1

of receiving some innovations for the better? But afterwards I casually found, that Menander and Terence, in the "Heautontimoroumenos," had been before me; and made the same kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities;-that of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious friend, Mr Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an audience to suppose themselves, sometimes to be in a field, sometimes in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed, so many absurdities in their supposition, as in ours; but it is an original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in any other place, than in the very theatre in which they sit; which is neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business, but that of the representation. For my action, it is evidently double; and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority; for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better linked in interests than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to the English genius.

We love variety more than any other nation; and so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether the purpose of an epistle dedicatory; yet it is expected, that somewhat should be said, even here, in relation to criticism; at least in vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronize a poem, which is wholly unworthy of your protection. Though, after all, I doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who was combing his peruke,* and setting his cravat before his mistress; and being asked by her, when he intended to begin his court, replied, "He had been doing it all this while." Yet thus it happens, my lord, that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the most ungrateful to all hearers. For which reason, I, who have nothing to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it; especially since I have so large

This attitude and employment, however inconsistent with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play by Killigrew, called the " Parson's Wedding," we have this direction: "Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their heads, and talk." Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II.

Straight every man who thinks himself a wit,
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face.

The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time.

a field before me, as your inborn goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to your friends; besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your brotherly love to your relations. Notus in fratres animo paterno, was the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here, my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence, to stop short, and to cast under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the world should make a bad use of it.* To enjoy our own quiet, without disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for the rest, to live chearfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in the best manner. It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness, or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,

* Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's secret attachment to the exiled monarch.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.

As when some treasurer lays down the stick,
Warrants are signed for ready money thick,
And many desperate debentures paid,
Which never had been, had his lordship staid :
So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage,
Intends to gratify the present age.

One warrant shall be signed for

every man ;
All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can :
Provided still, this warrant be not shown,
And you be wits but to yourselves alone ;*
Provided too, you rail at one another,
For there's no one wit, will allow a brother;
Provided also, that you spare this story,
Damn all the plays that e'er shall come before ye.
If one by chance prove good in half a score,
Let that one pay for all, and damn it more.
For if a good one 'scape among the crew,
And you continue judging as you do,
Every bad play will hope for damning too.
You might damn this, if it were worth your pains ;
Here's nothing you will like; no fustian scenes,
And nothing too of—you know what he means.
No double entendres, which you sparks allow,
To make the ladies look they know not how;
Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together,
Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather.
But here's a story, which no books relate,

This seems to be an allusion to the pretended dukedom of Marine, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Noble Gentleman," which had been revived in 1688, by Tom D'urfey, under the title of the "Three Dukes of Dunstable." Gent. Hark you, sir, the king doth know you are a duke.

Mar. No! does he?

Gent. Yes, and is content you shall be; but with this caution,

That none know't but yourself; for, if you do,

He'll take't away by act of parliament.

Mar. There is my hand, and, whilst I live or breathe,

No living wight shall know I am a duke,

Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate.
The fable has a moral too, if sought;

But let that go; for, upon second thought,
He fears but few come hither to be taught.
Yet if you will be profited, you may;
And he would bribe you too, to like his play.
He dies, at least to us, and to the stage,
And what he has, he leaves this noble age.
He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing,
The whole estate, which he has got by writing.
The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise ;
They'll find it something, the testator says;
For half their love is made from scraps of plays.
To his worst foes, he leaves his honesty,
That they may thrive upon't as much as he.
He leaves his manners to the roaring boys,

Who come in drunk, and fill the house with noise.
He leaves to the dire critics of his wit,

His silence and contempt of all they writ.
To Shakespear's critic, he bequeaths the curse,
To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;
A precious reader, in poetic schools,
Who by his own examples damns his rules.
Last, for the fair, he wishes you may be,
From your dull critics, the lampooners, free.
Though he pretends no legacy to leave you,
An old man may at least good wishes give you.
Your beauty names the play ; and may it prove
To each, an omen of triumphant love!

*

}

}

*I do not know if any individual is here levelled at. Shakespeare has had his critics in all ages, who, like the inexpert tinker, have generally made two holes in patching one. In the end of the seventeenth century, his plays were usually acted in a sophisticated state, as altered by Tate, D'Avenant, Crowne, Ravenscroft, and others. The last, in the preface to lis alteration of "Titus Andronicus," has the impudence to say, "That if the reader will compare the old play with his copy, he will find that none in all that author's works ever received greater alterations or additions, the language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most of the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased."