Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass ;
But there goes more to a substantial ass :
Something of man must be exposed to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,

The ladies would mistake him for a wit;

you.

And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
I vow, methinks, he's pretty company :

So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined,

As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

True fops help nature's work, and go to school
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.

His various modes from various fathers follow;

One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:
His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;

And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,

Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.
Another's diving bow he did adore,

Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,

These sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

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XIX.

EPILOGUE TO "ALL FOR LOVE."

POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left-and that's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit ;
And this is all their equipage of wit.

We wonder how the devil this difference grows,
Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
"Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;
And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot:
For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can ;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple best become his face.

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Nor likes your wit, just as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.

He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall.
Let Cæsar's power the men's ambition move,
But grace you him who lost the world for love!
Yet if some antiquated lady say,

The last age is not copied in his play;

Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge,
Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.
Let not the young and beauteous join with those ;
For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,
Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call;
'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

XX.

PROLOGUE TO "LIMBERHAM."

TRUE wit has seen its best days long ago;

It ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show:
When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost,
And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost.

Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done,
Satire and humour the same fate have run,
And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.
Now our machining lumber will not sell,

And you no longer care for heaven or hell;

What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell. 10

Let them, who the rebellion first began

To wit restore the monarch, if they can;
Our author dares not be the first bold man.
He, like the prudent citizen, takes care
To keep for better marts his staple ware;

His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.
Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,
'Tis time enough at Easter to invent;

No man will make up a new suit for Lent.
If now and then he takes a small pretence,
To forage for a little wit and sense,

Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.
Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,
That all the critics shall be shipp'd away,
And not enow be left to damn a play.
To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind:
But drive away that swarm with such a wind,
That not one locust may be left behind!

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You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die :
And much you care; for most of you will cry,
'Twas a just judgment on their constancy.
For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the stage:
And even those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent desire;
'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our sex, the name examined well,
'Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis of subtle interest made:
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool presume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold;
But glorious beauty is not to be sold:
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,

That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.

'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,

Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;

And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.

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XXII.

PROLOGUE TO "EDIPUS."

WHEN Athens all the Grecian state did guide,
And Greece gave laws to all the world beside;
Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,
Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit:
And wit from wisdom differ'd not in those,
But as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose.
Then, Edipus, on crowded theatres,
Drew all admiring eyes and listening ears:
The pleased spectator shouted every line,
The noblest, manliest, and the best design!
And every critic of each learned age,
By this just model has reform'd the stage.
Now, should it fail (as Heaven avert our fear),
Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear.
For were it known this poem did not please,
You might set up for perfect savages:
Your neighbours would not look on you as men,
But think the nation all turn'd Picts again.
Faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit
You should suspect yourselves of too much wit:
Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece;
And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece.
See twice do not pellmell to damning fall,
Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all:
Pray be advised; and though at Mons you won,
On pointed cannon do not always run.
With some respect to ancient wit proceed;
You take the four first councils for your creed.

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