The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume Ii Part 21

He saw his way; but in so swift a pace, To choose the ground might be to lose the race.

They, then, who of each trip the advantage take, Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

VIII.

EPILOGUE TO THE WILD GALLANT,

WHEN REVIVED.

Of all dramatic writing, comic wit, As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit, For it lies all in level to the eye, Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.

Humour is that which every day we meet, And therefore known as every public street; In which, if e'er the poet go astray, You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.

But, what's so common, to make pleasant too, Is more than any wit can always do. 10 For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat; To make regalios out of common meat.

But, in your diet, you grow savages: Nothing but human flesh your taste can please; And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began, So you, at each new play, must have a man.

Hither you come, as to see prizes fought; If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is nought.

But fools grow wary now: and, when they see A poet eyeing round the company, 20 Straight each man for himself begins to doubt; They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.

Few of them will be found for public use, Except you charge an oaf upon each house, Like the train bands, and every man engage For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage, And when, with much ado, you get him there, Where he in all his glory should appear.

Your poets make him such rare things to say, That he's more wit than any man i' th' play: 30 But of so ill a mingle with the rest, As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.

Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show, As tawdry squires in country churches do.

Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make A comedy, which should the knowing take, That our dull poet, in despair to please, Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.

'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay; You therefore must some other impost lay. 40 Would you but change, for serious plot and verse, This motley garniture of fool and farce, Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home, Which does, like vests, our gravity become, Our poet yields you should this play refuse: As tradesmen, by the change of fas.h.i.+ons, lose, With some content, their fripperies of France, In hope it may their staple trade advance.

IX.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN THE FIRST DAY OF THE KING'S HOUSE ACTING AFTER THE FIRE OF LONDON.

So s.h.i.+pwreck'd pa.s.sengers 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 sh.o.r.e.

From that hard climate we must wait for bread, Whence even the natives, forced 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 n.o.bler name for charity. 10 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 spared not temples in its furious rage.

But as our new-built city rises higher, 20 So from old theatres may new aspire, Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.

Our great metropolis does far surpa.s.s 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. 30

X.

EPILOGUE TO THE SECOND PART OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA.

They who have best succeeded on the stage, Have still conform'd their genius to their age.

Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show, When men were dull, and conversation low.

Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coa.r.s.e: Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse.

And, as their comedy, their love was mean; Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene, Which must atone for an ill-written play.

They rose, but at their height could seldom stay. 10 Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; And they have kept it since, by being dead.

But, were they now to write, when critics weigh Each line, and every word, throughout a play, None of them, no not Jonson in his height, Could pa.s.s, without allowing grains for weight.

Think it not envy, that these truths are told: Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold.

'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown, But, by their errors, to excuse his own. 20 If love and honour now are higher raised, 'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.

Wit's now arrived to a more high degree: Our native language more refined and free.

Our ladies and our men now speak more wit In conversation, than those poets writ.

Then, one of these is, consequently, true: That what this poet writes comes short of you, And imitates you ill (which most he fears), Or else his writing is not worse than theirs. 30 Yet though you judge (as sure the critics will), That some before him writ with greater skill, In this one praise he has their fame surpa.s.s'd, To please an age more gallant than the last.

XI.

PROLOGUE TO AMBOYNA.[46]

As needy gallants in the scrivener's hands, Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands, The first fat buck of all the season's sent, And keeper takes no fee in compliment: The dotage of some Englishmen is such, To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.

They shall have all, rather than make a war With those who of the same religion are.

The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too, Nay, to keep friends.h.i.+p, they shall pickle you. 10 Some are resolved not to find out the cheat, But, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat: What injuries soe'er upon us fall, Yet, still the same religion answers all: Religion wheedled you to civil war, Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare: Be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true, They have no more religion, faith--than you; Interest's the G.o.d they wors.h.i.+p in their state; And you, I take it, have not much of that. 20 Well, monarchies may own religion's name, But states are atheists in their very frame.

They share a sin, and such proportions fall, That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.

How they love England, you shall see this day; No map shows Holland truer than our play: Their pictures and inscriptions well we know; We may be bold one medal sure to show.

View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty; And think what once they were, they still would he: 30 But hope not either language, plot, or art; 'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart: And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be As much improper, as would honesty.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 46: 'Amboyna:' a play written against the Dutch.]

XII.

EPILOGUE TO AMBOYNA.

A Poet once the Spartans led to fight, And made them conquer in the muse's right; So would our poet lead you on this day, Showing your tortured fathers in his play.

To one well born the affront is worse, and more, When he's abused and baffled by a boor: With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do, They've both ill nature and ill manners too.