But for this--play (which till I have done we show not)
be its fortune-by the Lord-I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things-even of wit.
He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets;
His squibbs are only levell'd at your pockets:
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time I'm something recover'd of my fluster'd
And now a word or two in sober sadness. [madness.
Our's is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price-just half-a-crown.
You'll say I play the pimp on my friend's score;
But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er,
For many a mother has done that before.
How's this you cry ? an actor write?—we know it;
But Shakspeare was an actor and a poct.
Has not great Johnson's learning often fail'd?
But Shakspeare's greater genius still prevail'd.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserv'd and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tir'd,
Not one of us but means to be inspir'd.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt is all our bus'ness here:
So much for that,—and the devil take small beer.
GALLANTS! a bashful poet bids me say,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce, for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauch'd upon the stage.
He wants the suff'ring part of resolution,
And comes with blushes to his execution.
Ere you deflow'r his Muse, he hopes the pit
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Promise him well before the play begin,
For he would feign be cozen'd into sin.
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;
But if you leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail;
To call you base, and swear you us'd him ill,
And put you in the new Deserters' bill.
Lord! what a troop of perjur'd men we see,
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the ladies may with patience brook ;
Theirs are not the first colours you forsook.
He would be loath the beauties to offend,
But if he should, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing, But his friend swears he will be worth the rearing. Volume IIK
His gloss is still upon him; tho' tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is best ;
There's sweet and sour, and one side good at least. Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,
Tho' not for food, are yet preserv'd for pickle.
So this green writer may pretend, at least.
To whet your stomachs for a better feast.
He makes this diff'rence in the sexes too,
He sells to men, he gives himself to you.
To both he would contribute some delight,
A meer poetical hermaphrodite.
Thus he's equipp'd, both to be woo'd and woo,
With arms offensive and defensive too;
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do, 38
say this comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now;
Yet, Gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censur'd, and when fewer writ :
And Johnson, of those few the best, chose this, 5
As the best model of his masterpiece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That alchymist by this astrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and, we may suppose,
He lik'd the fashion well who wore the clothes. 10
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 old padders, scorn by night to prey,
But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of Stand, Sir, 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 not 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;
Or, as a rhyming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the license, tho' they want the art;
And might, where theft is prais'd, for laureats stand,
Poets not of the head, but of the hand :
They make the benefits of other's studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
'Tis all his own when once h' has spit i' th' porridge.
But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this,
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
For they their thefts still undiscover'd think,
And durst not steal, unless you pleas'd to wink.
Perhaps you may award, by your decree,
They should refund: but that can never be ;
For should you letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no men else would steal.
PROLOGUE to THE PILGRIM. By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER. Revived for our Author's benefit, anno 1700.
How wretched is the fate of those who write!
Brought muzzled to the stage for fear they bite!
Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe,
Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau.
Yet worse, their brother poets damn the play,
And roar the loudest, tho' they never pay.
The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
At ev'ry lewd low character-That's I.
He who writes letters to himself would swear
The world forgot him if he was not there.
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