Page images
PDF
EPUB
[ocr errors]

XXXVIII.

PROLOGUE to the HUSBAND his own CUCKOLD..

'L'

IKE fome raw fophifter that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.

Unus'd to crowds, the Parfon quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durft come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, fome learning, and fome little grace:
Nor is the puny Poet void of care.

For authors, fuch as our new authors are,

}

Have not much learning nor much wit to spare:
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there 's fcarce one,
But has as little as the very Parfon :

Both fay, they preach and write for your instruction:
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.

The difference is, that though you like the play,
The Poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day.
But with the Parfon''tis another cafe,
He, without holiness, may rife to grace;
The Poet has one difadvantage more,

That, if his play be dull, he 's damn'd all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulnefs well becomes the fable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoil'd a Prieft's preferment :
Wit's not his bufinefs; and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not fo much yours as you fuppofe,
like nothing now but naufeous beaux.

For you

}

You

You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beaufhip fays, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears:
The taylor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monftrous muff.
The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our abfent author hope
He fhould equip the ftage with fuch a fop:
Fools change in England, and new fools arise,
For though th' immortal fpecies never dies,
Yet every year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he fcarce can find
One fool, for millions that he left behind.

XXXIX.

PROLOGUE to the PILGRIM.
Revived for our Author's Benefit, Anno 1700.

HOW wretched is the fate of those who write!

Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite,
Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe;
Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau.
[Yet, worse, their brother Poets damn the play,
And roar the loudeft, though they never pay.
The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
At every lewd, low character,That's I.
He, who writes letters to himself, would fwear,
The world forgot him, if he was not there.

}

What

[merged small][ocr errors]

What should a Poet do? 'Tis hard for one

To pleasure all the fools that would be shown:
And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.
Quack Maurus, though he never took degrees
In either of our univerfities;

}

Yet to be shown by fome kind wit he looks,
Because he play'd the fool and writ three books.
But, if he would be worth a Poet's pen,
He must be more a fool, and write again :
For all the former fuftian ftuff he wrote,
Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot ;
His man of Uz, ftript of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and As poor as Job.
One would have thought he could no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.
There, though he crept, yet still he kept in fight;
But here, he founders in, and finks downright.
Had he prepar'd us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule :
But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'er-leaps at once the whole Apocrypha;
Invades the Pfalms with rhymes, and leaves no room
For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.

But when, if, after all, this godly geer
Is not fo fenfelefs as it would appear;
Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,
His cant, like Merry Andrew's noble vein,
Cat-calls the fects to draw them in again.

}

Αι

1

At leisure hours, in epic fong he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels,
Prescribes in hafte, and seldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day,
To get himself a place in farce or play.

We knew not by what name we should arraign him.
For no one category can contain him;

A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break one afs's back:
At laft grown wanton, he prefum'd to write,
Traduc'd two kings, their kindness to requite;
One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.

XL.

EPILOGUE to the PILGRIM.

PERHAPS the Parfon ftretch'd a point too far,

When with our Theatres he wag'd a war.

He tells

you, that this very moral age

Receiv'd the first infection from the stage.

But fure, a banifh'd court, with lewdness fraught,
The feeds of open vice, returning, brought.
Thus lodg'd (as vice by great example thrives)
It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.
London, a fruitful foil, yet never bore
So plentiful a crop of horns before.
The Poets, who muft live by courts, or starve,
Were proud, fo good a government to serve;

7

And,

And, mixing with buffoons and pimps prophane,
Tainted the Stage, for fome finall snip of gain.
For they, like harlots, under bawds profest,
Took all th' ungodly pains, and got the least.
Thus did the thriving malady prevail,
The court its head, the Poets but the tail.
The fin was of our native growth, 'tis true;
The fcandal of the fin was wholly new.
Miffes they were, but modeftly conceal'd;
White-hall the naked Venus firft reveal'd.
Who ftanding as at Cyprus, in her shrine,
The ftrumpet was ador'd with rites divine.
Ere this, if faints had any fecret motion,
Twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion.
I pafs the peccadillos of their time;
Nothing but open lewdnefs was a crime.
A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,
Compar'd with one foul act of fornication.
Now, they would silence us, and shut the door,
That let in all the bare-fac'd vice before.
As for reforming us, which fome pretend,
That work in England is without an end :
Well may we change, but we shall never mend.
Yet, if you can but bear the prefent Stage,
We hope much better of the coming age.
What would you fay, if we should first begin
To ftop the trade of love behind the scene:
Where actreffes make bold with married men ?
For while abroad fo prodigal the dolt is,
Poor fpoufe at home as ragged as a colt is.

}

}

« PreviousContinue »