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,
1 This prologue was spoken by Theophilus Cibber, 18th December, 1733. The play acted was "The Pro
voked Husband," and Dennis got £100 by it. He died 6th January, 1734, aged 77.
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
2 Compare Dunciad, ii. 226 and note. 3 Alluding to Dennis's hatred of
the French, the dragonnades of Louis XIV., and the wooden shoes worn by the French peasantry. Dennis acquired his hatred of everything French during his travels in 1680.
EPILOGUE TO MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.'
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.
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.'
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
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.
IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.
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