University of Virginia Library

THE PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mr. Horden.
To write a Play is pure Poetick Rage,
For you're so hard to please in this Nice Age,
Who less than mad wou'd Scribble for the Stage?
Poets, of their new Plays so vainly fond,
Mistake the Bristol for the Diamond.
But when Reviv'd Philaster does appear,
We come secure, bring Sterling Merit here.
A stanch Old Orient, with true Lustre drest;
Wit that has stood the Hammer, bore the Test.
No Poet shall by this Day's Doom be kill'd:
We safely fight behind great Fletcher's Shield.
That good old Play Philaster ne're can fail,
But we Young Actors how shall we prevail?
Philaster and Bellario, let me tell ye,
For those Bold Parts we have no Hart, no Nelly;
Those Darlings of the Stage, that charm'd you there;
Our feebler Strength must of their Heights despair.
We're tender Buds, till you the Lords o'th'Soil
Warm us to Life by your Auspicious Smile.
The Elder Heroes of the other Stage
Were Striplings once of our young Beardless Age;
And to Perfection did not leap, but climb:
Merit's the Product of long Growth and Time.
Who push for Fame by fair Degrees must strike;
A General in the Field has trail'd a Pike.
Grant us this first our Tryal-Year alone;
Ecxpect Performance when our Wings are grown:
Let our Pen-feather'd Strength this Favour borrow,
Only to Creep to day, and Soar to morrow.