University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUES and EPILOGUES

The second Prologue at Court, [to The empress of Morocco] spoken by the Lady ELIZABETH HOWARD.

Wit has of late took up a Trick t'appear,
Unmannerly, or at the best severe
And Poets share the Fate by which we fall,
When kindly we attempt to please you all.
'Tis hard, your scorn should against such prevail,
Whose ends are to divert you, tho' they fail.
You Men would think it an ilnatur'd Jest,
Should we laugh at you when you did your best.
Then rail not here, though you see reason for't.
If Wit can find it self no better sport;
Wit is a very foolish thing at Court.
Wit's bus'ness is to please, and not to fright,
'Tis no Wit to be always in the right:
You'l find it none, who dare be so to night.
Few so ill bred will venture to a Play,
To spy out Faults in what we Women say.
For us no matter what we speak, but how:
How kindly can we say—I hate you now.
And for the men, if you'l laugh at e'm, do;
They mind themselves so much, they'l ne're mind you.—
But why do I descend to lose a Prayer
On those small Saints in Wit, the God sits there.
To you (Great Sir) my Message hither tends,
From Youth and Beauty your Allies and Friends.
See my Credentials written in my Face,
They challenge your Protection in this place:
And hither come with such a Force of Charms,
As may give check even to your prosp'rous Armes:
Millions of Cupids hovering in the Rear,
Like Eagles following fatal Troops, appear.
All waiting for the slaughter, which draws nigh,
Of those bold Gazers, who this Night must dye.
Nor can you 'scape our soft Captivitie,
From which old Age alone must set you free.
Then tremble at the fatal Consequence—
Since, 'tis well known for your own part (Great Prince)
'Gainst us you still have made a weak Defence.—
Be generous, and wise, and take our part;
Remember we have Eyes, and you a Heart.
Else you may find, too late, that we are things
Born to kil Vassals, and to conquer Kings.
But oh! to what vain Conquest I pretend,
Whil'st Love is our Commander, and your Friend.
Our Victory your Empire more assures,
For Love will ever make the Triumph yours.

EPILOGUE, [to Love in the dark] As it was spoke by Mr. Haines.

As Charms are Nonsence, Nonsence seems a Charm,
Which hearers of all Judgment does disarm;
For Songs and Scenes, a double Audience bring,
And Doggrel takes, which Smiths in Sattin sing.
Now to Machines, and a dull Mask you run,
We find that Wit's the Monster you would shun,
And by my troth 'tis most discreetly done.
For since, with Vice and Folly, Wit is fed,
Through Mercy 'tis, most of you are not dead.
Players turn Puppets now at your desire,
In their Mouth's Nonsence, in their Tails a Wire,
They fly through Clouds of Clouts, and showers of Fire.
A kind of loosing Loadum is their Game,
Where the worst Writer has the greatest Fame.
To get vile Plays like theirs, shall be our care;
But of such awkward Actors we despair.
False taught at first—
Like Bowls ill byass'd, still the more they run,
They're further off; then when they first begun.
In Comedy their unweigh'd Action mark,
There's one is such a dear familiar spark,
He yawns, as if he were but half awake;
And fribling for free speaking, does mistake.
False accent and neglectful Action too
They have both so nigh good, yet neither true,
That both together, like an Ape's mock face
By near resembling Man, do Man disgrace.
Through pac'd ill Actors, may perhaps be cur'd,
Half Players like half Wits, can't be endur'd.
Yet these are they, who durst expose the Age
Of the great Wonder of our English Stage.
Whom Nature seem'd to form for your delight,
And bid him speak, as she bid Shakespeare write.
Those Blades indeed are Cripples in their Art
Mimmick his Foot, but not his speaking part.
Let them the Traytor or Volpone try,
Could they—
Rage like Cethegus, or like Cassius die,
They ne'er had sent to Paris for such Fancies,
As Monster's heads, and Merry Andrew's Dances.
Wither'd perhaps, not perish'd we appear,
But they were blighted, and ne'er came to bear.
Th'old Poets dress'd your Mistress Wit before,
These draw you on with an old Painted Whore,
And sell like Bawds, patch'd Plays for Maids twice o'er.
Yet they may scorn our House and Actors too,
Since they have swell'd so high to hector you.
They cry, Pox o' these Covent Garden Men,
Dam 'em, not one of them, but keeps out Ten.
Were they once gone, we for those thundering Blades,
Should have an Audience of substantial Trades,
Who love our muzzled Boys, and tearing Fellows,
My Lord great Neptune, and great Nephew Eolus.
Oh how the merry Citizen's in love
With—
Psyche, the Goddess of each Field and Grove.
He cryes i'faith, methinks 'tis well enough,
But you roar out and cry, 'Tis all damn'd stuff.
So to their House the graver Fops repair,
While Men of Wit, find one another here.

THE EPILOGUE [to Circe]

Some few from Wit have this true Maxime got,
That 'tis still better to be pleas'd then not,
And therefore never their own Torment plot.
While the Malitious Criticks still agree
To loath each Play they come and pay to see;
The first know 'tis a Meaner part of sence
To finde a fault, then taste an Excellence;
Therefore they praise and strive to like, while these
Are dully vain of being hard to please.
Poets and Women have an Equal Right
To hate the Dull, who Dead to all Delight
Feel pain alone, and have no Joy but spite.
'Twas Impotence did first this Vice begin,
Fooles censure Wit, as Old men raile of Sin,
Who Envy Pleasure, which they cannot tast,
And good for nothing, wou'd be wise at last.
Since therefore to the Women it appears,
That all these Enemies of Wit are theirs,
Our Poet the Dull herd no longer fears.
What e're his fate may prove, 'twill be his pride
To stand or fall, with Beauty on his side.