The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume Ii Part 30

[Footnote 65: This prologue was forbid by the Earl of Dorset, then Lord Chamberlain, after the first day of its being spoken.]

[Footnote 66: King William was at this time prosecuting the war in Ireland.]

XLIV.

PROLOGUE TO "THE MISTAKES."

BY JOSEPH HARRIS, COMEDIAN, 1690. (WRITTEN BY SOME OTHER.)

_Enter Mr Bright._

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no Prologue to be had to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him.

_Enter Mr Bowen._

Hold your prating to the audience: here is honest Mr Williams, just come in, half mellow, from the Rose Tavern. He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own or something like one. Oh, here he comes to his trial, at all adventures: for my part I wish him a good deliverance.

[_Exeunt Mr Bright and Mr Bowen._

_Enter Mr Williams._

Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way.

I should speak something in rhyme, now, for the play: But the deuce take me, if I know what to say.

I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye, To the last drop of claret in my belly.

So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting: And, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting.

Our young poet has brought a piece of work, In which, though much of art there does not lurk, It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork. 10 But for this play (which till I have done, we show not) What may be its fortune--by the Lord! I know not.

This I dare swear, no malice here is writ: 'Tis innocent of all things--even of wit.

He's no highflier--he makes no sky-rockets, His squibs are only levell'd at your pockets.

And if his crackers light among your pelf, You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.

By this time, I'm something recover'd of my fl.u.s.ter'd madness: And now, a word or two in sober sadness. 20 Ours is a common play; and you pay down A common harlot's price--just half-a-crown.

You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er: For many a mother has done that before.

How's this? you cry; an actor write?--we know it; But Shakspeare was an actor, and a poet.

Has not great Jonson's learning often fail'd?

But Shakspeare's greater genius still prevail'd.

Have not some writing actors, in this age, 30 Deserved and found success upon the stage?

To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired, Not one of us but means to be inspired.

Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; Peace and the b.u.t.t is all our business here: So much for that;--and the devil take small beer.

XLV.

PROLOGUE TO "KING ARTHUR."

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.

Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town, When silly plays so savourily go down; As, when clipt money pa.s.ses, 'tis a sign A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.

Happy is he who, in his own defence, Can write just level to your humble sense; Who higher than your pitch can never go; And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.

So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord, A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board; 10 He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks, Secured by weakness not to reach the box.

A feeble poet will his business do, Who, straining all he can, comes up to you: For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.

An ape his own dear image will embrace; An ugly beau adores a hatchet face: So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature, Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow-creature.

In fear of which, our house has sent this day, 20 To insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play; No sooner named, than one cries out, These stagers Come in good time, to make more work for wagers.

The town divides, if it will take or no: The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too; A sign they have but little else to do.

Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise, Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies: But now they're grown a common trade for all, And actions by the new book rise and fall; 30 Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.

One policy as far as Lyons carries; Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.

Our bets, at last, would e'en to Rome extend, But that the pope has proved our trusty friend.

Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money, Could we insure another Ottoboni.

Among the rest there are a sharping set, That pray for us, and yet against us bet.

Sure Heaven itself is at a loss to know 40 If these would have their prayers be heard, or no: For, in great stakes, we piously suppose, Men pray but very faintly they may lose.

Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking, The city needs not your new tricks for breaking: And if you gallants lose, to all appearing, You'll want an equipage for volunteering; While thus, no spark of honour left within ye, When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.

XLVI.

PROLOGUE TO "ALb.u.mAZAR."[67]

To say, this comedy pleased long ago, Is not enough to make it pa.s.s you now.

Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit; When few men censured, and when fewer writ.

And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this As the best model of his masterpiece.

Subtle was got by our Alb.u.mazar, That Alchymist by this Astrologer; Here he was fas.h.i.+on'd, and we may suppose He liked the fas.h.i.+on well, who wore the clothes. 10 But Ben made n.o.bly his what he did mould; What was another's lead becomes his gold: Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns, Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains.

By this our age such authors does afford, As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word: Who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all, And what's their plunder, their possession call: Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey, But rob by suns.h.i.+ne, in the face of day: 20 Nay, scarce the common ceremony use Of, Stand, sir, and deliver up your Muse; But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace, Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.

Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad, 'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.

Yet it were modest, could it but be said, They strip the living, but these rob the dead; Dare with the mummies of the Muses play, And make love to them the Egyptian way; 30 Or, as a rhyming author would have said, Join the dead living to the living dead.

Such men in poetry may claim some part: They have the licence, though they want the art; And might, where theft was praised, for Laureates stand,-- Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.

They make the benefits of others' studying, Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding, Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage; 'Tis all his own, when once he has spit in the porridge. 40 But, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this; You are in fault for what they do amiss: For they their thefts still undiscover'd think, And durst not steal unless you please to wink.

Perhaps you may award, by your decree, They should refund; but that can never be.

For should your letters of reprisal seal, These men write that which no man else would steal.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 67: An old play written by one Tomkins, four years, however, after Jonson's "Alchymist," and resuscitated in 1668.]