FAIREST isle, all isle excelling,
Seat of pleasures and of love;
Venus here will choose her dwelling,
And forsake her Cyprian groves,
Cupid from his favourite nation
Care and envy will remove;
Jealousy, that poisons passion,
And despair, that dies for love.
Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining,
Sighs, that blow the fire of love;
Soft repulses, kind disdaining,

Shall be all the pains you prove. Every swain shall pay his duty, Grateful every nymph shall prove And as these excel in beauty,

Those shall be renown'd for love.

SONG OF JEALOUSY, IN LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

WHAT state of life can be so blest
As love, that warms a lover's breast?
Two souls in one, the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require!
But if in heaven a hell we find,

'T is all from thee,

The Queen of Islands must appear

'T is all from thee,

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind!

All other ills, though sharp they prove,
Serve to refine, and perfect love:
In absence, or unkind disdain,
Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain.
But, ab! no cure but death we find,
To set us free

From Jealousy:

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind!

False in thy glass all objects are,
Some set too near, and some too far;
Thou art the fire of endless night,

The fire that burns, and gives no light.
All torments of the damn'd we find
In only thee,

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind!

A SECOND PROLOGUE ENTERS.

2. Hold; would you admit For judges all you see within the pit?

1. Whom would he then except, or on what score ? [fore;

2. All who (like him) have writ ill plays be-
For they, like thieves condemn'd, are hangmen
To execute the members of their trade. [made,
All that are writing now he would disown,
But then he must except-even all the town;
All choleric, losing gamesters, who in spite,
Will damn to-day, because they lost last night;
All servants, whom their mistress' scorn up-
braids;

All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;
All, who are out of humour, or severe;
All, that want wit, or hope to find it here.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE TO THE RIVAL LADIES.

'T is much desir'd, you judges of the town Would pass a vote to put all prologues down : For who can show me, since they first were writ,

They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
Yet the world's mended well; in former days
Good prologues were as scarce as now good
For the reforming poets of our age [plays.
In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
Expect no more when once the prologue's
The wit is ended ere the play's begun. [done;
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and
rhymes;

High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it not;
They blow out candles to give light to th' plot.
And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
Fight till they die, then rise and dance again.
Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day,
But blame yourselves, not him who writ the
play:

Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,
Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired:
He's bound to please, not to write well; and
knows

There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;
Therefore, kind judges....

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.

You see what shifts we are enforc'd to try,
To help out wit with some variety;

Shows may be found that never yet were seen,
"T is hard to find such wit as ne'er has been :
You have seen all that this old world can do,
We, therefore, try the fortune of the new,
And hope it is below your aim to hit

here.

At untaught nature with your practis'd wit: Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear, Would as soon choose to have the Spaniards [show, "T is true you have marks enough, the plot, the The poet's scenes, nay, more, the painters too; If all this fail, considering the cost, 'T is a true voyage to the Indies lost : But if you smile on all, then these designs, Like the imperfect treasure of our minds, Will for current wheresoe'er they go, pass When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN EMPEROR.

BY A MERCURY.

To all and singular in this full meeting,
Ladies and gallants, Phoebus send ye greeting.
To all his sons, by whate'er title known,
Whether of court, or coffee house, or town;
From his most mighty sons, whose confidence
Is plac'd in lofty sound, and humble sense,
Even to his little infants of the time, [rhyme;
Who write new songs, and trust in tune and
Be't known, that Phoebus (being daily grieved
To see good plays condemn'd, and bad re-
ceived)

Ordains your judgment upon every cause,
Henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws.
He first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance
His censure farther than the song or dance.
Your wit burlesque may one step higher climb,
And in his sphere may judge all doggerel rhyme;
All proves, and inoves, and loves, and honours

too;

All that appears high sense, and scarce is low.
As for the coffee wits, he says not much;
Their proper business is to damn the Dutch:
For the great dons of wit—

Phoebus gives them full privilege alone,
To damn all others, and cry up their own.

Last, for the ladies, 't is Apollo's will,
They should have power to save, but not to kill:
For love and he long since have thought it fit,
Wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit.

PROLOGUE TO SIR MARTIN MARRALL.

FOOLS, which each man meets in his disn 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, [glade:
As men watch woodcocks gliding through a
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
To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong,
None welcome those who bring their cheer
along.

[wit.

I must confess 't was bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magic supernatural things:
But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's.
Those legends from old priesthood were re-
ceived,

And he then writ, as people then believed.
But if for Shakespeare we your grace implore,
We for our theatre shall want it more: [ploy
Who, by our dearth of youths, are forc'd to em-
One of our women to present a boy;
And that's a transformation, you will say,
Exceeding all the magic in the play.
Let none expect in the last act to find
Her sex transform'd from man to womankind.
Whate'er she was before the play began,
All you shall see of her is perfect man.

PROLOGUE TO TYRANNIC LOVE.

SELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood, Makes poets still conclude their plays are good, And malice in all critics reigns so high, That for small errors, they whole plays decry; So that to see this fondness, and that spite, You'd think that none but madmen judge or Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit [write. To impose upon you what he writes for wit: So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free, You equal judges of the whole will be: They judge but half, who only faults will see. Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare, They spoil their business with an over care; And he, who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence. Hence 't is, our poet, in his conjuring, Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing. But when a tyrant for his theme he had, He loos'd the reins, and bid his muse run mad: And though he stumbles in a full career, Yet rashness is a better fault than fear. He saw his way; but in so swift a pace, To choose the ground might be to lose the race. They then, who of each trip the advantage take, Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
You all can point, 't was there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 't is like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow savages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves
began,

So you, at each new play, must have a man.
Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is
nought.

But fools grow wary now; and, when they see
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like seamen when a press comes
Few of them will be found for public use, [out.
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
Like the train bands, and every man engage

Where he in all his glory should appear,
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' play:
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry squires in country churches do.
Things well consider'd, 't is so hard to make
A comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our duil poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
'T is a land-tax, which he 's too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other impost lay.
Would you but change, for serious plot and
This motly garniture of fool and farce, [verse,
Nor scorn a mode, because 't is taught at home,
Which does, like vests, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you should this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.
With some content, their fripperies of France,

EPILOGUE TO THE WILD GALLANT,

WHEN REVIVED.

Or all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 't is the best, so 't is most hard to hit.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN THE FIRST DAY OF THE KING'S
HOUSE ACTING AFTER THE FIRE.

So shipwreck'd passengers oscape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand