Gallants! look here, this fool's-cap has an air, Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.

yours, now mine.

Let no one fool engross it, or confine,
A common blessing! now 'tis
But poets in all ages had the care
To keep this cap, for such as will, to wear,
Our author has it now, (for every wit

Of course resign'd it to the next that writ :)
And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown;
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.'

PROLOGUE DESIGNED FOR MR. D'URFEY'S
LAST PLAY.'

GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted bard :

Damnation follows death in other men ;

But your damn'd poet lives, and writes again.
Th' adventurous lover is successful still,
Who strives to please the fair against her will:

Thames Street gives cheeses, Covent Garden fruits,

Moorfields old books, and Monmouth Street old suits.

Compare Epistle to Augustus, v. 419.

1 "C. Johnson in the Prologue to his Sultaness thus referred to this exit and the farce :

'Some wags have been, who boldly durst
adventure,

To club a farce by Tripartite indenture,
But let them share their dividend of praise,
And their own Fool's-cap wear instead of
bays.'

Which attack procured him a place in
the Dunciad."-Genest, History of
the Stage, ii. 598.

First published in the Miscellanies, 1727.

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Tom D'Urfey was born about the middle of the seventeenth century, his parents being of French extraction. He was a highly popular writer of farces under Charles II., but fell into destitution in his old age. Through Addison's influence one of his comedies, "The Plotting Sisters," was revived and acted for his benefit, and it is probable that this is the play to which Pope here refers. The proceeds must have been considerable, as D'Urfey appears to have been in fairly easy circumstances at his death in 1723. Compare Pope's letter to Cromwell, of April 10, 1710.

Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,

Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore;
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.

You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,.

If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From his deep fund our author largely draws;
Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.
Though plays for honour in old time he made,
'Tis now for better reasons-to be paid.

Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And seen the death of much immortal song.
He says, poor poets lost, while players won,
As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.
Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,
The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming cheat;
But 'tis substantial happiness, to eat.

Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.

A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS'S
BENEFIT, IN 1733.

WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE
BEFORE HIS DEATH.

As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,

Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry foe:
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?'
A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns;
A desp'rate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:

How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!'
Stood up to dash each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn:'
If there's a critic of distinguished rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's friend.

The fine figure of the Commander in that capital picture of Belisarius, at Chiswick, supplied the poet with this beautiful idea.-WAR

BURTON.

2 Compare Dunciad, ii. 226 and note. 3 Alluding to Dennis's hatred of

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the French, the dragonnades of Louis XIV., and the wooden shoes worn by the French peasantry. Dennis acquired his hatred of every thing French during his travels in

1680.

EPILOGUE TO MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.'

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DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.

PRODIGIOUS this! the frail-one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,

The play may pass-but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't-indeed now-I so hate a whore-

Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;

So from a sister sinner you shall hear,

"How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!"
But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best good-natured things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within:
In some close corner of the soul, they sin;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.

The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners?

Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners.
Well, if our author in the wife offends,

He has a husband that will make amends,
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,

And sure such kind good creatures may be living.

1 Acted in 1713.

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In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse:

Plu-Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife :
Yet if a friend a night or so should need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would scruple make,
But pray, which of you all would take her back!
Tho' with the Stoic Chief our stage may ring,
The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the city :
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's Miss thus perks it in your face;
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,

In all the rest so impudently good;

Faith, let the modest matrons of the town

Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down.'

1 This Epilogue is one of the last written in the style that became fashionable after the Restoration. The corrupt taste of that period found a desirable flavour in witty indecency, particularly when it proceeded from the mouth of a woman. A comparison of the Prologues and

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Epilogues, written even for serious plays, under Charles II., with Pope's own Prologue to Cato and with Johnson's very fine Prologues, is interesting as showing the gradual triumph of good sense and good manners over brazen licentiousness.