 | A Fine Companion |  |
PROLOGVE.
Critick, Authour.Crit.
Are you the Authour of this Play?
Auth.
What then?
Crit.
Out o' this Poetrie, I wonder what
You doe with this Disease, a seed of Vipers
Spawnd in Parnassus poole, whom the world frownes on,
And heere you vent your poyson on the Stage.
Auth.
What say you sir?
Crit.
Oh you are deafe to all
Sounds, but a Plaudite, and yet you may
Remember, if you please, what entertainment
Some of your Tribe haue had, that haue tooke paynes
To bee contemn'd, and laught at by the Vulgar,
And then ascrib'd it to their ignorance.
I should be loath to see you mooue their spleenes
With no better successe, and then with some
Commendatory Epistles flie to the Presse,
To vindicate your credit.
Aut.
What if I doe?
Crit.
By my consent Ile haue you
Banisht the Stage, proscrib'd, and interdicted
Castalian water, and Poeticall fire.
Aut.
In that you wrong th'approved judgments of
This noble Auditory, who like a Spheare
Mooved by a strong Intelligence, sit round
To crowne our Infant Muse, whose cælestiall
Applause, shee heard at her first entrance.
Crit.
This way of Poetry has deceiv'd many;
For tis not every one that writes a Verse,
Has washt his mouth in Helicon, or slept
On the two topt Parnassus, there's great difference
Betwixt him, that shall write a lawfull Poeme,
And one that makes a paper of loose Verses,
To court his looser Mistresse; there's much ayre
Requir'd to lift up the Dircæan Swanne,
When he shall print his tracts among the clouds:
Not as your ignorant Poetasters vse,
In spight of Phœbus, without Art or Learning,
The loftie Buskin, and the Comick stile.
Aut.
This I confesse; but when the prosperous gale
Of their auspicious breath shall fill our sayles,
And make our high-borne thoughts swell like a tyde:
And when our bolder Muse shall put on Buskins,
And clap on her Talaria on her feet,
Then like swift Mercury, shee may aspire
To a sublimer Region, with that force,
And beare that weighty burthen on her wings,
That shee shall feare to cracke her pineons.
Crit.
Tis this licentious generation
Of Poets, trouble the peace of the whole Towne;
A Constable cann't get his Mayd with child,
A Baker nor a Scrivener loose his eares,
Nor a Iustice of Peace share with his Clerke;
A Lord can't walke drunk with a torch before him,
A Gallant can't bee sufferd to pawne's Breeches,
Or leaue his cloake behind him at a Taverne,
But you must jerke him for it.
Auth.
In all ages
It hath been ever free for Comick Writers,
If there were any that were infamous,
For lust, ambition, or avarice,
To brand them with great liberty, though I
Disclaime the priviledge; no impure language,
As Stygian mud stird up with Charons oare,
Ne're belcht so fowle an ayre, shall ever mixe
With our ingenious mirth, nor need we feare,
Any their foule aspersions; whilst the wise,
Sit to controule and iudge, in whose cleare eyes,
As we deserue, we looke to stand or fall,
Passing prophaner people, and leaue all
To be determined as you censure. Boy
Goe and subscribe it quickly what I say.
Crit.
Hee's growne contemptuous, & flings away
In a rapture; for this, when I am in,
If I can't laugh at's play, Ile laugh at him.
| A Fine Companion | |