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PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE TEMPEST.

PROLOGUE.

As when a Tree's cut down, the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new Branches shoot,

So from old Shakespear's honoured dust this day

Springs up and buds a new reviving Play: Shakespear, who (taught by none) did first impart

To Fletcher Wit, to labouring Johnson Art; He Monarch-like, gave those his subjects law,

And is that Nature which they paint and draw.

Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights

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Gallants, by all good Signs it does appear
That Sixty Seven's a very damning Year,
For Knaves aboard, and for ill Poets here.
The Rhyming Monsieur and the Spanish Plot,
Among the Muses there's a genʼral Rot ;
Defie or court, all's one, they go to Pot.
The Ghosts of Poets walk within this place,
And haunt us Actors wheresoe're we pass,
In Visions bloodier than King Richard's was.
Forthis poor Wretch, he has not much to say,
But quietly brings in his Part o' th' Play, it
And begs the Favour to be damn'd to-day.
He sends me only like a Shʼriffs man here
To let you know the Malefactor's neer,
And that he means to dye en cavalier.
For, if you shou'd be gracious to his Pen,
Th' Example will prove ill to other Men,
And you'll be troubled with 'em all agen.

TO ALBUMAZAR.

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But Ben made nobly his what he did Mould; What was another's Lead, becomes his Gold: Like an unrighteous Conqueror he Reigns, Yet rules that well, which he unjustly Gains. But this our Age such Authors does afford, As make whole Plays, and yet scarce write one word;

Who, in this Anarchy of Wit, rob all, And what's their Plunder, their Possession call:

Who, like bold Padders, scorn by Night to prey,

But rob by Sun-shine, in the Face of Day: 20
Nay scarce the common Ceremony use
Of Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,
Mount Pegasus before the Owner's Face.
Faith,if you have such Country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true Men to leave that Road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the Living, but these rob the
Dead;

Dare with the Mummies of the Muses play, And make Love to them the Egyptian way;

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Or, as a Rhiming Author would have said, Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead. Such Men in Poetry may claim some Part; They have the Licence, tho' they want the Art;

And might, where Theft was prais'd, for Laureats stand,

Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand. They make the Benefits of others' studying, Much like the Meals of Politick Jack-Pudding, Whose dish to challenge no Man has the Courage;

'Tis all his own, when once h' has spit i' the Porridge.

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But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this ; You are in Fault for what they do amiss: For they their Thefts still undiscovered think,

And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.

Perhaps, you may award by your Decree, They shou'd refund,-but that can never be ; For should you Letters of Reprisal seal, These Men write that which no Man else would steal.

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO AN EVENING'S LOVE, OR THE MOCK ASTROLOGER.

PROLOGUE.

WHEN first our Poet set himself to write, Like a young Bridegroom on his Weddingnight,

He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lye in quiet for him :
But now his Honey-moon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil Husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you:
To write in pain, and counterfeit a Bliss,
Like the faint smackings of an after-Kiss. 10
But you, like Wives ill pleas'd, supply his

want;

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Morbleu dit il, and cocks, I am a Rogue, But he has quite spoil'd the fein'd Astrologue. 'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir With a Son of a Whore, Farce that's regular, A Rule, where nothing must decorum shock ! Dam'me, 'ts as dull as Dining by the Clock. 20 An Evening! why the Devil should we be vext,

Whether he gets the Wench this night or next?

When I heard this, I to the Poet went, Told him the House was full of Discontent, And ask'd him what excuse he could invent. He neither swore nor storm'd, as Poets do, But, most unlike an Author, vow'd 'twas true;

Yet said, he used the French like Enemies, And did not steal their Plots, but made 'em Prize.

But should he all the pains and charges

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Of taking 'em, the Bill so high wou'd mount, That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come,

He should have had 'em much more cheap at home.

He still must write, and, Banquier-like, each Day

Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay. When through his hands such sums must yearly run,

You cannot think the Stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there's no mercy for a guilty Muse;
For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall, 40
And please you to a height, or not at all.

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO TYRANNICK LOVE, OR THE ROYAL MARTYR.

PROLOGUE.

SELF-LOVE (which never rightly understood) Makes Poets still conclude their Plays are good,

And Malice in all Criticks raigns so high, That for small Errors, they whole Plays decry ;

TYRANNICK LOVE, 1669. The editors make nonsense by printing the first line thus:

Self-love, which, never rightly understood,

So that to see this fondness, and that spite, You'd think that none but Mad-men judge or write.

Therefore our Poet, as he thinks not fit T'impose upon you what he writes for Wit So hopes that, leaving you your censures

free,

You equal Judges of the whole will be: 10 Theyjudge but half, who only faults will see. Poets, like Lovers, should be bold and dare, They spoil their business with an over-care;

And he, who servilely creeps after sence,
Is safe, but ne're will reach an Excellence.
Hence 'tis, our Poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his Fancy the full scope and swing.
But when a Tyrant for his Theme he had,
He loos'd the Reins, and bid his Muse run
mad;

And though he stumbles in a full career, 20
Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.
He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,
To chuse the ground might be to lose the

race.

They then, who of each trip th' advantage take,

Find but those Faults, which they want Wit to make.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by MRS. ELLEN when she was to be carried off dead by the Bearers.

And, therefore, I, that was an Actress here, Play all my Tricks in Hell, a Goblin there. 10 Gallants, look to 't, you say there are no Sprights;

But I'll come dance about your Beds at nights;

And faith you'll be in a sweet kind of taking,

When I surprise you between sleep and waking.

To tell you true, I walk, because I dye
Out of my Calling, in a Tragedy.
O Poet, damn'd dull Poet, who could prove
So senseless, to make Nelly dye for Love!
Nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in the
prime

Of Easter-term, in Tart and Cheese-cake time!

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I'le fit the Fopp; for I'le not one word

say,

TO THE BEARER. Hold! are you mad? you T' excuse his godly, out of fashion Play;

damn'd, confounded Dog!

I am to rise, and speak the Epilogue.
TO THE AUDIENCE. I come, kind Gentlemen,
strange news to tell ye;

I am the Ghost of poor departed Nelly.
Sweet Ladies, be not frighted; I'le be civil;
I'm what I was, a little harmless Devil.
For, after death, we Sprights have just such
Natures,

We had, for all the World, when humane
Creatures;

A Play, which, if you dare but twice sit out, You'll all be slander'd, and be thought devout.

But, farewel, Gentlemen, make haste to me,
I'm sure e're long to have your company.
As for my Epitaph when I am gone,
I'le trust no Poet, but will write my own.

Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a
Slater'n,

Yet dy'd a Princess, acting in S. Cathar'n. 30

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE CONQUEST OF
GRANADA BY THE SPANIARDS.

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THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA, 1670. Published

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And grew so large, they cover'd all the wit. Hat was the Play; 'twas language, wit, and Tale :

in 1672. The originals are careless in the use of Like them that find Meat, drink, and cloth capitals.

in Ale.

What dulness do these Mungrill-wits confess, When all their hope is acting of a dress! Thus, two the best Comedians of the Age Must be worn out with being Blocks o' th' Stage: 20

Like a young Girl, who better things has known,

Beneath their Poets Impotence they groan.
See now what Charity it was to save!
They thought you lik'd what onely you for-
gave;

And brought you more dull sence, dull sence much worse

Than brisk gay Non-sence, and the heavyer
Curse.

They bring old Ir'n and glass upon the Stage,
To barter with the Indians of our Age.
Still they write on, and like great Authors\
show;

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But 'tis as Rowlers in wet gardens grow Heavy with dirt, and gath'ring as they

goe.

May none, who have so little understood, To like such trash, presume to praise what's good!

And may those drudges of the Stage, whose fate

Is, damn'd dull farce more dully to translate, Fall under that excise the State thinks fit To set on all French wares, whose worst is wit.

French Farce, worn out at home, is sent abroad;

And, patch'd up here, is made our English mode. 39

Henceforth, let Poets, 'ere allow'd to write, Be search'd, like Duellists before they fight, For wheel-broad hats, dull Humour, all that chaffe,

Which makes you mourn, and makes the Vulgar laugh:

For these, in Playes, are as unlawful Arms, As,in a Combat, Coats of Mayle, and Charms.

EPILOGUE.

Success, which can no more than beauty last, Makes our sad Poet mourn your favours past:

For, since without desert he got a name,
Ile fears to loose it now with greater shame.

Prologue. 42 Humour] Some editors wrongly give Honour

Fame, like a little Mistriss of the Town,
Is gaind with ease; but then she's lost as

soon;

For, as those taudry Misses, soon or late, Jilt such as keep 'em at the highest rate, (And oft the Lacquey, or the Brawny Clown, Gets what is hid in the loose body'd gown ;) So, Fame is false to all that keep her long; And turns up to the Fop that's brisk and young.

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Some wiser Poet now would leave Fame first;

But elder wits are, like old Lovers, curst: Who, when the vigor of their Youth is spent,

Still grow more fond as they grow impotent. This, some years hence, our Poets case may prove;

But yet, he hopes, he's young enough to love.
When forty comes, if ere he live to see
That wretched, fumbling age of poetry; 20
'Twill be high time to bid his Muse adieu :
Well he may please him self, but never you.
Till then, he'l do as well as he began,
And hopes you will not finde him less a man.
Think him not duller for this years delay;
He was prepar'd, the women were away;
And men, without their parts, can hardly
play.

If they, through sickness, seldome didy appear,

Pity the Virgins of each Theatre!
For, at both houses, 'twas a sickly year! 30)
And pity us, your servants, to whose cost,
In one such sickness, nine whole Months are
lost.

Their Stay, he fears, has ruin'd what he writ:

Long waiting both disables love and wit. They thought they gave him Leisure to do well;

But, when they forc'd him to attend, he fell!

Yet, though he much has faild, he begs to day

You will excuse his unperforming Play: Weakness sometimes great passion does

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