PROLOGUE. Spoken the first Day of the King's
House Acting after the Fire.
So shipwreck'd passengers escape 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 desert 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 seen so sadly true :
You are changed too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provisions furnish out our feasts,
While you
the founders make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind beside, Fate had some 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 scorn;
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spar'd not temples in its furious rage.
These Prologues and Epilogues are, as nearly as we could prove, here printed in their order of time; and for the dates of many of them we are particularly obliged to Mr. Garrick, who, with great civility, gave us the use of his fine Collection of old Quarto Plays. Advertisement to Dryden's Miscella nies, edit. 1760.
But as our new-built City rises higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since Fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far surpass
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was.
Our wit, as far, does foreign wit excel,
And like a king, should in a palace dwell,
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed.
Your presence here, for which we humbly sue,
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
PROLOGUE. Spoken at the Opening of the New
House, March 26, 1674.
APLAIN-B
PLAIN-BUILT house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfy'd away;
When, fall'n from your expected pomp, you
A bare convenience, only, is design'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean, ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
Yet, now, cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit (since we can make but one)
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gaudry known.
They who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty sums may carry on the trade;
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire;
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honor we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live ;
Unable to support their vast expence,
Who build and treat with such magnificence,—
That, like th' ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendor on the less:
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
Th' extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride, with want, may be allow'd,
We, in our plainness, may be justly proud:
Our Royal Master will'd it should be so;
Whate'er he's pleas'd to own can need no show;
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass.
'Twere folly, now, a stately pile to raise ;
To build a playhouse, while ye throw down plays;
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And, for the pencil, you the pen disdain ;
While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whose alms you* live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conqu'rors of the Norman race:
*They must have been intended.
More tamely than
your fathers you submit ;
You're now grown vassals to them, in your
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance
The mighty merits of their men of France,
Keep time, cry Bon, and humour the cadence.
Well, please yourselves; but şure 'tis understood
That French machines have ne'er done England
I would not prophesy our House's fate ; [good,
But while vain shows, and scenes, you over-rate,
That as a fire the former House o'erthrew,
Machines and tempests will destroy the New.
PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, 1674, Spoken by Mr. HART.
POETS, your subjects, have their parts assign'd
Tunbend, and to divert the sovʼreign's mind:
When, tir'd with following Nature, you think fit
To seek repose in the cool shades of Wit,
And, from the sweet retreat, with joy, survey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way;
Here, (free yourselves from envy, care, and strife,)
You view the various turns of human life :
Safe in our scene, thro' dang'rous courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know.
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought:
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere of crystal shew'd the great,
Bless'd, sure, are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can suit your mind;
Content to see, and, shun those ills we show,
And crimes on theatres, alone, to know.
With joy, we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit;
That Shakspear's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear,
For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see th' offended God and die.
We bring no imperfections but our own;
Such faults as made, are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop when they would please our pit,
Debas'd e'en to the level of their wit;
Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating, themselves, what their applause must make ;
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Tho' they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher,
So far your knowledge all their pow'r transcends,
As what should be beyond what is extends.
|