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And fo I gets the finest fun

And frifk that ever you faw;
Of all I meets I can queer ev'ry one
But your gemmen of the law:
Though they can fcarcely put me down,
Says I, to their courts when I'm led,
Where their tails of a pig
They hide with a wig,
How many ways in London town
They dreffes a calf's head!

Then every dunce

To hear open at once,
Like mill-clacks their clappers go,

(Oh that's the fellow I faw grinning through

"the horse-collar in the country.'

'I fancy you 're the fellow I faw grinning through the pillory in London!')

Wo, Ball, wo!

So to mind 'em I ne'er feem,

But whistles and drives my team.

Ο

$161. Song.

STEPHENS.

NCE the Gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial
feaft,

Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing,
Merry Memes among them appear'd as a guest,
Homer fays the celeftials love laughing.
This happen'd "fore Chaos was fix'd into form,
While Nature diforderly lay;
While elements adverse engender'd the ftorm,
And uproar embroil'd the loud fray.
On ev'ry Olympic the humourift droll'd,
So none could his jokes difapprove;
He fung, repartee'd, and fome odd ftorics told,
And at land thus began upon Jøve :
Sire,-Mark how yon matter is heaving below,
Were it fettled 't would pleafe all your court;
'Tis not wifdom to let it lie ufelefs, you know;
Pray people it, just for our sport.

Jove nodded affent, all Olympus bow'd down,
At his fiat creation took birth;
The cloud-keeping deity fmil'd on his throne,
Then announc'd the production was earth.
To honour their fov reign each god gave a boon;
Apollo prefented it light;

The goddefs of child-bed difpatch'd us a moon,
To filver the shadow of night.

The queen of foft wishes, foul Vulcan's fair bride,
Leer'd wanton on her man of war; [guide.
Saying, As to these earth-folks, I'll give them a
So the fparkled the morn and eve star.

From her cloud, all in fpirits, the goddess up
fprung,

In ellipfis each planet advanc'd;

The tune of the fpheres the Nine Sifters fung,
As round Terra Nova they danc'd.

Even Jove himself cou'd not infenfible stand,
Bid Saturn his girdle faft bind: [hand,
The expounder of fate grafp'd the globe in his
And laugh'a at thofe mites call'd mankind.
From the hand of great Jove into space it was
huri'd,

He was charm'd with the roll of the ball,
Bid his daughter Attraction take charge of the
And the hung it up high in his hall. [world,
Mifs, pleas'd with the prefent, review'd the globe'
rond,

Saw with rapture hills, vallies, and plains;
The felf-balanc'd orb in an atmosphere bound,
Prolific by funs, dews, and rains.
With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow❜d,

France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear,
What was it for each clime on each clime the be-
And freedom fhe found flourish'd here. [ftow'd,
The blue-ey'd celestial, Minerva the wife,
Ineffably fimil'd on the spot;

My dear, fays plum'd Pallas, your last gift I prize,
But, excufe me, one thing is forgot.
Licentioufnefs freedom's deftruction may bring,
Unless prudence prepares its defence;
The goddess of fapience bid Iris take wing,

And on Britons bestow'd common-sense.
Four cardinal virtues the left in this ifle,

As guardians to cherish the root;
The blossoms of liberty gaily 'gan smile,
And Englishmen fed on the fruit
Thus fed, and thus bred, by a bounty fo rare,
Oh preferve it as pure as 'twas giv'n;
We will while we've breath, nay we'll grafp it in
And return it untainted to heav'n.

[death,

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PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUE S.

§ 1. Epilogue to a Woman kill'd with Kindness,

1617.

AN honeft crew, difpofed to be merry,
Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine:
The drawer brought it (fmiling like a cherry),
And told them it was pleafant, neat, and fine
Tafte it, quoth one; he did : O,fi! (quoth he)
This wine was good; now 't runs too near
the lec.

Another fipp'd, to give the wine his due,

And faid unto the rett, it drank too flat;
The third faid, it was old; the fourth, too new;
Nay, quoth the fifth, the fharpnefs likes me not.
Thus, gentlemen, you fee. how in one hour;
The wine was new, old, flat, harp, fweet,

and four.

Unto this wine do we allude our play; [grave:
Which fome will judge too trivial, fome too
You, as our guefts, we entertain this day,
And bid you welcome to the Left we have.
Excufe us then good wine may be difgrac'd,
When ev'ry fevral mouth hath fundry tatte.

WE

§ 2. Prologue to the Unfortunate Lovers. Spoken
at Black-Friars, 1643. DAVENANT.
ERE you but half fo humble to confefs,
As you are wife to know your happiness;
Our author would not grieve to fee you fit
Ruling with fuch unqueftion'd pow'r his wit :
What would I give, that I could still preferve
My loyalty to him, and yet deferve
Your kind opinion, by revealing now

The caufe of that great ftorm which clouds his
brow,

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METHINKS a vifion bids me filence bre k,
[Without bis perako.
And fome words to this congregation fpcak;
So great and gay a oue I ne'er did meet
At the fifth Monarch's court in Coleman-ftreet.

But yet I wonder much, not to efpy a
Brother in all this court, call'd Zephaniah.
Blefs me! what are we? What may this place be '
For I begin my vifion now to fec

That this is a inere theatre-Well then,
If 't be e'en fo, I'll Cutter be again.

[Puts on his peruke,

Not Cutter the pretended cavalier;
And his clote murmurs, which, fince meant to you,For, to confefs ingenuously here

I cannot think or mannerly or true!
Well; I begin to be refolv'd, and let
My melancholic tragic Lonfieur fret ;
Let him the fev'ral harmlefs weapons ufe
Of that all-daring trifle, call'd his Mute.
Yet I'll inform you, what this very day,
Twice before witnefs I have heard him fay,
Which is, that you are grown exceffive proud;
For ten times more of wit, than was allow'd
Your filly ancestors in twenty year,
Y' expect fhould in two hours be given you here:
For they, he fwears, to th' theatre would come,
Ere they had din'd, to take up the best room;
There ft on benches, not adorn'd with mats,
And graciously did veil their high-crown'd hats
To every half-drefs'd player, as he still
Thro' th' hangings peep'd to fee how th' houfe

did fil.

To you, who always of that party were,
I never was of any; up and down

I roll'd, a very rake-hell of this town.
But now my follies and my faults are ended,
My fortune and my mind are both amend.d;
And if we may believe one who has fail'd before,
Our author fays he'll mend-that is, he'll write

no more.

64. Prologue 10 Nero; 1675. LEE.

1OOD plays, and perfect fenfe, as scarce are
grown

As civil women in this d-d lewd town;
Plain fenfe is defpicable as plain clothes,
As English hats, bone-lace, or woollen hose.
'Tis your brifk fool that is your man of note;
Yonder he goes, in the embroider'd coat:
Such wenching eyes, and hands to prone to rule,
The genteel fing, the trip, and modich shuffle;
Salt foul and flame, as gay as any prince;
Thus taggs and filks make up your men of fenfe.
* Beaumont and Fletcher.

Good eafy judging fouls! with what delight
They would expect a jig, or target fight;
A furious tale of Troy, which they ne'er thought
Was weakly written, fo 'twere strongly fought;

I'

7186.

}

I'm told that fome are prefent here to-day
Who, ere they fee, refolve to damn this play,
So much would intereft with ill-nature fway.
But, ladies, you, we hope, will prove more civil,
And charm there wits that damn beyond the devil;

Then let each critic here all hell inherit,
You have attractions that can lay a fpirit.
A bloody fatal play you 'll fee to-night,
I vow to God, "t has put me in a fright.
The meaneft waiter huffs, looks big, and fruts,
Gives breast a blow, then hand on hilt he puts.
'Tis a fine age, a tearing thund`ring age,
Pray heaven this thund'ring does not crack the
stage:

This play I like not now

And yet, for aught I know, it may be good,
But ftill I hate this fighting, wounds, and blood.
Why, what the devil have I to do with honour
Let heroes court her; I cry, Pox upon her!
All tragedies, i'gad, to me found oddly,
I can no more be ferious, than you godly.

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[OLD! are you mad, you damn'd confounded
dog?

I am to rife, and fpeak the epilogue.
To the Audience.

I come, kind gentlemen, ftrange news to tell ye;
I am the ghoft of poor departed Nelly.
Sweet ladies, be not frighted, I'll be civil:
I'm what I was, a lttle harmless devil;

§ 6. Prologue to Alcibiades; 1675. OTWAY.-
NEVER did rhymer greater hazards run,
Tho' we, alas! to oblige ye have done moft,
'Mongft us by your severity undone :
And bought ye pleafures at our own fad coft,

Yet all our beft endeavours have been loft.
So oft a statesman, lab'ring to be good,
His honefty's for treafon understood;
Shail piay the traitor, and he honour'd for 't.
Whilft fome falfe, flattering minion of the court
To you, known judges of what's fenfe and wit,
Our author fwears he gladly will fubmit:
But there's a fort of things infeft the pit,
That would be witty fpite of nature too,
And to be thought fo, haunt and pefter you.
Hither fometimes thofe would-be-wits repair,
Cries one-Pugh! D-n me, what do we do
In queft of you; where if
you don't
appear,

here?

Straight up he starts, his garniture then puts
In order, fo he cocks, and out he struts
To th' coffee-houfe, where he about him looks:
Spies friend; cries, Jack—I've been to-night at
th' Duke's;

The filly rogues are all undone, my dear,
'gad! not one of fenfe that I faw there.
Tous to himself he'd reputation gather
Of wit, and good acquaintance, but has neither.
Wit has indeed a ftranger been, of late;
'Mongft its pretenders nought fo ftrange as that.
Both houfes, too, fo long a faft have known,
That coarfeft nonfenfe goes moft glibly down.
Thus though this trifler never wrote before,
Yer faith he ventur'd on the common fcore:
Since nonfenfe is fo generally allow'd,

For, after death, we fprites have juft fuch na-He hopes that this may pafs amongst the crowd.

tures

We had, for all the world, when human creatures:
And therefore I, that was an actress here,
Play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there.
Gallants, lock to 't, you fay there are no fprites;
But I'll come dance about your beds at nights;
And 'Faith you'll be in a fweet kind of taking,
When I furprife you between fleep and waking.
To tell you true, I walk, becaufe I die
Out of my calling, in a tragedy.

O poet, damu'd dull poet! who could prove
So fenfelefs, to make Nelly die for love!
Nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in the prime
Of Eafter-term, in tart and cheesecake time !
I'll fit the fop; for I'll not one word say,
T'excufe his godly out-of-fathion play;
A play which if you dare but twice fit out,
You'll all be flander'd, and be thought devout.
But farewel, gentlemen; make hafte to me;
I'm fure ere long to have your company.
As for my epitaph, when I am gone,
I'll truth no poet, but will write my own.
Here Nelly lies, who, tho' the liv'd a flattern,
et died a princefs, acting in St. Cathrine†.

* Her real character.

A

§ 7. Epilogue to Aurengzebe; 1676. DRYDEN,
PRETTY talk! and fo I told the fool,
Who needs would undertake to pleafe by rule:
He thought that if his characters were good,
The fcenes entire, and freed from noife and
blood,

The action great, yet circumfcrib'd by time,
The words not forc'd, but fliding into rhyme,
The pathons rais'd and calm'd by juft degrees,
As tides are fwell'd, and then retire to feas;
He thought in hinting thefe his bus nefs done,
Though he, perhaps, has fail'd in ev'ry one.
But, after all, a poet muft confeis,
His art 's like phyfic, but a happy guess.
Your pleasure on your fancy mult depend;
The lady's pleas'd, juft as the likes her friend.
No fong no dance! no fhow! he fears you'll fay,
You love all naked beauties, but a play.
He much mistakes your methods to delight,
And, like the French, abhors our target Sight;
But thofe damn'd dogs can never be i' th'
right.

The character the reprefented in the Play.

True English hate your Monfieurs' paltry arts;
For you are all filk-weavers in your hearts.
Bold Britons, at a brave bear-garden fray,
Arc rous'd; and, clatt'ring sticks, cry, Play, play,
play!

Mean time, your fribbling foreigner will stare,
And mutter to himfeif, Ab, gens barbare!
And, 'gad, 'tis well he mutters, well for him ;
Gur butchers elfe would tear him limb from
limb.

"Tis true, the time may come, your fons may be
Infected with this French civility:
But this in after-ages will be done;
Our poet writes an hundred years too foon.
This age comes on too flow, or he too fast;
And early springs are subject to a blast!
Who would excel, when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?
For favours cheap and common who would
frive,

Which, like abandon'd prostitutes, you give?
Yet fcatter'd here and there I fome behold,
Who can difcern the tintel from the gold;
To these he writes; and, if by them allow'd,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd;
For he more feais (like a prefuming man)
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who

can.

8. Epilogue to the firft Part of The Rover, the Banifbed Cavaliers; 1677. Mrs. BEHN. THE banish'd cavaliers! a roving blade!

A popish carnival! a masquerade!
The devil's in't if this will pleafe the nation,
In thefe our bleffed times of reformation,
When conventicling is fo much in fashion.
And yet

That matinous tribe lefs factions do beget,
Than your continual differing in wit.
Your judgment (as your paflion) 's a difeafe;
Nor Mufe nor Mifs your appetite can pleafe;
You're grown as nice as queafy confciences,
Whole each convulsion, when the fpirit moves,
Damns every thing that maggot difapproves.
With canting rule you would the ftage refine,
And to dull method all our fenfe confine.

With th'infolence of commonwealths you rule,
Where each gay fop, and politic brave fool,
On monarch Wit impofe without controul.
As for the laft, who feldom fees a play,
Unless it be the old Black-Friars way,
Shaking his empty noddle o'er Bamboo,

or

The younger fparks, who hither do refort,
Cry

Pox o' your gentle things! give us more sport;
Damme I'm fure 'twill never please the court

Such fops are never pleas'd, unless the play
Be ftuffed with fools, as brifk and dull as they;
Such might the half-crown spare, and in a glafs
At home behold a more accomplish'd afs;
Where they may fet their cravats, wigs, and faces,
And practife all their buffoon'ry grimaces-
See how this huff becomes this damme ftare,
Which they at home may act, because they dare;
But muft with prudent caution do elsewhere.
O, that our Nokes, or Tony Lee, could fhew
A fop but half fo much to th' life as you!

$ 9. Epilogue to The Round-Head's, or The
Good Old Caufe; 1682. Spoken by Lady
Defbro'.
Mrs. BEHN.
THE vizor 's off, and now I dare appear

High for the royal cause, en cavalier;
Tho' once as true a whig as most of you,
Could cant and lye, preach, and diflemble too:
So far you drew me in; but 'faith I'll be
Reveng'd on you, for thus debauching me:
Some of your pious cheats I'll open lay,
That lead your ignoramus flock aftray;
For, fince t cannot fight, I will not fail
To exercise my talent-that 's to rail.

Covers the knave that cants for commonweal,
Ye race of hypocrites, whofe cloak of zeal
All laws, the church, and state to ruin brings,
And impudently fets a rule on kings:
Ruin, deftroy, all 's good that you decres,
By your infallible prefbytery:

Profperous at firft, in ills you grew fo vain.
You thought to play the old game o'er again;
And thus the cheat was put upon the nation,
First with long parliaments, next reformation,
And now you hop'd to make a new invasion:
And when you can't prevail by open force,
To cunning tickling tricks you have recourse,
And raife fedition forth without remorse.
"Confound these curfed Tories," then they cry,
[In a preaching tone.
"Thofe fools, thofe loyal pimps to monarchy,
Thofe that exclude the faints, yet ope the door
"To introduce the Babylonian Whore !

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Ete cries, Good faith, thefe plays will never do." Is much increas'd fince that good man is Ah, Sir! in my young days, what lofty wit,

"dead:

What high-ftrain'd fcenes of fighting there were" Yet then they rail'd against the Good Old

writ!

Thefe are flight airy toys

But tell me, pray,

What has the Houle of Commons done to-day?
Then thews his politics, to let you fee
Of ftate affairs he 'll judge as notably
As he can do of wit and poetry.

"Caufe,

"Rail'd foolishly for loyalty and laws;
"But when the faints had put them to a stand,
"We left them loyalty, and took their land;
"Yea, and the pious work of reformation
"Rewarded was with plunder, fequeftration.”

* Alluding to the rivalry of the Spital-fields manufactures with thofe of France.

Thus

1

Thus cant the faithful; nay, they're fo uncivil,
To pray us harmlefs players to the devil.
When this is all th' exception they can make,
They damn us for our glorious master's fake.
But why 'gainst us do you unjustly arm?
Our mail religion fure can do no harm:
Or if it do, fince that 's the only thing,
We will reform, when you are true to th' king.

$10. Epilogue to the Lancashire Witches; 1682. Spoken by Mrs. Barry and Teague. SHADWELL

Mis. Barry. A

Skilful miftrefs ufes wondrous

art

To keep a peevish crazy lover's heart.
His awkward limbs, forgetful of delights,
Must be urg'd on by tricks and painful nights,
Which the poor creature is content to bear,
Fine mantuas and new petticoats to wear.
And, Sirs, your fickly appetites to raise,
The ftarving players try a thoufand ways:
You had a Spanish Friar of intrigue,
And now we have prefented you a Teague,
Which with much coft from Ireland we have got:
If he be dull, c'en hang him for the plot.
Teague. Now have a care; for, by my fhoul's
fhaulvaation,

Difh vill offend a party in de nation.

Yet no one man was meant, nor great, nor small;
Our poets, like frank gamefters, threw at all.
They took no fingle aim-

But like bold boys, true to their prince, and
hearty,

Huzza'd, and fir'd broadfides at the whole party.'
Duels are crimes; but when the caufe is right,
In battle, every man is bound to fight.
For what fhould hinder me to fell my skin
Dear as I could, if once my heart were in ?
Se defendendo never was a fin.

}

'Tis a fine world, my mafters-right or wrong, The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.

They must do all they can

But we, forfooth, must bear a Christian mind,
And fight like boys with one hand tied behind:
Nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wondrous
wife,

To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rife.
When fortune favours,none but foolswill dally:
Would any of you fparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipp'dyou th'invitingwink,ftand fhall I shall!?
A Trimmer cried (that heard me tell this story),
Fie, Mistress Cook! 'faith, you're too rank a
Tory!
With not Whigs hang'd, but pity their hard
[cafes;
You women love to fee men make wry faces.
Pray, Sir, faid I, don't think me fuch a Jew;

Mrs. Barry. They that are angry must be very fay no more, but give the devil his due.

beafts;

For all religions laugh at foolish priests.

Lenitives, fays he, beft fuit with our condition.
Jack Ketch, fays I, 's an excellent physician.

Teague. By Creeiht, I fwear, de poet has I love no blood-Nor I, Sir, as I breathe;

undone me;

Some funpie Tory will make beat upon me.
Mrs. Burry. Good Proteftants, I hope you will
not fee

A martyr made of our poor Tony Lee.
Our popes and friars on one fide attend,
And yet, alas! the city's not our friend:
The city neither like us nor our wit;
They fay their wives learn og ing in the pit:
They're from the boxes taught to make ad-

vances,

To answer stolen fighs and naughty glances.
We virtuous ladies fome new ways muft feek;
For all confpire our playing trade to break.
If the bold poet freely thews his vein,
In every place the fnarling fops complain.
Of your grofs follies if you will not hear,
With inoffenfive nonfenfe you muft bear.
You, like the husband, never thall receive
Half the delight the fportful wife can give.
A poct dares not whip this foolish age;
You cannot bear the phytic of the stage.

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And, 'faith, I doubted once the cause was loft.

But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.
We Trimmers are for holding all things even-
Yes, juft like him that hung 'twixt hell and

heaven.

Have we not had men's lives enough already-
Yes, fure; but you're for holding all things

Ready.

Now, fince the weight hangs all on one fide, brother,

You Trimmers fhould, to poize it, hang on t'o

ther.

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And with magnificence at laft were cloy'd:

* This play was written jointly by Dryden and Lee,

Qur

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