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Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit, But 'tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.

XIII.

PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford.

DISCORD and plots, which have undone our age,
With the same ruin have o'erwhelm'd the stage.
Our House has suffer'd in the common woe,

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We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.
Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,"
And of our sisters all the kinder-hearted,
To Edinborough gone, or coach'd, or carted.
With Bonny Bluecap there they act all night
For Scotch half-crown, in English Threepence hight.
One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean, 10
There with her single person fills the scene.
Another, with long use and age decay'd,
Div'd here old woman, and rose there a maid.
Our trusty door-keepers of former time,`
There strut and swagger in heroic rhyme.
Tack but a copper lace to drugget suit,
And there's a hero made without dispute
And that which was a capon's tail before,
Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.
But all his subjects, to express the care
Of imitation, go, like Indians, bare:

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Lac'd linen there would be a dang’rous thing;
It might, perhaps, a new rebellion bring;
The Scot who wore it would be chosen king.
But why should I these renegades describe,
When you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe?
Teague has been here, and to this learned pit,
With Irish action, slander'd English wit;
You have beheld such barb'rous Macs appear,
As merited a second massacre;

Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace,
And had their country stamp'd upon their face.
When strollers durst presume to pick your purse,
We humbly thought our broken troop not worse.
How ill soe'er our action may deserve,
Oxford's a place where Wit can never starve.

XIV.

PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford.

THO' actors cannot much of learning boast,

Of all who want it we admire it most;
We love the praises of a learned pit,
As we remotely are ally'd to Wit.

We speak our poet's wit, and trade in ore,
Like those who touch upon the Golden shore;
Betwixt our judges can distinction make,

Discern how much, and why, our poems take;

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PROLOGUES.

Mark if the fools or men of sense rejoice;
Whether th' applause be only sound or voice.
When our fop-gallants or our City-folly,
Clap over loud, it makes us melancholy:

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We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,
And for their ignorance contemn their praise.
Judge then if we who act, and they who write,
Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grossly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms, all the depths of wit,
The ready finger lays on ev'ry blot,

Knows what should just lyplease, and what should not;
Nature herself lies open to your view.

You judge by her what draught of her is true,
Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint,
Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.
But by the sacred Genius of this place,

By ev'ry Muse, by each domestic Grace,

Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our poet's thither for adoption come,

As nations su'd to be made free of Rome;
Not in the suffragating tribes to stand,
But in your utmost, last, provincial band.
If his ambition may those hopes pursue,
Who, with religion, loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name shall be
Than his own mother-university.

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Brings her in triumph, with her portion down,
A toilette, dressing-box, and half-a crown.
Some marry first, and then they fall to scouring,
Which is refining marriage into whoring.
Our women batten well on their good nature,
All they can rap and rend for the dear creature;
But while abroad so liberal the dolt is,

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Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.

Last, some there are who take their first degrees
Of lewdness in our middle galleries:

The doughty bullies enter bloody drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's punk:
They caterwaul, and make a dismal rout,
Call sons of whores, and strike, but ne'er lug out:
Thus while for paltry punk they roar and stickle,
They make it bawdier than a Conventicle.

XVI.

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PROLOGUE to the King and Queen, upon the union of the two companies in 1686.

SINCE Faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,
Their penny.
scribes take care t' inform the nation
How well men thrive in this or that plantation:

How Pennsylvania's air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Associators:

Both e'en too good for madmen and for traitors,

Truth is, our land with saints is so run o'er,
And ev'ry age produces such a store,

That now there's need of two New England's more.

What's this you'll say, to us and our vocation?
Only thus much that we have left our station,
And made this Theatre our new Plantation.

The factious natives never could agree,
But aiming, as they call'd it, to be free,
Those playhouse Whigs set up for property.

Some say they no obedience paid of late,
But would new fears and jealousies create,
Till topsy-turvy they had turn'd the state.

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Plain sense, without the talent of foretelling, Might guess 'twould end in downright knocks and For seldom comes there better of rebelling.[quelling,

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When men will, needlessly, their freedom barter For lawless pow'r, sometimes they catch a Tartar; There's a damn'd word that rhymes to this call'd

Charter.

But since the victory with us remains,

You shall be call'd to twelve in all our gains,
If you'll not think us saucy for our pains.

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