University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE.

Religious Broyles to such a height are grown,
All the sweet sound of Poetry they drown.
Were Orpheus here his Lute might charm our Beasts,
Our Mastiffs, not our Rabble, or our Priests.
Good Heaven! Sirs! are there no other ways
To damn the Pope, but damning all our Plays?
To our Religion 'tis no Praise at all,
That, if our Wit must stand, our Faith must fall.
All parties in a Play-House may agree,
The Stage is priviledg'd from Piety.
'Tis pleasant, Sirs, to see you fight and brawl
About Religion, but have none at all.
Most fiercely for the Road to Heav'n contend,
But never care to reach the Journeys end.
Though you lose Heaven, you will keep the Way,
The Pope sha'n't have you, though the Devil may.
These things such business for the Criticks find,
They're not at leasure Poetry to mind,
Well for the Poet 'tis they're so employ'd;
Else this poor Work of his wou'd be destroy'd.
For by his feeble Skill 'tis built alone,
The Divine Shakespear did not lay one Stone.
Besides this Tragedy a Rod will prove,
To whip us for a Fault, we too much Love,
And have for ages liv'd, call'd Civil Strife.
The English Nation, like a Russian Wife,
Is to a gentle Husband always curst.
And loves him best, who uses her the worst.
This Poet, (though perhaps in Colours faint)
Those scurvy Joys does in all Postures Paint
Fools take in pelting out each others Brains:
A joy, for which this Nation oft takes pains.
If any like the Ills he shews to day,
Let them be damn'd and let them damn the Play.