Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief supporters of the triple crown;
And Aristotle's for destruction ripe ;
Some say, he call'd the soul an Organ-pipe,
Which by some little help of derivation,
Shall then be prov❜d a pipe of inspiration.
Ir yet there be a few that take delight
In that which reasonable men should write,
To them alone we dedicate this night;
The rest may satisfy their curious itch
With city Gazettes, or some factious speech.
Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
Stirs up the Shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
Remove your benches, you apostate pit,
And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;
Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
Or see what's worse, the Devil and the Pope.
The plays that take on our corrupted stage,
Methinks resemble the distracted age;
Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,
That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.
The style of Forty-one our poets write,
And you are grown to judge like Forty-eight.
Such censures our mistaking audience make,
That 'tis almost grown scandalous to take.
They talk of fevers that infect the brains :
But nonsense is the new disease that reigns.
Weak stomachs, with a long disease opprest,
Cannot the cordials of strong wit digest;
Therefore thin nourishment of Farce ye chuse,
Decoctions of a barley-water Muse;
A meal of Tragedy would make
you sick, Unless it were a very tender chick:
Some scenes in sippets would be worth your time; Those would go down; some love that's poach'd in If these should fail
We must lie down, and, after all our cost,
Keep holy-day, like watermen in frost,
While you turn players on the world's great stage,
And act yourselves the farce of your own age.
PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, 1681.
THE fam'd Italian Muse, whose rhymes advance Orlando and the Paladins of France,
Records that, when our wit and sense is flown, 'Tis lodg'd within the circle of the moon
In earthern jars, which one, who thither soar'd, Set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restor❜d.
Whate'er the story be the moral's true;
The wit we lost in Town we find in you.
Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy heads with sober sense.
When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.
Her busy senates, to th' old cause inclin'd,
May snuff the votes their fellows left behind : 14
Yourcountry neighbours, when their grain grows dear
May come, and find their last provision here;
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,
Who neither carried back nor brought one cross.
We look'd what Representatives would bring,
But they help'd us just as they did the King.
Yet we despair not: for we now lay forth
The Sibyl's books to those who know their worth,
And tho' the first was sacrific'd before,
These volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prescription you are kind.
He whose undaunted Muse, with loyal rage,
Has never spar'd the vices of the age.
Here finding nothing that his spleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his satire into praise.
PROLOGUE to his ROYAL HIGHNESS upon his first appearance at the Duke's Theatre, after his return from Scotland, 1682.
In those cold regions which no summers cheer,
Where brooding Darkness covers half the year,
To hollow caves the shiv'ring natives go,
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow;
But when the tedious twilight wears away,
And stars grow paler at th' approach of day,
The longing crowds to frozen mountains run,
Happy who first can see the glimm'ring sun
The surly savage offspring disappear,
And curse the bright successor of the year.
Yet too' rough bears in covert seek defence,
White foxes stay with seeming innocence:
That crafty kind with day-light can dispense.
Still we are throng'd so full with Reynard's race,
That loyal subjects scarce can find a place.
Thus modest Truth is cast behind the crowd;
Truth speaks too low, Hypocrisy too loud.
Let 'em be first to flatter in success;
Duty can stay, but Guilt has need to press.
Once, when true zeal the sons of god did call,
To make their solemn shew at Heav'n's Whitehall,
The fawning Devil appear'd among the rest,
And made as good a courtier as the best,
The friends of Job, who rail'd at him before,
Came
cap in hand when he had three times more:
Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;
Kings can forgive, if rebels can but sue.
A tyrant's pow'r in rigour is exprest;
The father yearns in the true prince's breast,
We grant an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend ; 30
But most are babes that know not they offend.
The crowd, to restless motion still inclin❜d,
Are clouds that tack according to the wind.
Driv'n by their chiefs, they storms of hailstones pour,
Then mourn, and soften to a silent show'r.
O welcome to this much-offending land,
The Prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus angels on glad messages appear;
Their first salute commands us not to fear:
Thus Heav'n, that could constrain us to obey, 40°
(With rev'rence if we might presume to say)
Seems to relax the rights of sov'reign sway;
Permits to man the choice of good and ill,
And makes us happy by our own free-will.
PROLOGUE to THE EARL OF ESSEX. By Mr. J. BANKS 1682. Spoken to the King and the Queen, at their coming to the House.
WHEN first the ark was landed on the shore,
And Heav'n had vow'd to curse the ground no more
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