What should a poet do ? 'tis hard for one
To pleasure all the fools that would be shown,
And yet not two in ten will pass the Town,
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop than fops can find.
Quack Marus, tho' he never took degrees
In either of our Universities,
Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,
Because he play'd the fool, and writ three books;
But if he would be worth a poet's pen,
He must be more a fool, and write agen;
For all the former fustian stuff he wrote,
Was dead-born dogg'rel, or is quite forgot.
His Man of Uz, stript of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and As poor as Job.
One would have thought he could no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog:
There tho' he crept, yet still he kept in sight,
But here he founders in, and sinks downright.
Had he prepar'd us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule;
But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'erleaps at once the whole Apochrypha;
Invades the Psalms with rhymes, and leaves no room
For any Vandal-Hopkins yet to come.
But when, if, after all, this godly gear
Is not so senseless as it would appear,
Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,
His cant, like Merry-Andrew's noble vein,
Cat-calls the sects to draw them in again.
At leisure hours in epic song he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coaches' wheels;
Prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day
To get himself a place in farce or play.
We know not by what name we should arraign him,
For no one category can contain him;
A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break one ass's back :
At last grown wanton, he presum'd to write,
Traduc'd two kings, their kindness to requite;
One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.
PROLOGUE for the Women, when they acted at the Old Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields.
WERE none of you, Gallants! e'er driven so hard,
As when the poor kind soul was under guard,
And could not do't at home, in some by-street?
To take a lodging, and in private meet?
Such is our case; we can't appoint our House
The lover's old and wonted rendezvous;
But hither to this trusty nook remove;
The worse the lodging is the more the love;
For much good pastime, many a dear sweet hug,
Is stol'n in garrets on the humble rug.
Here's good accommodation in the pit;
The grave demurely in the midst may sit,
And so the hot Burgundian on the side
Ply vizard mask, and o'er the benches stride:
Here are convenient upper-boxes, too,
For those that make the most triumphant show;
All that keep coaches must not sit below.
There, Gallants! you betwixt the acts retire,
And at dull plays have something to admire;
We, who look up, can your addresses mark,
And see the creatures coupled in the ark:
So we expect the lovers, braves, and wits,
The gaudy house with scenes will serve for Cits, 23
EPILOGUE. Spoken at the opening of the New house,
March 26, 1674.
THO' what our prologue said was sadly true,
Yet, Gentlemen, our homely house is new,
A charm that seldom fails with wicked you.
A country lip may have the velvet touch;
Tho' she's no lady, you may think her such:
A strong imagination may do much.
But you, loud Sirs, who thro' your curls look big, Critics in plume and white Vallancy wig,
Who lolling on our foremost benches sit,
And still charge first, the true forlorn of wit,
Whose favours, like the sun, warm where you roll,
Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor soul;
So may your hats your foretops never press,
Untouch'd your ribbous, sacred be your dress;
So may you slowly to old age advance,
And have th'excuse of youth for ignorance:
So may Fop-corner full of noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive train;
So may your midnight scourings happy prove,
And morning batt'ries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike hands recall,
But leave you by each others' swords to fall;
As you come here to ruffle vizard punk,
When sober rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the wits we can some merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft' been said;
Our House relieves the ladies from the frights
Of ill-pav'd streets and long dark winter-nights;
The Flanders horses from a cold bleak road,
Where bears in furs dare scarcely look abroad; 30
The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff
Of rhyme, more nauseous than three boys in buff.
Tho' in their house the poets' heads appear,
We hope we may presume their wits are here.
The best which they reserv'd they now will play:
For, like kind cuckolds, tho' we've not the way
To please, we'll find you
abler men who may.
If they should fail, for last recruits we breed
A troop of frisking Monsieurs to succeed;
You know the French sure cards in time of need.
Intended to have been spoken by the Lady
HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, when CALISTO was acted
at Court.
As Jupiter I made my court in vain,
I'll now assume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be so unkindly us❜d,
And would not be a god to be refus'd.
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