The Poems of John Dryden

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 Cæsar'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;

30 '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.

PROLOGUE

TRUE Wit has seen its best Days long ago;
It ne'er look'd up since we were dipt in Show,
When sense in dogrel Rhymes and Clouds
was lost,

And Dulness flourish'd at the Actors' Cost.
Nor stopt it here; when Tragedy was done,
Satire and Humour the same Fate have run,
And Comedy is sunk to Trick and Pun.
Now our machining Lumber will not sell,
And you no longer care for Heav'n or Hell;
What Stuff will please you next, the Lord
can tell.
10

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.

ΙΟ

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
so well,

That Fopps and Knaves grow Druggs, and will not sell.

THE KIND Keeper, 1678.

When each has a Plantation of his own.
His 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

WHEN Athens all the Græcian State did guide,
And Greece gave Laws to all 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
11
By this just Model has reform'd the Stage.
Now, should it fail, (as Heav'n avert our
fear!)

Damn it in silence, lest the World should hear.
For were it known this Poem did not please,
You might set up for perfect Salvages:
Your Neighbours would not look on you as

See twice! Do not pell-mell to Damning fall,
Like true-born Brittains, who ne're think
at all:
Pray be advis'd; and though at Mons you

won,

On pointed Cannon do not always run.
With some Respect to antient Wit proceed,
And take the four first Councils for your
Creed.

But, when you lay Tradition wholly by,
And on the private Spirit alone relye, 30
You turn Fanaticks in your Poetry.
lf, notwithstanding all that we can say,
You needs will have your pen'worths of
the Play,

And come resolv'd to Damn, because you pay,

Record it, in memorial of the Fact,
The first Play bury'd since the Wollen Act.
EPILOGUE.

WHAT Sophocles could undertake alone,
Our Poets found a Work for more than one;
And therefore Two lay tugging at the piece,
With all their force, to draw the pondrous

Mass from Greece;

A weight that bent ev'n Seneca's strong Muse,

And which Corneille's Shoulders did refuse:

Prologue 28 four first] Christie and others wrongly give first four

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

more.

That tolls the Knell for their departed Sence. Dulness might thrive in any Trade but this: 'Twould recommend to some fat Benefice. Dulness, that in a Playhouse meets Disgrace, Might meet with Reverence in its proper place.

The fulsome Clench that nauseats the town) Wou'd from a Judge or Alderman go down! Such Virtue is there in a Robe and Gown!, 10 And that insipid Stuff which here you hate, Might somewhere else be call'd a grave Debate ;

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

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

Dulness is decent in the Church and State.)
But I forget that still 'tis understood,
Bad Plays are best decry'd by showing good:

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, 1679. The original text is careless in the use of capitals.

Sit silent then, that my pleas'd Soul may see A Judging Audience once, and worthy me: My faithful Scene from true Records shall tell,

How Trojan Valour did the Greek excell; Your great Forefathers shall their Fame regain,

And Homers angry Ghost repine in vain. 40

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by THErsites.

These cruel Critiques put me into Passion, For in their lowring Looks I reade Damnation:

You expect a Satyr, and I seldom fail;

When I'm first beaten, 'tis my Part to rail. You British Fools of the old Trojan Stock, That stand so thick one cannot miss the Flock,

Poets have cause to dread a keeping Pit, When Womens Cullyes come to judge of Wit. As we strew Rats-bane when we Vermine fear,

'Twere worth our Cost to scatter Fool-bane

here;

And after all our judging Fops were serv'd, Dull Poets too shou'd have a Dose reserv'd, Such Reprobates as, past all Sence of Shaming,

Write on, and nere are satisfy'd with Damming,

Next, those, to whom the Stage does not belong

Such whose Vocation onely is to Song,
At most to Prologue; when for Want of
Time

Poets take in for Journey work in Rhime.
But I want Curses for those mighty Shoales
Of scribling Chlorisses, and Phillis Fools: 20
Those Ophs should be restrain'd, during their
Lives,

From Pen and Ink, as Madmen are from
Knives :

I cou'd rayl on, but 'twere a Task as vain
As Preaching Truth at Rome, or Wit in
Spain:

Yet to huff out our Play was worth my trying;

John Lilbourn scap'd his Judges by defying. If guilty, yet I'm sure oth' Churches Blessing, By suffering for the Plot, without confessing.

PROLOGUE TO CÆSAR BORGIA, SON OF POPE

ALEXANDER THE SIXTH.

TH' unhappy man who once has trail'd a | Either you come not here, or, as you grace

Pen,

Lives not to please himself, but other

men;

Is always drudging, wasts his Life and Blood,

Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.

What praise soe're the Poetry deserve,
Yet every Fool can bid the Poet starve.
That fumbling Lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or Whore is
meant:

Name but a Cuckold, all the City swarms;
From Leaden-hall to Ludgate is in Arms. 10
Were there no fear of Antichrist or France,
In the best times poor Poets live by chance.

CESAR BORGIA, 1680. The play is by Lee. 12 best] Editors till Christie wrongly give

blest

times] The editors wrongly give time

Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face.)
You sleep o're Wit, and by my troth you
may;

Most of your Talents lye another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious Tale,
The Bell that tolled alone, or Irish Whale.
News is your Food, and you enough provide,
Both for your selves and all the World
beside.

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