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With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit :
That Shakespear's, Fletcher's, and great Johnson's
claim,

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For mufes fo fevere are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they fhun the eye,
And, as prophane, from facred places fly,
Rather than fee the offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections, but our own ;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And have been fo kind, that we may boast,

you

The greatest judges ftill can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd even to the level of their wit
;
Difdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Tho they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowlege all their power tranfcends,
As what should be beyond what Is extends.

PROLOGUE to CIRCE.

[By Dr. DAVENANT, 1675.]

W

ERE you Our youthful poet should not need to fear: To his green years your cenfures you would fuit, Not blast the bloffom, but expect the fruit, The fex, that beft does pleasure understand, Will always choose to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's aukward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek, and fet him. right.

but half fo wife as you're fevere,

Thus hearten'd 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, nor no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and fhort excurfions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of fome flighted maid.
Shakefpear's own mufe her Pericles first bore;
The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore:
'Tis miracle to fee a first good play ;
All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.

is curft;

A flender poet muft have time to grow,
And spread and burnifh as his brothers do.
Who ftill looks lean, fure with fome pox
But no man can be Falftaff-fat at first.
Then damn not, but indulge his rude 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 facrifice.

Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

215 25 25 245 245 245 215 215 215

EPILOG

U E,

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 ;
Α
I'll now affume my native shape again,

I'm weary to be fo unkindly us'd,

And would not be a God to be refus'd.
State grows uneafy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wife removę,

Now as a nymph I need not fue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that fov'reign power admits dispute;
Beauty fometimes is juftly abfolute.

Our fullen Cato's, whatfoe'er they fay,
Even while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty fir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take :
Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wife to be fevere.

True wifdom may fome gallantry admit,
And foften bufinefs with the charms of wit.

These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,

And from the midst of fighting nations brought. You only hear it thunder from afar,

And fit in peace the arbiter of war:

Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
And in its happy leisure fit and fee

The promises of more felicity :

Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line, Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine;

Whom you to fupplant monarchs fhall difpofe, To bind your friends, and to difarm your foes.

KKKKKK)

EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE;

O R,

Sir FOPLING FLUTTER.

[By Sir GEORGE ETHERIDGE, 1676.]

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OST modern wits fuch monftrous fool$
have shown,

They seem not of heaven's making, but their own
Those naufeous harlequins in farce may pafs;
But there goes more to a fubftantial afs:
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool fo nicely writ,

The ladies would mistake him for a wit;

And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,

I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:
So brifk, fo gay, fo travell'd, fo refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

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