University of Virginia Library

The Prologue to the First Part.

A poet lately by you sent to Hell
Justly, as he acknowledg'd when he fell:
His discontented Spirit walks around
This Stage, where he receiv'd his mortal Wound.
Seeking the reason why he walks, we find
'Tis to reveal hid Treasure left behind;
Not to build Tombs of honour to his Name,
But ransome us his suff'ring friends from shame.
Some thought because he had not on the Stage,
Ranted it oft in huffing Equipage,
Profusely lavish'd all his wealth away
On some one lov'd and perhaps jilting Play,
(As some unhappily have done before)
That living niggardly he died but poor;
As if that wasting were the way to gain,
A Maxime ner'e will within Ludgate reign.
Two Chests of Rubbish, which we Bullion call,
We find of his, our skill indeed is small,
Artists alone know Mettle in the Oare,
But if it Silver prove we still are poor;
If you Wit's Senators will judge it Brass;
You may instead of Gold make Leather pass,
As you have done sometimes by Soveraign Power.
And if you do, Wit has no Emperour
To whom he may appeal from your Decrees,
'Tis one of Wits severest destinies
Still by a damn'd Republick to be rul'd;
Where Men by names of Liberty are fool'd:
Where Vertues are by Vices still out-brav'd,
And bravest Men are oft by Slaves enslav'd.
Never was born a Monarch yet in Wit,
And none by force that Throne cou'd ever get,
Though Usurpation all of you design,
And every Senator's a Cataline.
Keep these great Plots among your own high Tribe,
But do not Slaves for Senators prescribe?
Poets are Slaves, who but for your delight,
Toil in the Muses Gardens day and night.
If blood you love, then stab some living Slave;
Let this dead wretch lie quiet in his Grave.