Nature was out of countenance, and each day
Some new-born monster fhewn you for a play.
But when all fail'd, to ftrike the stage quite dumb,
Those wicked engines call'd machines are come.
Thunder and lightning now for wit are play'd,
And shortly scenes in Lapland will be laid:
Art magic is for poetry profest;
And cats and dogs, and each obscener beast,
To which Ægyptian dotards once did bow,
Upon our English ftage are worship'd now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown
Macbeth and Simon Magus of the town,
Fletcher's defpis'd, your Jonfon's out of fashion,
And Wit the only drug in all the nation.
In this low ebb our wares to you are shown ;
By you those staple authors worth is known;
For wit's a manufacture of your own.
When you, who only can, their scenes have prais'd,
We'll boldly back, and fay, the price is rais'd.
EPILOGUE, fpoken at OXFORD,
by Mrs. MARSHALL.
OFT has our poet wifh'd, this happy feat
Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat:
I wonder'd at his wifh, but now I find
He fought for quiet, and content of mind;
Which noiseful towns and courts can never know,
And only in the fhades like laurels grow.
Youth, ere it fees the world, here studies reft,
And age returning thence concludes it beft.
What wonder if we court that happiness
Yearly to share, which hourly you poffefs,
Teaching ev'n you, while the vext world we show,
Your peace to value more, and better know?
'Tis all we can return for favours past,
Whofe holy memory shall ever last,
For patronage from him whofe care prefides
O'er every noble art, and every science guides:
Bathurst, a name the learn'd with reverence know,
And fcarcely more to his own Virgil owe;
Whofe age enjoys but what his youth deserv'd,
To rule thofe Mufes whom before he ferv'd.
His learning, and untainted manners too,
We find, Athenians, are deriv'd to you
Such antient hospitality there rests
In yours, as dwelt in the firft Grecian breasts,
Whofe kindness was religion to their guests.
Such modefty did to our sex appear,
As, had there been no laws, we need not fear,
Since each of you was our protector here.
Converfe fo chafte, and so strict virtue shown,
As might Apollo with the Mufes own.
Till our return, we muft defpair to find
Judges fo juft, fo knowing, and fo kind.
PROLOGUE to the University of OXFORD.
Difcord, and plots, which have undone our age,
With the fame ruin have o'erwhelm'd the stage.
Our houfe has fuffer'd in the common woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.
Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,
And of our fifters, all the kinder-hearted,
To Edinburgh gone, or coach'd, or carted.
With bonny bluecap there they act all night
For Scotch half-crown, in English three-pence hight.
One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falftaff's lean,
There with her fingle person fills the scene.
Another, with long ufe and age decay'd,
Div'd here old woman, and rofe there a maid.
Our trusty door-keepers of former time
There ftrut and fwagger in heroic rhyme.
Tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit,
And there's a hero made without dispute:
And that, which was a capon's tail before,
Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.
But all his fubjects, to exprefs the care
Of imitation, go, like Indians, bare:
Lac'd linen there would be a dangerous thing;
It might perhaps a new tebellion bring;
The Scot, who wore it, would be chofen king.
But why fhould I these renegades describe,
When you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe ?
VOL. II.
S
Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit,
With Irish action flander'd English wit :
You have beheld fuch barbarous Macs appear,
As merited a fecond maffacre:
Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace,
And had their country ftamp'd upon their face.
When ftrolers durft presume to pick your purse,
We humbly thought our broken troop not worse.
How ill foe'er our action may deferve,
Oxford's a place where wit can never starve,
PROLOGUE to the University of OXFORD.
HOUGH actors cannot much of learning boast,
Of all who want it, we admire it most :
We love the praises of a learned pit,
As we remotely are ally'd to wit.
We speak our pocts' wit; and trade in ore,
Like thofe, who touch upon the golden fhore:
Betwixt our judges can diftinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our poems take:
Mark if the fools, or men of fenfe, rejoice;
Whether th' applause be only found or voice.
When our fop gallants, or our city folly,
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy :
We doubt that scene which does their wonder raife,
And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofsly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;
The ready finger lays on every blot;
Knows what should jußly please, and what should not.
Nature herself lies open to your view ;
You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines falfe, and colours feem too faint,
Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.
But, by the facred genius of this place,
By every Muse, by each domestic grace,
Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, prefumes not to excel.
Our poets hither for adoption come,
As nations fued to be made free of Rome :
Not in the fuffragating tribes to stand,
But in your utmoft, laft, provincial band.
If his ambition may thofe hopes pursue,
Who with religion loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,
Than his own mother university.
Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth engage;
He chooses Athens in his riper age.
EPILOGUE to CONSTANTINE the GREAT. [By Mr. N. LEE, 1684.]
OUR hero's happy in the play's conclufion;
The holy rogue at laft has met confusion:
Though Arius all along appear'd a faint,
The laft act fhew'd him a true Proteftant.
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