PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS.
SPOKEN BEFORE KING CHARLES II.
AMAZE us not with that majestic frown,
But lay aside the greatness of your crown!
And for that look which does your people awe,
When in your throne and robes you give them law,
Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile,
Such as we see great Jove's in picture, while
He listens to Apollo's charming lyre,
Or judges of the songs he does inspire.
Comedians on the stage show all their skill,
And after do as Love and Fortune will.
We are less careful, hid in this disguise;
In our own clothes more serious and more wise.
Modest at home, upon the stage more bold,
We seem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold;
A fault committed here deserves no scorn,
If we act well the parts to which we're born.
PROLOGUE TO THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.'1
SCARCE should we have the boldness to pretend
So long-renown'd a tragedy to mend,
Had not already some deserved your praise
With like attempt. Of all our elder plays
This and Philaster have the loudest fame;
Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame.
1 'Maid's Tragedy': Waller altered this tragedy without success.
In both our English genius is express'd;
Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd.
Above our neighbours our conceptions are;
But faultless writing is th' effect of care.
Our lines reform'd, and not composed in haste,
Polished like marble, would like marble last.1
But as the present, so the last age writ;
In both we find like negligence and wit.
Were we but less indulgent to our faults,
And patience had to cultivate our thoughts,
Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage
Would honour this than did the Grecian stage.
Thus says our author, not content to see
That others write as carelessly as he;
Though he pretends not to make things complete,
Yet, to please you, he'd have the poets sweat.
In this old play, what's new we have express'd
In rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest;
That as the Rhone its hasty way does make
(Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake,
So having here the different styles in view,
You may compare the former with the new.
If we less rudely shall the knot untie,
Soften the rigour of the tragedy,
And yet preserve each person's character,
Then to the other this you may prefer.
'Tis left to you: the boxes and the pit,
Are sov'reign judges of this sort of wit.
In other things the knowing artist may
Judge better than the people; but a play,
(Made for delight, and for no other use)
If you approve it not, has no excuse.
1 'Marble last': these lines occur in a previous poem.
EPILOGUE TO THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.'
THE fierce Melantius was content, you see,
The king should live; be not more fierce than he;
Too long indulgent to so rude a time,
When love was held so capital a crime,
That a crown'd head could no compassion find,
But died-because the killer had been kind!
Nor is 't less strange, such mighty wits as those
Should use a style in tragedy like prose.
Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage,
Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades;
And verses are the potent charms we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.
When next we act this tragedy again,
Unless you like the change, we shall be slain.
The innocent Aspasia's life or death,
Amintor's too, depends upon your breath.
Excess of love was heretofore the cause;
Now if we die, 'tis want of your applause.
ANOTHER EPILOGUE TO THE MAID'S
TRAGEDY.'
DESIGNED UPON THE FIRST ALTERATION OF THE PLAY,
WHEN THE KING ONLY WAS LEFT ALIVE.
ASPASIA bleeding on the stage does lie,
To show you still 'tis the Maid's Tragedy.
The fierce Melantius was content, you see,
The king should live; be not more fierce than he;
Too long indulgent to so rude a time,
When love was held so capital a crime,
That a crown'd head could no compassion find,
But died-because the killer had been kind!
This better-natured poet had reprieved
Gentle Amintor too, had he believed
The fairer sex his pardon could approve,
Who to ambition sacrificed his love.
Aspasia he has spared; but for her wound
(Neglected love!) there could no salve be found.
When next we act this tragedy again,
Unless you like the change, I must be slain.
Excess of love was heretofore the cause;
Now if I die, 'tis want of your applause.
EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAGMENTS.
UNDER A LADY'S PICTURE.
SUCH Helen was! and who can blame the boy 1
That in so bright a flame consumed his Troy?
But had like virtue shined in that fair Greek,
The am'rous shepherd had not dared to seek
Or hope for pity; but with silent moan,
And better fate, had perished alone.
OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA.
WHILE she pretends to make the graces known
Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own;
And when she would another's praise indite,
Is by her glass instructed how to write.
TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN.
SINCE thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!)
Be buried in those monumental arms,
All we can wish is, may that earth lie light
Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night.
AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH,
WERE men so dull they could not see
That Lyce painted; should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net
So grossly woven and ill set,
Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.
Those teeth fair Lyce must not show
If she would bite; her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are disabused when first she gapes;
The rotten bones discover'd there,
Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.
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