SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE,*
MARCH 26, 1674.
A PLAIN built house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfied away;
When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is design'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit, since we can make but one, 10
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire: 15
*This prologue must certainly have been written for the King's company, which I suppose at this time might have opened their house in Drury Lane. The reflection cast upon the taste of the town in these three lines,
"Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,
To build a playhouse while you throw down plays,
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,'
is certainly levelled at the Duke's company, who had exhibited the Siege of Rhodes, and other extensive operas, and who now were getting up Psyche, Circe, &c. D.
Pity our loss, 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 expense,
Who build and treat with such magnificence; 20
That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendour on the less.
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
The extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainness may be justly proud:
Our royal master will'd it should be so ;
Whate'er he's pleas'd to own, can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass.
'Twere folly now a stately 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 disdain:
While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whose alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you submit ;
You 're now grown vassals to them in your wit.
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 sure 'tis understood, That French machines have ne'er done England good.
I would not prophesy our house's fate:
But while vain shows and scenes you overrate, 50 'Tis to be fear'd . . .
That as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Machines and tempests will destroy the new.
PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1674. SPOKEN BY MR. HART.*
POETS, your subjects, have their parts assign'd
To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind:
When tir'd with following nature, you think fit
To seek repose in the cool shades of wit,
And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife,
*Several gentlemen, who had adhered to their principles of loyalty during the usurpation of Cromwell, and the exile of the royal family, being left unprovided for at the Restoration, they applied themselves to different occupations for a livelihood: among them was Mr. Hart, the speaker of this prologue, who had served his majesty as a captain in the civil war, and was now an actor in a capital cast, and in great estimation. D.
You view the various turns of human life:
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know.
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere of chrystal show'd the great.
Blest sure are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can suit your mind:
Content to see, and shun, those ills we show,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
That Shakespeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's
claim
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For muses so severe are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see the offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast, 30
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd e'en to the level of their wit;
Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher. So far your knowledge all their power transcends, As what should be beyond what is extends.
WERE you but half so wise as you 're severe,
Our youthful poet should not need to fear:
To his green years your censures you would suit,
Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.
The sex, that best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t' other hand.
They check him not that 's awkward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.
Thus hearten'd well and flesh'd upon his prey,
The youth may prove a man another day.
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid.
Shakespeare's own muse her Pericles first bore;
The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:
'Tis miracle to see a first good play;
*Circe was an opera. Tragedy among the ancients was throughout accompanied with music. Dr. J. W.
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