in Wisdom one, and one in Wit:
And Wit from Wisdom differ'd not in those,
But as 'twas Sung in Verse or said in Prose.
Then Edipus, on crowded Theaters
Drew all admiring Eyes and listning Ears:
The pleas'd Spectator shouted every Line,
The noblest, manliest, and the best Design!
And every Critick of each learned Age
By this just Model has reform'd the Stage.
Now, should it fail, (as Heav'n avert our
fear!)

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, OR TRUTH FOUND TOO LATE.

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by MR. BETTERTON, representing

the Ghost of SHAKSPEAR.

SEE, my lov'd Britons, see your Shakespeare rise,

An awfull Ghost confess'd to human Eyes! Unnam'd, methinks, distinguish'd I had been

From other Shades by this eternal Green, About whose Wreaths the vulgar Poetsstrive, And with a Touch, their wither'd Bays revive.

Untaught, unpractis'd, in a barbarous Age, I found not, but created first the Stage. And if I drain'd no Greek or Latin Store, 'Twas that my own Abundance gave me 10

more.

On foreign Trade I needed not rely,
Like fruitfull Britain, rich without Supply.
In this my rough-drawn Play, you shall
behold

Some Master-strokes, so manly and so bold

DIPUS, 1678. Epilogue 9 Pity] pity 1678. 10 mount] Christie wrongly gives move

« Anterior Continuar »

Libros