But why fhou'd I thefe Renegades describe,
When you your felves have seen a lewder Tribe?
Teague has been here, and, to this learned Pit,
With Irish Action flander'd English Wit:
You have beheld such barb'rous Mac's appear,
As merited a fecond Maffacre :
Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace,
And had their Country stamp'd upon their Face.
When Strolers durft prefume to pick your Purse,
We humbly thought our broken Troop not worse.
How ill foe'er our Action may deserve,
Oxford's a Place, where Wit can never starve.
PROLOGUE to the University of
OXFORD.
HO' Actors cannot much of Learning boast,
Of all who want it, we admire it most ;
We love the Praifes of a learned Pit,
As we remotely are ally'd to Wit.
We speak our Poets Wit, and trade in Ore,
Like thofe, who touch upon the Golden Shore:
Betwixt our Judges can diftinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our Poems take:
Mark if the Fools, or Men of Senfe, rejoice;
Whether th' Applaufe be only Sound or Voice.
When our Fop Gallants, or our City Folly
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy :
We doubt that Scene which does their wonder raise,
And, for their Ignorance, contemn their Praise.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
Shou'd not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofly; but this nicer Pit
Examines, fathoms all the Depths of Wit;
The ready Finger lays on every Blot;
Knows what fhou'd juftly pleafe, and what thou'd not.
Nature herfelf lies open to your view;
You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where Out-lines, falfe, and Culours feem too faint,
Where Bunglers dawb, and where true Poets paint.
But by the facred Genius of this Place,
By ev'ry Mufe, by each Domeftick Grace,
Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our Poets hither for Adoption come,
As Nations fu'd to be made free of Rome :
Not in the fuffragating Tribes to stand,
But in your utmoit, last, provincial Band.
If his Ambition may thofe Hopes pursue,
Who with Religion loves your Arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer Name shall be,
Than his own Mother Univerfity.
Thebes did his green, unknowing, Youth engage;
He chooles Athens in his riper Age.
O fay, this Comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now. Yet, Gentlemen, your Ancestors had wit; When few Men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ. And Johnjon, of thofe few the beft, chofe this, As the best Model of his Mafter-piece :
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymift by this Aftrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the Clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did Mould ;
What was another's Lead, becomes his Gold :
Like an unrighteous Conqueror. he Reigns,
Yet Rules that well, which he unjustly Gains.
But this our Age fuch Authors does afford,
As make whole Plays, and yet scarce write one word :
Who, in this Anarchy of Wit, rob all,
And what's their Plunder, their Poffeffion call:
Who, like bold Padders, scorn by Night to prey,
But rob by Sun-fhine, in the Face of Day:
Nay scarce the common Ceremony use
Of, Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,
Mount Pegasus before the Owner's Face.
Faith, if you have fuch Country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true Men to leave that Road.
Yet it were modeft, could it but be faid,
They ftrip the Living, but these rob the Dead ;
Dare with the Mummies of the Mufes play,
And make Love to them the Egyptian way ;
Or, as a Rhiming Author would have faid,
Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead.
Such Men in Poetry may claim fome Part:
They have the License, tho' they want the Art ;
And might, where Theft was prais'd, for Laureats ftand,
Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand.
They make the Benefits of others studying,
Much like the Meals of Politick Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no Man has the Courage;
'Tis all his own when once h' has spit i' th' Porridge.
But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this ;
You are in fault for what they do amiss:
For they their Thefts ftill undifcover'd think,
And durft not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your Decree,
They fhou'd refund; but that can never be.
For fhould you Letters of Reprifal feal,
Thefe Men write that which no Man elfe would fteal.
PROLOGUE to AR VIRAGUS and
PHILICIA Revived:
(By LODOWICK CARLELL, Efq;)
Spoken by Mr. HART.
WITH fickly Actors and an old House too,
We're match'd with glorious Theatres and new, And with our Ale-houfe Scenes, and Clothes bare worn, Can neither raise old Plays, nor new adorn.
If all these Ills could not undo us quite,
A brisk French Troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody Bills call you each day,
To laugh and break your Buttons at their Play ;
Or fee fome ferious Piece, which we presume
Is fall'n from fome incomparable Plume;
And therefore, Meffieurs, if you'll do us Grace,
Send Lacquies early to preserve your Place.
We dare not on your Privilege intrench,
Or ask you why you like 'em? they are French.
Therefore fome go with Courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor fee, but fhow their Breeding
Each Lady ftriving to out-laugh the reft;
To make it seem they understood the Jeft.
Their Countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English where to clap the Play :
Civil Igad! Our Hofpitable Land
Bears all the Charge, for them to understand:
Mean time we languifh, and neglected lie,
Like Wives, while you keep better Company;
And wish for your own fakes, without à Satire,
You'd lefs good Breeding, or had more Good-nature.
PROLOGUE Spoken the first Day of the King's House Alling after the Fire.
O fhipwreck'd Paffengers efcape to Land,
So look they, when on the bare Beach they stand
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,
Expecting Famine on a Defart Shore.
From that hard Climate we must wait for Bread,
Whence e'en the Natives, forc'd by hunger, fled.
Our Stage does human Chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen fo fadily true:
You are chang'd too, and your Pretence to fee
Is but a Nobler Name for Charity.
Your own Provifions furnish out our Feafts,
While you the Founders make your felves the Guests.
Of all Mankind befide Fate had fome Care,
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,
'Tis left a Rent-Charge to the Brave and Fair.
You cherish'd it, and now its Fall you mourn,
Which blind unmanner'd Zealots make their fcorn,
Who think that Fire a Judgment on the Stage,
Which spar'd not Temples in its furious Rage.
But as our new-built City rifes higher,
So from old Theatres may new aspire,
Since Fate contrives Magnificence by Fire.
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