Classic Poem

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO THE LOYAL
BROTHER

OR, THE PERSIAN PRINCE

PROLOGUE

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 theaters, and Whigs reform our state:
Both pretend love, and both (plague rot'em!) 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.
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,
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmond-berry 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 congee, 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,
For few take pity on an old cast whore.
The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;
Like thief and parson in a Tyburn cart.
The word is giv'n, and with a loud huzza
The miter'd moppet from his chair they draw:
On the slain corpse contending nations fall:
Alas! what's one poor pope among 'em all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:
And next (for fashion) cry: " God save the king! "
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms.
But after he's once sav'd, to make amends,
In each succeeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but still the Devil ends.
What if some one, inspir'd with zeal, should call:
" Come, let's go cry: " God save him at Whiteball" " ?
His best friends would not like this overcare,
Or think him e'er the safer for that pray'r.
Five praying saints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole Church-militant, in crowd.
Yet, should Heav'n all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain.

EPILOGUE

A VIRGIN poet was serv'd up to-day,
Who till this hour ne'er cackled for a play.
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory boy;
But, like a girl whom several would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The King's House would instruct me, by the name.
There's loyalty to one: I wish no more;
A commonwealth sounds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious spirit should rebel,
Our sex, with ease, can every rising quell.
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offense;
They save dull culprits who have murther'd sense:
Tho' nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass;
The vehicle call'd faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the Commonwealth'sman's bribe,
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe;
Tho' void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighborhood, that knows the man, will take it.
'T is faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Theirs is the pension-parliament of wit.
In city clubs their venom let 'em vent,
For there 't is safe, in its own element:
Here, where their madness can have no pretense,
Let 'em forget themselves an hour in sense.
In one poor isle why should two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can see:
In drink and drabs both sides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land;
If places fell, the party could not stand.
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains:
They grunt like hogs, till they have got their grains.
Meantime you see what trade our plots advance:
We send each year good money into France;
And they, that know what merchandise we need,
Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.

A VIRGIN poet was serv'd up to-day,
Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory boy;
But, like a girl, whom several would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The King's House would instruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one: I wish no more;
A commonwealth sounds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious spirit should rebel,
Our sex, with ease, can every rising quell.
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They save dull culprits who have murder'd sense.
Though nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass,
The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the Commonwealth-man's bribe,
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe:
Though void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will take it.
'Tis Faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Theirs is the pension-parliament of wit.
In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis safe in its own element.
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of sense.
In one poor isle why should two factions be?
Small difference in your vices I can see:
In drink and drabs both sides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not stand.
Of this damn'd grievance every Whig complains;
They grunt like hogs, till they have got their grains.
Mean time you see what trade our plots advance;
We send each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandise we need,
Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.