University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE, Written by Mr. Dryden.

Th 'unhappy man, who once has trail'd a Pen,
Lives not to please himself but other Men:
Is always drudging, wasts his Life and Blood,
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good:
What praise soe're the Poetry deserve,
Yet every Fool can bid the Poet starve:
That sumbling Lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or Whore is meant:
Name but a Cuckold, all the City swarms
From Leaden-hall to Ludgate is in Arms.
Were there no fear of Antichrist or France,
In the best times poor Poets live by chance.
Either you come not here, or as you grace
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face.
You sleep o're Wit, and by my troth you may,
Most of your Talents lye another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious Tale,
The Bell that toil'd alone, or Irish Whale.
News is your Food, and you enough provide,
Both for your selves and all the World beside.
One Theatre there is of vast resort,
Which whilome of Requests was call'd the Court.
But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,
And full of hum and buzz from Noon till Night:
Up Stairs and down you run as for a Race,
And each man wears three Nations in his Face.
So big you look, tho' Claret you retrench,
That arm'd with bottled Ale; you huff the French:
But all your Entertainment still is fed
By Villains, in our own dull Island bred:
Would you return to us, we dare engage
To show you better Rogues upon the Stage:
You know no Poison but plain Rats-bane here,
Death's more refin'd, and better bred elsewhere.
They have a civil way in Italy
By smelling a perfume to make you dye,
A Trick would make you lay your Snuff-box by:
Murder's a Trade—so known and practis'd there,
That 'tis Infallible as is the Chair—
But mark their Feasts, you shall behold such Pranks,
The Pope says Grace, but 'tis the Devil gives Thanks.