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...

UPON HIS FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE DUKE'S THEATRE, AFTER HIS RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, 1682.


    In those cold regions which no summers cheer,
    Where brooding darkness covers half the year,
    To hollow caves the shivering natives go;
    Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow:
    But when the tedious twilight wears away,
    And stars grow paler at the approach of day,
    The longing crowds to frozen mountains run;
    Happy who first can see the glimmering sun:
    The surly savage offspring disappear,
    And curse the bright successor of the year.
    Yet, though rough bears in covert seek defence,
    White foxes stay, with seeming innocence:
    That crafty kind with daylight can dispense.
    Still we are throng'd so full with Reynard's race,<...

    The famed Italian Muse, whose rhymes advance
    Orlando and the Paladins of France,
    Records, that, when our wit and sense is flown,
    'Tis lodged within the circle of the moon,
    In earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd,
    Set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restored.
    Whate'er the story be, the moral's true;
    The wit we lost in town, we find in you.
    Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
    And fill their windy heads with sober sense.
    When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
    Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.
    Here busy senates, to the old cause inclined,
    May snuff the votes their fellows left behind:
    Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear,
    May come, and find their last pro...

    A plain-built[1] house, after so long a stay,
    Will send you half unsatisfied away;
    When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
    A bare convenience only is design'd.
    You, who each day can theatres behold,
    Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
    Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
    And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
    Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
    And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
    Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
    They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
    With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
    We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
    With our small stock to humble roofs retire:
    Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
 ...

    So shipwreck'd passengers 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 shore.
    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 nobler name for charity.
    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...

    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...

    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 friendship, they shall pickle you.
    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:
 ...

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...

    Fools, which each man meets in his dish each day,
    Are yet the great regalios of a play;
    In which to poets you but just appear,
    To prize that highest, which cost them so dear:
    Fops in the town more easily will pass;
    One story makes a statutable ass:
    But such in plays must be much thicker sown,
    Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.
    Observing poets all their walks invade,
    As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade:
    And when they have enough for comedy,
    They stow their several bodies in a pie:
    The poet's but the cook to fashion it,
    For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit.
    To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong;
    None welcome those who bring their cheer along.

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...