University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE.

With no small pains our Author has this day
Brought on the Stage a damn'd dull serious Play.
But what the Devil is he like to gain?
If Wits, like States, with a joynt pow'r might Reign,
A Poet's labour then were worth the while,
Could he plead Custom, and demand your smile.
But that was ne're infashion. Poets ought
To write with the same Spirit Cæsar fought:
Indiff'rent Writers are contemn'd, for now
There grow no Lawrels for a common brow:
None but great Ben, Shakespear, or whom this Age
Has made their Heirs, succeed now on the Stage.
As Eagles trye their Young against the Sun;
The self-same hazard all Young Writers run:
They are accounted a false bastard Race
That are not able to look Wit i'th'Face;
And therefore must expect an equal Fate,
To be disown'd as illegitimate:
Thus conscious of their weaknesses and wants,
They know their doom; as deserts to young Plants,
You no more Mercy to Young Writers show,
You damn and blast 'em e're they've time to grow.
Thus you have learnt the Turkish Cruelty,
When Elder Brothers Reign, the Younger dye.
But as those Turks, when they're for Death design'd,
This favour from their Cruel Brothers find,
Strangled by Mutes, who fitted for the Fact,
Want Tongues to speak the Cruelty they Act.
Knowing the dangers of a publick shame,
Our Rhimer hopes his Fate may be the same:
He humbly begs, if you must cruel be,
You'd make no noise when you his doom decree,
But if you damn him, damn him silently.