 | Measure for Measure, or Beauty The Best Advocate |  |
THE PROLOGUE, By Mr. OLDMIXON . Spoken by Mr. Betterton.
To
please this Winter, we all Meanes have us'd;
Old Playes have been Reviv'd, and New Produc'd.
But you, it seems, by Us, wou'd not be Serv'd;
And others Thrive, while we were almost Starv'd.
Our House you daily shun'd, yet Theirs you Cram'd,
And Flock'd to see the very Plays you Damn'd.
In vain you Prais'd our Action, and our Wit;
The best Applause is in a Crowded Pit.
In vain you said, you did their Farce despise;
Wit won the Bays, but Farce the Golden Prize.
But that next Year, we may with them, be ev'n,
We these Instructions to our Bards have giv'n.
First bid Defyance to all Sense and Rules;
We Live not by the Criticks, but the Fools.
Let Noise for Wit, and VVhim for Humour pass,
And rise an Actor from some New Grimace.
No more let Labour'd Scenes, with Pain, be VVrought,
VVhat least is wanting in a Play, is Thought.
Let neither Dance, nor Musick be forgot,
Nor Scenes, no matter for the Sense, or Plot.
Such things we own in Shakespears days might do;
But then his Audience did not Judge like you.
Good Sense was well receiv'd from Honest Ben;
VVhile none wou'd suffer Flecknoes Irish Pen.
Yet, in his Son, Sleeping Monarch Reigns,
And dreadful VVar, with VVit and Sense, Maintains.
Study the Smithfield-Bards, and him, with care;
Like those VVrite Non-sense, and, like these, you'll fare.
By this you may, the Towns Resentment sooth;
Or, you must Starve, and we shut up our Booth.
[Going, Comes Back:
Old Playes have been Reviv'd, and New Produc'd.
But you, it seems, by Us, wou'd not be Serv'd;
And others Thrive, while we were almost Starv'd.
Our House you daily shun'd, yet Theirs you Cram'd,
And Flock'd to see the very Plays you Damn'd.
In vain you Prais'd our Action, and our Wit;
The best Applause is in a Crowded Pit.
In vain you said, you did their Farce despise;
Wit won the Bays, but Farce the Golden Prize.
But that next Year, we may with them, be ev'n,
We these Instructions to our Bards have giv'n.
First bid Defyance to all Sense and Rules;
We Live not by the Criticks, but the Fools.
Let Noise for Wit, and VVhim for Humour pass,
And rise an Actor from some New Grimace.
No more let Labour'd Scenes, with Pain, be VVrought,
VVhat least is wanting in a Play, is Thought.
Let neither Dance, nor Musick be forgot,
Nor Scenes, no matter for the Sense, or Plot.
Such things we own in Shakespears days might do;
But then his Audience did not Judge like you.
Good Sense was well receiv'd from Honest Ben;
VVhile none wou'd suffer Flecknoes Irish Pen.
Yet, in his Son, Sleeping Monarch Reigns,
And dreadful VVar, with VVit and Sense, Maintains.
Study the Smithfield-Bards, and him, with care;
Like those VVrite Non-sense, and, like these, you'll fare.
By this you may, the Towns Resentment sooth;
Or, you must Starve, and we shut up our Booth.
Hold; I forgot the Business of the Day;
No more than this, VVe, for our Selves, need Say,
'Tis Purcels Musick, and 'tis Shakespears Play.
No more than this, VVe, for our Selves, need Say,
'Tis Purcels Musick, and 'tis Shakespears Play.
| Measure for Measure, or Beauty The Best Advocate | |