PROLOGUE to the LOYAL BROTHER:
[By Mr. SoUTHERNE, 1682.]
OETS, like lawful monarchs, rul'd the stage,
Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd
Mark how they jump: critics would regulate
Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state :
Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!)
The critic humbly feems advice to bring;
The fawning Whig petitions to the king:
But one's advice into a fatire slides;
T'other's petition a remonftrance 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 needless aids as these,
Are safe-as long as e'er their subjects please :
And that would be till next queen Bess's night;
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmond Bury first, in woful wife,
Leads up the show, and milks their maudlin eyes.
There's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part,
And pities the poor pageant from her heart;
Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
And, with a civil congé, does retire :
But guiltless blood to ground must never fall;
There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.
The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,
A lewd old gentleman of seventy years :
Whose age in vain our mercy would implore;
For few take pity on an old-cast whore.
The devil, who brought him to the shame,
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;
Like thief and parson in a Tyburn-cart,
The word is given, and with a loud huzza
The mitred poppet from his chair they draw:
On the flain corps contending nations fall :
Alas! what's one poor pope among them all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:
And next, for fashion, cry, God save the king.
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms,
But after he's once sav'd, to make amends,
In each succeeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but still the devil ends.
What if some one, inspir'd with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall?
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him ere the safer for this prayer.
Five praying saints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole church-militant in croud.
Yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain.
EPILOGUE to the fame.
A Virgin poet was ferv'd up to-day,
Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-boy;
But, like a girl, whom several would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own nat'ral toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The king's house would instruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one; I wish no more:
A commonwealth founds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious spirit should rebel,
Our fex, with ease, can ev'ry rifing quell.
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They save dull culprits, who have murder'd sense.
Tho nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass,
The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the commonwealth-man's bribe;
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe:
Tho void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will
'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Their's is the pension-parliament of wit.
In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis safe, in its own element.
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of sense.
In one poor ifle, why should two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can fee:
In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not stand:
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains; They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains, Mean time you fee what trade our plots advance; We send each year good money into France; And they that know what merchandize we need, Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.
SPOKEN by Mr. HART,
At the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN,
HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd,
Athenian judges, you this day renew.
Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes loft or won.
Methinks I see you, crown'd with olives, fit,
And strike a facred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where even the best are but by mercy free:
A day, which none but Jonson durst have wish'd
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