The works of Sr William Davenant ... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies |
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The First Dayes Entertainment at Rutland-House,
by Declamations and Musick: after the
manner of the Ancients.
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 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
341
The First Dayes Entertainment at Rutland-House, by Declamations and Musick: after the manner of the Ancients.
After a Flourish of Musick, the Curtains are Drawn, and the Prologue enters.PROLOGUE.
Me-thinks , as if assur'd of some disgrace,I should step back, ere scarce I shew my face:
'Tis not through terror, that I know not how
To fashion my approaches, vail, and bow,
But that displeasure in your looks I spy,
Which seem to turn aside and stand awry.
Ere yet we can offend, are we disgrac'd?
Or are our Benches, not your looks misplac'd?
We wish we could have found this Roof so high,
That each might be allow'd a Canopy,
And could the walls to such a wideness draw,
That all might sit at ease in Chaise a bras.
But though you cannot front our Cup-board-Scene,
Nor sit so eas'ly as to stretch and leane;
Yet you are so divided and so plac'd,
That half are freely by the other fac'd;
And we are shrewdly jealous that you come
Not meerly to hear us, or see the Room;
But rather meet here to be met, I mean,
Each would see all, and would of all be seen.
Which we but guess, respectfully, to shew
You worthy of your selves, not we of you.
Think this your passage, and the narrow way
To our Elisian Field, the Opera:
Tow'rds which some say we have gone far about,
Because it seemes so long since we set out.
Think now the way grown short, and that you light
At this small Inn, to bait, not stay all night:
Where you shall find, what you will much despise;
The Host grown old, and worse then old, half wise.
Still former time applauds, the present blames;
And talkes so long, that be (indeed) Declaims.
From Declamations of a long hours length,
Made strong to last, by some dead Authors strength,
Not pow'rfull to perswade, but to provoke;
Long, grave, and sullen as a mourning Cloak;
I wish, if possible, you could scape free;
But, plainly, and in brief, it cannot be.
342
To give the anguish of your Ears allay,
But by our Rostra's, to remember Rome;
Then hope, such mighty Minds in time may come
As think it equal glory to take care
To speak wise things, as to do great in war:
Declaming well on what they well have done;
Being best guides where they the race have run:
Quickning by influence of their Noble deeds
Glory in others, till it Vertue breeds:
What do I mean? Sure there is something here
Has such infection as I ought to fear!
Here I a short and bashful Prologue came;
But strait grow long and bold; that is, Declame.
What patience can endure speech bold and long,
Where sence is weak too, when the Lungs are strong?
Yet this will rare abridgment seem in me,
When four shall come and talke a History.
Well, I have now devis'd, for your reliefe,
How you shall make these long Declaimers, brief;
When you perceive their voices fall with fear,
(As not accustom'd to the Publick-Ear)
And that they pause, grow pale, and look about;
Laugh but aloud, and you will put them out.
A Consort of Instrumental Musick, adapted to the sullen Disposition of Diogenes, being heard a while, the Curtains are suddenly open'd, and in two gilded Rostras appear sitting, Diogenes the Cynick, and Aristophanes the Poet, in Habits agreeable to their Country and Professions: who Declaim Against, and For Publick Entertainment by Morall Representations.
350
SONG.
1
Did ever War so ceaseThat all might Olive weare?
All sleepy grow with Peace,
And none be wak'd with fear?
2
Does Time want Wings to fly,Or Death ere make a stand?
Men must grow old and die:
Storms drive us from Sea to Tempests at Land.
Chorus.
This through his Tub the Cynick saw;Where vainly with Time he did strive,
And in vain from Death did withdraw
By bury'ng himself alive.
1
The Poets they are wise,All evils they expect,
And so prevent surprize,
Whilst troubles they neglect.
2
Can Age ere do them harm,Who chearfully grow old?
Mirth keeps their hearts still warme,
Fooles think themselves safe in sorrow and cold.
Chorus.
Then let the sour Cynick live coopt;Let him quake in his thrid-bare Cloak
Till he find his old Tub unhoopt,
His Staff and his Lanthorn broke.
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358
SONG.
1
London is smother'd with sulph'rous fires;Still she wears a black Hood and Cloak,
Of Sea-coal Smoak,
As if she mourn'd for Brewers and Dyers.
Chorus.
But she is cool'd and cleans'd by streamsOf flowing and of ebbing Thames.
2
Though Paris may boast a clearer Sky,Yet wanting flows and ebbs of Sene,
To keep her clean,
She ever seems choakt when she is adry.
Chorus.
And though a Ship her Scutcheon be,Yet Paris hath no Ship at Sea.
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EPILOGUE.
Too late we told you, some two hours ago,The ills, which you were sure too soon to know.
Had we fore-warn'd you but the day before,
By half so much, said at our outward door,
We had been civil, but had weakly shown
More care to watch your profit then our own.
We have your Money, true; if you can call
That ours, of which we make no use at all.
The Poets never mind such toys as these—
But keep them to be sent for when you please.
At worst (if you may credit, in frail times,
Bankers who turn and wind a world of Rimes)
They are but bow'd, laid in a Trunk above,
And kept, as simple Tokens of your love.
If this were raillery, it could not please,
After a tedious dull Diogenes:
A Poet a mile longer, then, two more,
To vex you, having had too much before.
Perhaps, some were so couzen'd as to come,
To see us weave in the Dramatique Loom:
To trace the winding Scenes, like subtle Spies,
Bred in the Muses Camp, safe from surprize:
Where you by Art learn joy, and when to mourn;
To watch the Plots swift change, and counterturn:
When Time moves swifter then by Nature taught;
And by a Chorus Miracles are wrought;
Making an Infant instantly a Man:
These were your Plays, but get them if you can.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |