John Dryden

        CLARENDON had law and sense,
            Clifford was fierce and brave;
        Bennet's grave look was a pretence,
        And Danby's matchless impudence
            Help'd to support the knave.

        But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory[1],
        These will appear such chits in story,
            'Twill turn all politics to jests,
        To be repeated like John Dory,
            When fiddlers sing at feasts.

        Protect us, mighty Providence!
            What would these madmen have?
        First, they would bribe us without pence,
        Deceive us without common sense,
            And without power enslave.

        Shall free-torn men, in humble awe,
            Submit to servile shame;
        Who from con...

    Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage
    Has lost on this incorrigible age:
    Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,
    Have seem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation:
    But still no sign remains; which plainly notes,
    You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.
    What can we do, when mimicking a fop,
    Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?
    Faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you,
    Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you.
    Satire was once your physic, wit your food:
    One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood:
    We now prescribe, like doctors in despair,
    The diet your weak appetites can bear.
    Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,
    Here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and sho...

    To say, this comedy pleased long ago,
    Is not enough to make it pass 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 Albumazar,
    That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
    Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
    He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
    But Ben made nobly 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 al...

BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ., 1690.

SPOKEN BY MR HART.


    With sickly actors and an old house too,
    We're match'd with glorious theatres and new;
    And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn,
    Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
    If all these ills could not undo us quite,
    A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
    Who with broad bloody bills call you each day
    To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
    Or see some serious piece, which we presume
    Is fallen from some incomparable plume;
    And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
    Send lackeys early to preserve your place.
    We dare not on your privilege intrench,
    Or ask you why you like them? they are French.
    Therefor...

    Our author, by experience, finds it true,
    'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
    And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
    Damns his laborious trifle of a play;
    Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
    But he has now another taste of wit;
    And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
    Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
    Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
    And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
    What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
    Which he presumes the most correct of his;
    But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
    Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name:
    Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
    He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
    An...

    The unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen,
    Lives not to please himself, but other men;
    Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,
    Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.
    What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,
    Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.
    That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,
    Because he thinks himself or whore is meant:
    Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms;
    From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms:
    Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,
    In the bless'd time poor poets live by chance.
    Either you come not here, or, as you grace
    Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
    Careless and qualmish, with a yawning face:
    You sleep o'er wit, and, by my troth, you may;
    Most ...

    Were you but half so wise as you're severe,
    Our youthful poet should not need to fear:
    To his green years your censures you would suit,
    Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.
    The sex, the best does pleasure understand,
    Will always choose to err on the other hand.
    They check not him that's awkward in delight,
    But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.
    Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey,
    The youth may prove a man another day.
    Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
    Did no Volpone, nor Arbaces write;
    But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
    From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
    And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid.
    Shakspeare's own muse her Pericles f...

    The judge removed, though he's no more my lord,
    May plead at bar, or at the council board:
    So may cast poets write; there's no pretension
    To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.
    Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place
    I see not one that wears a damning face.
    The British nation is too brave to show
    Ignoble vengeance on a vanquish'd foe.
    At last be civil to the wretch imploring;
    And lay your paws upon him without roaring.
    Suppose our poet was your foe before,
    Yet now, the business of the field is o'er;
    'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,
    When troops are into winter quarters gone.
    Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;
    And you well know, a play's of no religion.
    Take good advice,...

    Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
    When silly plays so savourily go down;
    As, when clipt money passes, '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;
    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 h...

    True wit has seen its best days long ago;
    It ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show:
    When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost,
    And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost.
    Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done,
    Satire and humour the same fate have run,
    And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.
    Now our machining lumber will not sell,
    And you no longer care for heaven or hell;
    What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell.
    Let them, who the rebellion first began
    To wit restore the monarch, if they can;
    Our author dares not be the first bold man.
    He, like the prudent citizen, takes care
    To keep for better marts his staple ware;
    His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.
    Tric...

    When Athens all the Grecian state did guide,
    And Greece gave laws to all the world beside;
    Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,
    Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit:
    And wit from wisdom differ'd not in those,
    But as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose.
    Then, Oedipus, on crowded theatres,
    Drew all admiring eyes and listening ears:
    The pleased spectator shouted every line,
    The noblest, manliest, and the best design!
    And every critic of each learned age,
    By this just model has reform'd the stage.
    Now, should it fail (as Heaven avert our fear),
    Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear.
    For were it known this poem did not please,
    You might set up for perfect savages:
    Your neighbours would...

ACTED AT OXFORD, 1680.

WRITTEN BY NATHAN LEE.


    Thespis,[1] the first professor of our art,
    At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.
    To prove this true, if Latin be no trespass,
    "Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis."
    But Æschylus, says Horace in some page,
    Was the first mountebank that trod the stage:
    Yet Athens never knew your learned sport
    Of tossing poets in a tennis-court.
    But 'tis the talent of our English nation,
    Still to be plotting some new reformation:
    And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,
    Jack Presbyter shall here erect his throne,
    Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,
    And every prayer be longer than a play.
    Then all your heathen wits shall go to...

SPOKEN TO THE KING AND QUEEN AT THEIR COMING TO THE HOUSE.


    When first the ark was landed on the shore,
    And Heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more;
    When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
    And the new scene of earth began to draw;
    The dove was sent to view the waves' decrease,
    And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
    'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,
    Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
    We have before our eyes the royal dove,
    Still innocent, as harbinger of love:
    The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
    And people with a better race the plain.
    Tell me, ye Powers! why should vain man pursue,
    With endless toil, each object that is new,
    And for the seeming substa...

UPON THE UNION OF THE TWO COMPANIES IN 1686.


        Since faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,
        Their penny scribes take care to inform the nation,
        How well men thrive in this or that plantation:

        How Pennsylvania's air agrees with Quakers,
        And Carolina's with Associators:
        Both even too good for madmen and for traitors.

        Truth is, our land with saints is so run o'er,
        And every age produces such a store,
        That now there's need of two New-Englands more.

        What's this, you'll say, to us and our vocation?
        Only thus much, that we have left our station,
        And made this theatre our new plantation.

        The factious natives never could agree;
        ...

    POETS, like lawful monarchs, ruled the stage,
    Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our age.
    Mark how they jump: critics would regulate
    Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state:
    Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!) hate.
    The critic humbly seems advice to bring;
    The fawning Whig petitions to the king:
    But one's advice into a satire slides;
    The other's petition a remonstrance hides.
    These will no taxes give, and those no pence;
    Critics would starve the poet, Whigs the prince.
    The critic all our troops of friends discards;
    Just so the Whig would fain pull down the guards.
    Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
    As watchful shepherds, that fright beasts of prey.
    Kings, who disband such nee...

    If yet there be a few that take delight
    In that which reasonable men should write;
    To them alone we dedicate this night.
    The rest may satisfy their curious itch
    With city-gazettes, or some factious speech,
    Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
    Stirs up the shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
    Remove your benches, you apostate pit,
    And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;
    Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
    Or see, what's worse, the Devil and the Pope.
    The plays that take on our corrupted stage,
    Methinks, resemble the distracted age;
    Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,
    That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.
    The style of forty-one our poets write,
    And you are grown to judge l...

[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 William...