Yet Athens never knew your learned sport
Of toffing poets in a tennis-court.
But 'tis the talent of our Fnglish nation,
Still to be plotting fome new reformation:
And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter fhall here erect his throne,
Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,
And ev'ry prayer be longer than a play.
Then all your heathen wits shall go to pot,
For disbelieving of a Popish-plot:
Your poets fhall be us'd like infidels,
And worst the author of the Oxford bells:
Nor fhould we 'scape the fentence, to depart,
E'en in our first original, a cart.
No zealous brother there would want a stone,
To maul us cardinals, and pelt Pope Joan :
Religion, learning, wit, wou'd be fupprefs'd,
Rags of the whore, and trappings of the beaft:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief fupporters of the triple crown;
And Ariftotle's for deftruction ripe;
Some fay, he call'd the foul an organ-pipe,
Which, by fome little help of derivation,
Shall then be prov'd a pipe of inspiration.
PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, 1681.
HE fam'd Italian Mufe, whofe rhimes advance
Orlando, and the Paladins of France,
Records, that, when our wit and fenfe is flown,
"Tis lodg'd within the circle of the moon,
In earthen jars, which one, who thither foar'd,
Set to his nofe, snuff'd up, and was restor❜d.
Whate'er the ftory be, the moral's true;
The wit we loft in town, we find in you.
Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy heads with fober sense.
When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long-loft loyalty.
Here bufy fenates, to th' old cause inclin'd,
May fnuff the votes their fellows left behind :
Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear,
May come, and find their last provision here :
Whereas we cannot much lament our lofs,
Who neither carry'd back, nor brought one cross.
We look'd what reprefentatives wou'd bring;
But they help'd us, just as they did the king.
Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth
The Sibyls books to those who know their worth;
And tho' the first was facrific'd before,
Thefe volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bad us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prefcription you are kind.
He, whofe undaunted Mufe, with loyal rage,
Has never fpar'd the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his fpleen can raife,
Is forc'd to turn his fatire into praife.
PROLOGUE to his ROYAL HIGHNESS, upon his firft Appearance at the Duke's Theatre, after his Return from ScorLAND, 1682.
N thofe cold regions which no fummers chear,
I Where brooding darknets covers half the year,
To hollow caves the thiv'ring natives go;
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of fnow :
But when the tedious twilight wears away,
And ftars grow paler at th' approach of day,
The longing crowds to frozen mountains run;
Happy who first can see the glimmʼring fun :
The furly favage offspring difappear,
And curfe the bright fucceffor of the year.
Yet, though rough bears in covert feek defence,
White foxes ftay, with feeming innocence:
That crafty kind with day-light can difpenfe.
Still we are throng'd fo full with Reynard's race,
That loyal fubjects scarce can find a place:
Thus modeft truth is caft behind the crowd:
Truth fpeaks too low; hypocrify too loud.
Let 'em be firft to flatter in fuccefs;
Duty can stay, but guilt has need to prefs.
Once, when true zeal the fons of God did call,
To make their folemn fhew 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 fue:
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;
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 hailftones pour;
Then mourn, and foften to a filent show'r.
welcome to this much-offending land,
The prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus angels on glad meffages appear;
Their firft falute commands us not to fear:
Thus Heav'n, that cou'd conftrain us to obey,
(With rev'rence if we might prefume to fay)
Seems to relax the rights of fov'reign fway:
Permits to man the choice of good and ill,
And makes us happy by our own free-will.
PROLOGUE to the EARL of ESSEX.
Spoken to the King and Queen at their coming to the
HEN first the ark was landed on the shore,
And Heav'n had vow'd to curfe the ground no
When tops of hills the longing patriarch faw, [more;
And the new fcene of earth began to draw;
The dove was fent to view the waves decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
Tis needless to apply, when thofe appear,
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the royal dove,
Still innocent, as harbinger to love:
The ark is open'd to difmifs the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, ye pow'rs, why fhou'd vain man purfue,
With endless toil, cach object that is new,
And for the feeming fubftance leave the true?
Why fhou'd we quit for hopes his certain good,
And loath the manna of his daily food?
Muft England fill the fcene of changes be,
Toft and tempeftuous, like our ambient fea?
Muft ftill our weather and our wills agree?
Without our blood our liberties we have:
Who that is free wou'd fight to be a flave?
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