Your Peace to value more, and better know 'Tis all we can return for favours past, Whose holy Memory shall ever last, For Patronage from him whose care presides O'er every noble Art, and every Science guides:

Bathurst, a name the learn'd with reverence know,

And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe; Whose Age enjoys but what his Youth deserv'd,

19

To rule those Muses whom before he serv'd.
His Learning, and untainted Manners too,
We find (Athenians) are deriv'd to you;
Such Antient Hospitality there rests
In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian
Breasts,

Whose kindness was Religion to their
Guests.

Such Modesty did to our Sex appear, As had there been no Laws we need not fear,

Since each of you was our Protector here. Converse so chast, and so strict Vertue shown,

As might Apollo with the Muses own.
Till our return, we must despair to find
Judges so just, so knowing, and so kind.

PROLOGUE.

OUR Author by experience finds it true,
'Tis much more hard to please himself than
you;

And out of no feign'd Modesty, this day,
Damns his laborious Trifle of a Play;
Not that its worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of Wit;

Epilogue 4 sought for] One version has here sought

DR.

30

And, to confess a Truth (though out of Time,)

Growsweary of his long-loved Mistris Rhyme. Passion's too fierce to be in Fetters bound, 9 And Nature flies him like Enchanted Ground: What Verse can do he has perform'd in this, Which he presumes the most correct of his; But spite of all his pride, a secret shame Invades his Breast at Shakespear's sacred

name:

AURENG-ZEBE, 1675. Published in 1676,

rage,

He in a just despair would quit the Stage; And to an Age less polish'd, more unskill'd, Does with disdain the foremost Honours yield.

As with the greater Dead he dares not strive, He wou'd not match his Verse with those who live : 20

Let him retire, betwixt two Ages cast,
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
A losing Gamester, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready Money from the Play.
The Fate which governs Poets, thought it fit,
He shou'd not raise his Fortunes by his Wit.
The Clergy thrive, and the litigious Bar;
Dull Heroes fatten with the Spoils of War:
All Southern Vices, Heav'n be prais'd, are
here;

But Wit's a Luxury you think too dear. 30
When you to cultivate the Plant are loth,
'Tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your
growth:

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,

done,

Though he perhaps has fail'd in ev'ry one: 10
But, after all, a Poet must confess,
His 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

30

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 indiff'rent Writing and the best?
For Favours cheap and common, who wou'd
strive,

Which, like abandoned Prostitutes, you give?

Yet scatter'd here and there, I 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.. 41 For he more fears (like a presuming Man) Their Votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.

Epilogue 18 and 29 French] French 1676. 22 Brittons] Brittons 1676.

25 gens] Saintsbury conjectures gent

His 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,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,

30

Till he with full Decorum brings it back,
And rises with a Water Spaniel shake.
As for his Songs (the Ladies dear Delight)
Those sure he took from most of you who
Write.

Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;

For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

bore;

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,
And spread and burnish as his Brothers do.
Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is
curst,

But no Man can be Falstaff-fat at first,
Then damn not, but indulge his stew'd
Essays,

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.

PROLOGUE TO CIRCE.

Thus heartn'd well, and flesh't upon his Prey, The youth may prove a man another day. 10 For your own sakes, instruct him when he's

out,

You'll find him mend his work at every bout.

When some young lusty Thief is passing by,
How many of your tender Kind will cry,
A proper Fellow! pity he should dye!
He might be sav'd, and thank us for our
pains,

There's such a stock of Love within his Veins,

24 stew'd] This can hardly be right. Scott and others give rude Dr. Aldis Wright conjectured sterv'd and this may well be right.

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

true.

Now, Poets, if your fame has been his Care,

Allow him all the Candour you can spare. 20

ALL FOR LOVE, 1678.

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.

30

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 past,

Whose Grapes and Peaches have indulg'd your Taste,

Take in good Part from our poor Poets boord

Such rivell'd Fruits as Winter can afford. 40