The Poems of Charles Sackville Sixth Earl of Dorset: Edited by Brice Harris |
 | I. |
Epilogue to “Every Man in his Humour”
|
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| 1 | | VI. |
| VII. |
 | The Poems of Charles Sackville |  |
10
Epilogue to “Every Man in his Humour”
Entreaty shall not serve, nor violence,
To make me speak in such a play's defence;
A play where wit and humour do agree
To break all practis'd laws of comedy.
The scene (what more absurd!) in England lies,
No gods descend nor dancing devils rise;
No captive prince from nameless country brought,
No battle, nay there's not a duel fought,
And something yet more sharply might be said,
But I consider the poor author's dead:
Let that be his excuse—now for our own,
Why—faith, in my opinion, we need none.
The parts were fitted well, but some will say,
“Pox on 'em, rogues, what made 'em choose this play?”
I do not doubt but you will credit me
It was not choice but mere necessity;
To all our writing friends in town we sent,
But not a wit durst venture out in Lent:
Have patience but 'till Easter term, and then
You shall have jig and hobbyhorse again.
Here's Mr. Matthew, our domestic wit,
Does promise one of the ten plays h'as writ;
But since great bribes weigh nothing with the just,
Know we have merits and in them we trust.
When any fasts or holidays defer
The public labors of the theatre,
We ride not forth, although the day be fair,
On ambling tit to take the suburb air;
But with our authors meet, and spend that time
To make up quarrels between sense and rhyme.
Wednesday and Fridays constantly we sate,
Till after many a long and free debate,
For divers weighty reasons 'twas thought fit,
Unruly sense should still to rhyme submit.
This, the most wholesome law we ever made,
So strictly in this epilogue obey'd,
Sure no man here will ever dare to break.
[Enter Johnson's Ghost.]To make me speak in such a play's defence;
A play where wit and humour do agree
To break all practis'd laws of comedy.
The scene (what more absurd!) in England lies,
No gods descend nor dancing devils rise;
No captive prince from nameless country brought,
No battle, nay there's not a duel fought,
And something yet more sharply might be said,
But I consider the poor author's dead:
Let that be his excuse—now for our own,
Why—faith, in my opinion, we need none.
The parts were fitted well, but some will say,
11
I do not doubt but you will credit me
It was not choice but mere necessity;
To all our writing friends in town we sent,
But not a wit durst venture out in Lent:
Have patience but 'till Easter term, and then
You shall have jig and hobbyhorse again.
Here's Mr. Matthew, our domestic wit,
Does promise one of the ten plays h'as writ;
But since great bribes weigh nothing with the just,
Know we have merits and in them we trust.
When any fasts or holidays defer
The public labors of the theatre,
We ride not forth, although the day be fair,
On ambling tit to take the suburb air;
But with our authors meet, and spend that time
To make up quarrels between sense and rhyme.
Wednesday and Fridays constantly we sate,
Till after many a long and free debate,
For divers weighty reasons 'twas thought fit,
Unruly sense should still to rhyme submit.
This, the most wholesome law we ever made,
So strictly in this epilogue obey'd,
Sure no man here will ever dare to break.
Hold, and give way, for I myself will speak;
Can you encourage so much insolence,
And add new faults still to the great offence
Your ancestors so rashly did commit
Against the mighty powers of art and wit?
When they condemn'd those noble works of mine,
Sejanus and my best lov'd Cataline:
Repent, or on your guilty heads shall fall
The curse of many a rhyming pastoral.
The three bold Beauchamps shall revive again,
And with the London prentice conquer Spain.
All the dull follies of the former age,
Shall rise and find applause upon this stage.
But if you pay the great arrears of praise
So long since due to my much-injured plays,
From all past crimes I first will set you free,
And then inspire some one to write like me.
Can you encourage so much insolence,
And add new faults still to the great offence
Your ancestors so rashly did commit
Against the mighty powers of art and wit?
When they condemn'd those noble works of mine,
Sejanus and my best lov'd Cataline:
Repent, or on your guilty heads shall fall
The curse of many a rhyming pastoral.
12
And with the London prentice conquer Spain.
All the dull follies of the former age,
Shall rise and find applause upon this stage.
But if you pay the great arrears of praise
So long since due to my much-injured plays,
From all past crimes I first will set you free,
And then inspire some one to write like me.
| The Poems of Charles Sackville | |