[This play was written by Thomas Tomkis, of Trinity College, Cambridge, where it was acted March 9, 1615, on the occasion of a visit by King James I. Pepys saw a revival of it, doubtless that for which Dryden wrote this prologue, on February 22, 1668. The prologue is printed anonymously in the Covent Garden Drollery, 1672; and with Dryden's name in Miscellany Poems, 1684, from which this text is taken.

Since The Alchemist was acted in 1610, there is no possible truth in Dryden's assertion in lines 5-10.]

To 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 Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,

As the best model of his masterpiece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by his Astrologer;

Here he was fashion'd, and we may sup

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 bold padders, scorn by night to

prey,

20

But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of: "Stand, sir, and 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,

"T is time for all true men to leave that road.

Yet it were modest, could it but 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

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 please 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 man else would steal.

WHEN first our poet set himself to write, Like a young bridegroom on his weddingnight

He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honeymoon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you;
To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss
Like the faint smackings of an after-kiss. 10
But you, like wives ill-pleas'd, supply his

My part being small, I have had time today

To mark your various censures of our play:
First, looking for a judgment or a wit,
Like Jews I saw 'em scatter'd thro' the pit;
And where a knot of smilers lent an ear
To one that talk'd, I knew the foe was
there.

The club of jests went round; he who had

none

Borrow'd o' th' next, and told it for his

own.

Among the rest they kept a fearful stir
In whisp'ring that he stole th' Astrologer; 10
And said, betwixt a French and English plot
He eas'd his half-tir'd Muse, on pace and
trot.

Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o'er and

warm

In the French stoop, and the pull-back o' th' arm:

"Morbleu," dit-il, and cocks, "I am a rogue, But he has quite spoil'd The Feign'd Astrologue."

"Pox," says another, "here 's so great a ştir With a son of a whore farce that's regular; A rule, where nothing must decorum shock!

Damme 'ts as dull as dining by the clock. 20 An evening! Why the devil should we be vex'd

Whether he gets the wench this night or next?

When I heard this, I to the poet went, Told him the house was full of discontent, And ask'd him what excuse he could in

vent.

He neither swore nor storm'd as poets do, But, most unlike an author, vow'd 't was

true;

Yet said, he us'd the French like enemies,

Of taking 'em, the bill so high would mount

That, like prize-goods, which thro' the office come,

He could have had 'em much more cheap at home.

He still must write, and, banquier-like, each day

Accept new bills, and he must break or pay. When thro' his hands such sums must yearly run,

You cannot think the stock is all his own. His haste his other errors might excuse, But there's no mercy for a guilty Muse; 39 For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall, And please you to a height, or not at all.