PROLOGUE, fpoken the first day of the King's House acting after the Fire.
O fhipwreck'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 defart fhore.
From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence ev'n the natives, forc'd by hunger, fied.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen fo fadly true :
You are chang'd too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provifions furnish out our feasts,
While you the founders make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind befide fate had fome 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,
Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their scorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which fpar'd not temples in its furious rage.
Q:
But as our new-built city rises higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far furpass
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was :
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And, like a king, should in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a fhed :
Your prefence here, for which we humbly sue,
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
PROLOGUE fpoken at the Opening of the New Houfe, March 26, 1674.
A Plain-built houfe, after so long a stay,
Will fend you half unfatisfy'd away;
When, fall'n from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is defign'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, fhining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, difdain the chear.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain fuit, fince 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 fums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire;
Pity our lofs, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live:
Unable to support their vast expence,
Who build and treat with fuch magnificence;
That, like th' ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendor on the less.
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
Th' extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if fome pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainnefs may be juftly proud :
Our royal mafter will'd it should be fo;
Whate'er he's pleas'd to own, can need no fhow:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes baseft metals pass.
'Twere folly now a ftately pile to raise,
To build a playhouse while you throw down plays;
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And for the pencil you the pen difdain:
While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whofe alms they live:
Old English authors vanifh, and give place
To thefe new conquerors of the Norman race.
• More tamely than your fathers you fubmit ;
You're now grown vassals to them in
Q3
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance,
The mighty merits of their men of France,
Keep time, cry Bon, and humour the cadence.
Well, please yourselves; but fure 'tis understood,
That French machines have ne'er done England good.
I would not prophefy our house's fate:
But while vain fhows and fcenes you over-rate,
'Tis to be fear'd.
That as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Machines and tempefts will deftroy the new.
EPILOGUE on the fame occafion.
HOUGH what our Prologue faid was fadly true,
Yet, gentlemen, our homely house is new,
A charm that feldom fails with, wicked, you.
A country lip may have the velvet touch;
Though the 's no lady, you may think her fuch :
A ftrong imagination may do much.
But you, loud firs, who through your curls look big,
Critics in plume and white vallancy wig,
Who lolling on our foremost benches fit,
And still charge firft, the true forlorn of wit;
Whofe favours, like the fun, warm where you roll,
Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor foul;
So may your hats your foretops never prefs,
Untouch'd your ribbons, facred be your drefs
So may you flowly to old age advance,
And have th' excufe of youth for ignorance:
So may fop-corner full of noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive train;
So may your midnight fcowerings happy prove,
And morning batteries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike hands recal,
But leave you by each other's fwords to fall:
As you come here to ruffle vizard punk,
When fober, rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the wits we can some merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been said :
Our house relieves the ladies from the frights
Of ill-pav'd streets, and long dark winter nights;
The Flanders horfes from a cold bleak road,
Where bears in furs dare scarcely look abroad;
The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff,
Of rhyme, more nauseous than three boys in buff.
Though in their house the poets heads appear,
We hope we may prefume their wits are here.
The best which they referv'd they now will play,
For, like kind cuckolds, though w' have not the way
To please, we'll find you abler men who may.
If they should fail, for laft recruits we breed
A troop of frifking Monfieurs to fucceed:
You know the French fure cards at time of need.
PROLOGUE to the Univerfity of Oxford, 1674. Spoken by Mr. HART.
OETS, your fubjects, have their parts affign'd
T'unbend, and to divert their fovereign's mind: When tir'd with following nature, you think fit To feek repose in the cool fhades of wit,
|