Classic Poem

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE UNHAPPY FAVORITE

OR, THE EARL OF ESSEX

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN TO THE KING AND QUEEN AT THEIR COMING TO THE HOUSE, AND WRITTEN ON PURPOSE BY MR. DRYDEN

When first the ark was landed on the shore,
And Heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more;
When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw;
The dove was sent to view the waves decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis needless to apply, when those appear
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the royal dove;
Still Innocence is harbinger to Love:
The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, you powers, why should vain man pursue,
With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the seeming substance leave the true?
Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loathe the manna of his daily food?
Must England still the scene of changes be,
Toss'd 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 t' injoy the blessings of his reign.
Our land's an Eden, and the mam'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 knew too well;
O let it be enough that once we fell,
And every heart conspire with every tongue,
Still to have such a king, and this king long!

EPILOGUE

W E act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
But just peep up, and then dop down again.
Let those who call us wicked change their sense,
For never men liv'd more on Providence.
Not lott'ry 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, which, they say, portends a dearth,
Was but a vapor drawn from playhouse earth:
Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
Foreshews 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 Looking has not laid
Four farthings out to buy The Hatfield Maid?
Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democruus 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,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith, they may hang their harps upon the willows;
'T is 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.

When first the ark was landed on the shore,
And Heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more;
When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw,
The dove was sent to view the waves' decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis needless to apply, when those appear
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the Royal dove,
Still innocent as harbinger to Love:
The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, ye Powers, why should vain man pursue,
With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the seeming substance leave the true?
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 after-times 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 the 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.