Beauty and youth more than a god command; No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand. "Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute; Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
E'en while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty sir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:
Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And soften business with the charms of wit. These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought. You only hear it thunder from afar,
And sit in peace the arbiter of war:
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise, You knew its worth, and made it early prize: And in its happy leisure sit and see
The promises of more felicity :
Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line, Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine: Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose, To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.
OUR author, by experience, finds it true,
'Tis much more hard to please himself than you; And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
Damns his laborious trifle of a play :
Not that it 's worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of wit;
And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-lov'd mistress, Rhyme.
Passion 's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
Which he presumes the most correct of his;
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name :
Aw'd when he hears his godlike Romans rage, 15
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.
As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verse with those who live:
Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
A losing gamester, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready money from the play.
The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit
He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.
The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;
Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:
All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here;
But wit 's a luxury you think too dear.
When you to cultivate the plant are loth,
'Tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your growth;
And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except, like orange trees, 'tis hous'd from snow.
There needs no care to put a playhouse down, 35
'Tis the most desert place of all the town:
We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,
Like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war;
While, like wise English, unconcern'd you sit,
And see us play the tragedy of wit.
EPILOGUE TO THE MAN OF MODE;
OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER. BY SIR GEORGE ETHERIDGE,
MOST modern wits such monstrous fools have
They seem not of heaven's making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a substantial ass :
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would
I vow, methinks he 's pretty company:
So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion 's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a snowball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French
wallow:
His swordknot this, his cravat that design'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,
These sure he took from most of you who write. Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
EPILOGUE TO ALL FOR LOVE.
POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left — and that 's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows, 5
Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;
And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot; 10
For 'tis observ'd of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can ;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple best become his face.
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr. Bayes,
He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall.
Let Cæsar's power the men's ambition move,
But grace you him who lost the world for love!
Yet if some antiquated lady say,
The last age is not copied in his play;
Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge,
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