Classic Poem

PROLOGUE

When Athens all the Grecian state did guide,
And Greece gave laws to all the world beside;
Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit,
Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit:
And wit from wisdom differ'd not in those,
But as 't was sung in verse, or said in prose.
Then, oedipus, on crowded theaters,
Drew all admiring eyes and list'ning ears:
The pleas'd spectator shouted every line,
The noblest, manliest, and the best design!
And every critic of each learned age,
By this just model has reform'd the stage.
Now, should it fail, (as Heav'n avert our fear!)
Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear.
For were it known this poem did not please,
You might set up for perfect salvages:
Your neighbors would not look on you as men,
But think the nation all turn'd Picts again.
Faith, as you manage matters, 't is not fit
You should suspect yourselves of too much wit:
Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece;
And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece.
See twice! do not pellmell to damning fall,
Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all:
Pray be advis'd; and tho' at Mons you won,
On pointed cannon do not always run.
With some respect to ancient wit proceed;
You take the four first councils for your creed.
But, when you lay tradition wholly by,
And on the private spirit alone rely,
You turn fanatics in your poetry.
If, notwithstanding all that we can say,
You needs will have your pen'worths of the play,
And come resolv'd to damn, because you pay,
Record it, in memorial of the fact,
The first play buried since the Woolen Act.

EPILOGUE

W HAT Sophocles could undertake alone,
Our poets found a work for more than one;
And therefore two lay tugging at the piece,
With all their force, to draw the pond'rous mass from Greece;
A weight that bent ev'n Seneca's strong Muse,
And which Corneille's shoulders did refuse.
So hard it is th' Athenian harp to string!
So much two consuls yield to one just king.
Terror and pity this whole poem sway;
The mightiest machines that can mount a play:
How heavy will those vulgar souls be found,
Whom two such engines cannot move from ground!
When Greece and Rome have smil'd upon this birth,
You can but damn for one poor spot of earth:
And when your children find your judgment such,
They 'll scorn their sires, and wish themselves born Dutch;
Each haughty poet will infer with ease,
How much his wit must underwrite to please.
As some strong churl would, brandishing, advance
The monumental sword that conquer'd France;
So you, by judging this, your judgments teach:
Thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach.
Since then the vote of full two thousand years
Has crown'd this plot, and all the dead are theirs,
Think it a debt you pay, not alms you give,
And, in your own defense, let this play live.
Think 'em not vain, when Sophocles is shown,
To praise his worth, they humbly doubt their own.
Yet, as weak states each other's pow'r assure,
Weak poets by conjunction are secure.
Their treat is what your palates relish most.
Charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost!
We know not what you can desire or hope,
To please you more, but burning of a pope.