Here's good Accommodation in the Pit,
The Grave demurely in the midst may fit.
And fo the hot Burgundian on the Side,
Ply Vizard Mask, and o'er the Benches ftride:
Here are convenient upper Boxes too,
For thofe that make the moft triumphant show,
All that keep Coaches must not fit below.
There Gallants, you betwixt the A&ts retire,
And at dull Plays have fomething to admire :
We who look up, can your Addresses mark;
And fee the Creatures coupled in the Ark :
So we expect the Lovers, Braves, and Wits,
The gaudy Houfe with Scenes, will ferve for Cits,
A PROLOGUE Spoken at the opening of the New Houfe, March 26, 1674.
Written by Mr. Dryden.
Plain built House, after so long a stay,
Will fend you half unfatisfy'd away;
When, fall'n from your expected Pomp, you find
A bare Convenience only is design'd.
You who each Day can Theatres behold,
Like Nero's Palace, fhining all with Gold,
Our mean ungilded Stage will fcorn, we fear,
And for the homely Room, difdain the Chear.'
Yet now cheap Druggets to a Mode are grown,
And a plain Suit (Gince we can make but one)
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
They who are by your Favours wealthy made,
With mighty Sums may carry on the Trade:
We, broken Bankers, half destroy'd by Fire,
With our small Stock to humble Roofs retire,
Pity our Lofs, while you their Pomp admire.
For Fame and Honour we no longer ftrive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live,
Unable to fupport their vaft Expence,
Who build, and treat with fuch Magnificence;
That like th' ambitious Monarchs of the Age,
They give the Law to our provincial Stage:
Great Neighbours enviously promote Excefs,
While they impofe their Splendor on the lefs.
But only Fools, and they of vaft Estate,
Th' extremity of Modes will imitate,
The dangling Knee-fringe, and the Bib-Cravat.
Yet if fome Pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our Plainness may be juftly proud :
Our Royal Mafter will'd it fhould be fo,
Whate'er he's pleas'd to own, can need no show :
That facred Name gives Ornament and Grace,
And, like his Stamp, makes basest Merals pass.
'Twere Folly now a ftately Pile to raise,
To build a Play-house while you throw down Plays.
Whilft Scenes, Machines, and empty Opera's reign,
And for the Pencil you the Pen disdain.
While Troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whofe Alms they live:
Old English Authors vanifh, and give place
To these new Conqu❜rors of the Norman Race;
Mere tamely than your Fathers you fubmit,
You're now grown Vaffals to 'em in your Wit:
Mark, when they play, how our fine Fops advance
The mighty Merits of these Men of France,
Keep time, cry Ben, and humour the Cadence:
Well, pleafe your felves, but fure 'tis understood,
That French Machines have ne'er done England goods
I wou'd not prophefie our Houses Fare:
But while vain Shows and Scenes you over-rate,
'Tis to be fear'd-----
That as a Fire the former Houfe o'erthrew,
Machines and Tempefts will deftroy the new.
EPILOGUE, by the fame Author.
"Hough what our Prologue faid was fadly true,
A Charm that feldom fails with, wicked, you.
A Country Lip may have the Velvet touch,
Tho' fhe's no Lady, you may think her fuch,
Aftrong Imagination may do much.
But you, loud Sirs, who tho' your Curls look big,
Criticks in plume and white vallancy Wig,
Who lolling on our foremost Benches fit,
And still charge firft, (the true forlorn of Wit)
Whofe favours, like the Sun, warm where you roul
Yet you, like him, have neither Heat nor Soul;
So may your Hats your Foretops never press,
Untouch'd your Ribbons, facred be your drefs';
So may you flowly to old Age advance,
And have the Excufe of Youth for Ignorance
So may Fop corner full of Noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive Train;
So may your Midnight Scowrings happy prove,
And Morning Batt'ries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike Hands recal,
But leave you by each others Swords to fall :
As you come here to ruffle Vizard Punk,
When fober, rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the Wits we can fome Mérit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been faid:
Our House relieves the Ladies from the frights
Of ill-pav'd Streets, and long dark Winter Nights;
The Flanders Horfes from a cold bleak Road,
Where Bears in Furs dare fcarcely look abroad.
The Audience from worn Plays and Fustian Stuff
Of Rhime, more naufeous than three Boys in Buff
Though in their Houfe the Poets Heads appear,
We hope we may presume their Wits are here,
The best which they referv'd they now will play,
For, like kind Cuckolds, tho' w' have not the way
To please, we'll find you abler Men who may.
If they thou'd fail, for laft recruits we breed
A Troop of frisking Monsieurs to fucceed:
(You know the French fure Cards at time of need.)
An EPILOGUE. Written by Mr. DRYDEN.
WERE you but half fo wife as y'are fevere,
Our youthful Poet fhou'd not need to fear:
To his green Years your Cenfures you would fuit,
Not blaft the Bloffom, but expect the Fruit.
The Sex that beft does pleasure understand,
Will always chufe to err on t'other hand.
They check not him that's awkard in delight,
But clap the young Rogue's Check, and set him right,
Thus heart'nd well and flesh'd upon his Prey,
The Youth may prove a Man another Day.
Your Ben and Fletcher in their first young flight,
Did no Volpone, no Arbaces write...
But hopp'd about, and fhort Excurfions made
From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid,
And each were guilty of fome flighted Maid.
Shakespear's own Mufe her Pericles first bore,
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore: .
'Tis miracle to see a first good Play,
All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
A flender Poet muft have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his Brothers do.
Who ftill looks lean, fure with fome Pox is curft,
But no Man can be Falstaff fat at first.
Then damn not, but indulge his ftew'd Effays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with Praise.
That he may get more bulk before he dies,
He's not yet fed enough for Sacrifice.
Perhaps if now your Grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.
An Epilogue for the King's Houfe.
Written by Mr. DRYDEN.
E act by fits and starts, like drowning Men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again.
Let those who call us wicked, change their Sense,
For never Men liv'd more on Providence.
Not Lott❜ry Cavaliers are half so poor,
Nor broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore.
Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents
Of the three last ungiving Parliaments.
"So wretched, that if Pharaoh could Divine,
He might have fpar'd his Dream of feven lean Kine,
And chang'd his Vision for the Muses Nine.
The Comet, that they fay portends a Dearth,
Was but a Vapour drawn from Play-house Earth:
Pent there fince our laft Fire, and Lilly fays,
Foreshews our change of State, and thin Third-days
'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,
For then the Printer's Prefs would fuffer more.
Their Pamphleteers each Day their Venom fpit,
They thrive by Treafon, and we ftarve by Wit.
Confefs the truth, which of you has not laid [Looking
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield Maid? above.
Or which is duller yet, and more wou'd fpite us,
Democritus his Wars with Heraclitus.
Such are the Authors who have run us down,
And exercis'd you Criticks of the Town.
Yet these are Pearls to your Lampooning Rhimes,
Y' abuse your felves more dully than the Times.
Scandal, the Glory of the English Nation,
Is worn to Raggs, and fcribbled our of Fashion.
Such harmless Thrufts, as if, like Fencers wife,
They had agreed their Play before their Prize:
Faith, they may hang their Harps upon the Willows,
'Tis juft like Children when they box with Pillows.
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