With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the seeming substance leave the true? 15
Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loath the manna of his daily food?
Must England still the scene of changes be,
Tost and tempestuous, like our ambient sea?
Must still our weather and our wills agree?
Without our blood our liberties we have:
Who that is free would fight to be a slave?
Or, what can wars to aftertimes assure,
Of which our present age is not secure
?
All that our monarch would for us ordain,
Is but to enjoy the blessings of his reign.
Our land's an Eden, and our main's our fence,
While we preserve our state of innocence:
That lost, then beasts their brutal force employ,
And first their lord, and then themselves destroy.
What civil broils have cost we know too well;
Oh! let it be enough that once we fell!
And every heart conspire, and every tongue,
Still to have such a king, and this king long.
AN EPILOGUE FOR THE KING'S HOUSE.
WE act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again.
Let those who call us wicked change their sense;
For never men liv'd more on Providence.
Not lottery cavaliers are half so poor,
Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore.
Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last ungiving parliaments:
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,
He might have spar'd his dream of seven lean kine,
And chang'd his vision for the Muses nine.
The comet, that, they say, portends a dearth,
Was but a vapour drawn from playhouse earth :
Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
Foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days.
"Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor;
For then the printer's press would suffer more.
Their pamphleteers each day their venom spit
They thrive by treason, and we starve by wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield maid?
Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democritus his wars with Heraclitus?
Such are the authors who have run us down,
And exercis'd you critics of the town.
Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes,
Y'abuse yourselves more dully than the times.
Scandal, the glory of the English nation,
Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion.
Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise, 30
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith, they may hang their harps upon the willows;
'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.
Then put an end to civil wars for shame;
Let each knight-errant, who has wrong'd a dame,
Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,
The satisfaction of a gentleman.
PROLOGUE TO THE LOYAL BROTHER: *
OR, THE PERSIAN PRINCE. BY MR. SOUTHERNE, 1682.
POETS, like lawful monarchs, rul'd the stage,
Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our age.
Mark how they jump: critics would regulate
Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state:
Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!) hate.
The critic humbly seems advice to bring;
The fawning Whig petitions to the king:
But one's advice into a satire slides;
T'other's petition a remonstrance 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
*The Loyal Brother, or the Persian Prince, Mr. Southerne's first play, was acted at Drury Lane in 1682; a time in which the Tory interest, after long struggles, carried all before it. The character of the Loyal Brother was a compliment intended for the Duke of York. This prologue is a continued invective against the Whigs. D.
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 :
V. 18. Queen Bess's night] At the King's Head Tavern, the corner of Chancery Lane, and opposite the Inner Temple gate, the principal opponents to the court-measures and the chiefs of the Whig party assembled, under the name of the King's Head Club, and afterwards the Green Ribbon Club, from ribbons of that colour which they wore in their hats. Here they subscribed a guinea apiece for a bonfire, in which the effigies of the pope was to be burnt on the 17th of November, being the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth's birth, with more than ordinary pomp; for it was heretofore an annual ceremony, usually made without any remarkable parade. The procession now consisted of one representing the dead body of Sir Edmundbury. Godfrey, carried on a horse, with a person preceding it ringing a bell, to remind people of his murder: then followed a mob of fellows, dressed like carmelites, jesuits, bishops, cardinals, &c. and several boys with incense pots surrounding an image of the pope, with that of the devil just behind him,
'Like thief and parson in a Tyburn cart.'
In this manner they marched from Bishopsgate to the corner of Chancery Lane, where they committed the inoffensive effigies to the flames; while the balconies and windows of the King's Head were filled with people of consequence, who countenanced the tumult; which the Hon. Roger North says, struck a terror upon people's spirits. The year of acting the play, to which we have here a prologue, great additions, alterations, and expensive improvements were intended to be made in this procession, which was prevented entirely by the loyalty and vigilance of the sheriffs of the city, Sir Dudley North and Sir Peter Rich, who paraded the streets all day and the best part of the night. D.
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmondbury first, in woful wise,
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; 3
For few take pity on an old cast whore.
The devil, who brought him to the shame, takes
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 puppet from his chair they draw:
On the slain corpse 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. 40
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms.
But after he 's once saved, to make amends,
In each succeeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but still the devil ends.
What if some one, inspired with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God save him, at Whitehall?
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