So may your midnight fcowerings happy prove,
And morning batteries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike hands recal,
But leave you by each other's fwords to fall:
As you come here to ruffle vizard punk,
When fober, rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the wits we can some merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been faid:
Our house relieves the ladies from the frights
Of ill-pav'd streets, and long dark winter nights;
The Flanders horfes from a cold bleak road,
Where bears in furs dare fcarcely look abroad;
The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff,
Of rhyme, more naufeous than three boys in buff.
Though in their house the poets heads appear,
We hope we may presume their wits are here.
The best which they reserv'd they now will play,
For, like kind cuckolds, though w' have not the way
To please, we'll find you abler men who may.
If they should fail, for last recruits we breed
A troop of frisking Monsieurs to fucceed :
You know the French fure cards at time of need.

IV.

}

}

PROLOGUE to the Univerfity of Oxford, 1674. Spoken by Mr. HART.

POETS, your fubjects, have their parts affign'd
T'unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind:

When tir'd with following nature, you think fit
To feek repofe in the cool fhades of wit,

And,

And, from the fweet retreat, with joy furvey
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, through dangerous 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.
Bleft fure are you above all mortal kind,

you can fuit your

mind:

Content to fee, and fhun, thofe 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 Shakespeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonfon's claim,

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;

For Mufes fo fevere are worship'd here,

That, confcious of their faults, they fhun the eye,
And, as prophane, from facred places fly,
Rather than fee 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 fo kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges ftill can pardon moft.

Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd ev'n to the level of their wit;

}

Difdaining

Difdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowledge all their power tranfcends,
As what should be beyond what Is extends.

V.

PROLOGUE to CIRCE.

[By Dr. DA VENANT, 1675.]

WERE you but half so wife as you're fevere,

Our youthful poet fhould not need to fear:

To his green years your cenfures you would fuit,
Not blast the bloffom, but expect the fruit,
The fex, that best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t'other hand.
They check not him that's'aukward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.
Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey,
The youth may prove a man another day.
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and fhort excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of fome flighted maid.
Shakespeare's own Mufe her Pericles firft bore;
The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:
'Tis miracle to see a first good play ;

All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.

}

A

A flender poet must have time to grow,

And spread and burnish as his brothers do.

Who ftill looks lean, fure with some pox is curft:
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.

Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies :
He's not yet fed enough for facrifice.

Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

VI.

EPILOGUE intended to have been spoken by the Lady HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, when CALISTO was acted at Court.

AS Jupiter I made my court in vain ;

I'll now affume my native shape again.

I'm weary to be so unkindly us'd,
And would not be a God to be refus'd.
State grows uneasy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wife remove.
Now as a nymph I need not fue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that fovereign power admits dispute;
Beauty fometimes is juftly abfolute.

Our fullen Cato's, whatfoe'er they say,

Ev'n while they frown and dictate laws, obey.

You, mighty fir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all muft fuffer, take :
Above thofe forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wife to be fevere.

True wisdom may fome gallantry admit,
And foften bufinefs with the charms of wit.
These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,

And fit in peace the arbiter of war :

Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains defpife.
You knew its worth, and made it early príze :
And in its happy leisure sit and see

The promises of more felicity :

Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whofe morning rays like noontide strike and shine:
Whom you to fuppliant monarchs shall dispose,
To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

VII.

EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE, or Sir FOPLING FLUTTER.

[By Sir GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.]

MOST

OST modern wits fuch monftrous fools have
shown,

They seem not of heaven's making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may país;

But there goes more to a fubftantial ass :