University of Virginia Library

THE PROLOGUE.

In this grave Age, is Poetry despis'd;
Which Rome and Athens above Riches priz'd.
Wou'd we were Wise as grave; wou'd we cou'd get
More Signs of Wisdom, than a Scorn o' Wit.
Some swaggering Gallants Poetry deride,
Because it brings not Coin to feed vain Pride.
Though empty Pockets are a heauy Course;
Yet, let me tell you, empty Heads are worse.
And many a Gallant, who looks huffing big,
Ows all his Grandeur to his swinging Wig.
Small Wit he covers with a broad-brimtd Hat.
Ah! What a very foolish Sight is that?
Wit, in its self, does Ornaments contain;
Lawrels, from Poetry, their Lustre gain.
To Fools in Bays, we see, no Honour shew'd;
Who minds a wooden Head in a Commode?
For your own Sakes, show Poetry Esteem,
Least barbr'ous Picts, you to all Nations seem;
And now be both in Wit and War out-done,
In which we once all Nations far out-shone.
Poets you starve out of their noble Rage,
Yet expect Oracles upon the Stage.
Worse than Egyptian Bondage they endure,
Onions and Garlick they can scarce procure;
To make you Brick, indeed you find 'em stuff,
For in your folly they have Straw enough.
Sirs, 'tis good husbandry, this harmless way
Of Poetry, to keep good Wits in pay.
That stream of Wit which here so gently rowls
To knavish Priest-craft, turn'd, might grind your Souls.
Poets are Slaves; by Priests yo've been enslav'd,
Had they been Poets, ah! What had you sav'd?
The lively Images by Poets shown,
Are better Lay mens Books then those in stone.
Wit here to scorn exposes Fools and Knaves,
Elsewhere it plots to make you Fools and Slaves.
Here yo've Wit cheap; but at a heavy rate
Elsewhere you buy't; and get it oft too late.
Pleasure and Profit from the Stage you gain,
Then let not Muses sing to you in vain.
And shew this Muse a little kind regard,
She oft has pleas'd you, and had no Reward.