Classic Poem

PROLOGUE, EPILOGUES, AND SONG FROM THE DUKE OF GUISE

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. SMITH

Our play 's a parallel: the Holy League
Begot our Cov'nant; Guisards got the Whig:
Whate'er our hot-brain'd sheriffs did advance,
Was, like our fashions, first produc'd in France;
And when worn out, well-scourg'd, and banish'd there,
Sent over, like their godly beggars here.
Could the same trick, twice play'd, our nation gull?
It looks as if the Devil were grown dull;
Or serv'd us up, in scorn, his broken meat,
And thought we were not worth a better cheat.
The fulsome Cov'nant, one would think in reason,
Had giv'n us all our bellies-full of treason;
And yet, the name but chang'd, our nasty nation
Chaws its own excrement, th' Association.
'T is true we have not learn'd their pois'ning way,
For that 's a mode but newly come in play;
Besides, your drug 's uncertain to prevail,
But your true Protestant can never fail,
With that compendious instrument, a flail.
Go on, and bite, ev'n tho' the hook lies bare:
Twice in one age expel the lawful heir;
Once more decide religion by the sword,
And purchase for us a new tyrant lord.
Pray for your king, but yet your purses spare;
Make him not twopence richer by your prayer.
To show you love him much, chastise him more,
And make him very great, and very poor.
Push him to wars, but still no pence advance;
Let him lose England, to recover France.
Cry freedom up with popular noisy votes,
And get enough to cut each other's throats.
Lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne:
For fear of too much pow'r, pray leave him none.
A noise was made of arbitrary sway;
But, in revenge, you Whigs have found a way
An arbitrary duty now to pay.
Let his own servants turn, to save their stake;
Glean from his plenty, and his wants forsake;
But let some Judas near his person stay,
To swallow the last sop, and then betray.
Make London independent of the Crown,
A realm apart, the kingdom of the town.
Let ignoramus juries find no traitors,
And ignoramus poets scribble satires.
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan,
Do what in coffee-houses you began:
Pull down the master, and set up the man.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. COOKE

M UCH time and trouble this poor play has cost;
And, faith, I doubted once the cause was lost.
Yet no one man was meant, nor great nor small;
Our poets, like frank gamesters, threw at all.
They took no single aim —
But, like bold boys, true to their prince and hearty,
Huzza'd, and fir'd broadsides at the whole party.
Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right,
In battle every man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder me to sell my skin
Dear as I could, if once my hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a sin.
'T is a fine world, my masters; right or wrong,
The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.
They must do all they can —
But we, forsooth, must bear a Christian mind,
And fight, like boys, with one hand tied behind;
Nay, and when one boy's down, 't were wondrous wise
To cry: " Box fair, and give him time to rise. "
When fortune favors, none but fools will dally:
Would any of you sparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipp'd you th' inviting wink, stand, shall I, shall I?
A Trimmer cried, that heard me tell this story:
" Fie, Mistress Cooke! faith you 're too rank a Tory!
Wish not Whigs hang'd, but pity their hard cases;
You women love to see men make wry faces. "
" Pray, sir, " said I, " don't think me such a Jew;
I say no more, but give the Dev'l his due. "
" Lenitives, " says he, " suit best with our condition. "
" Jack Ketch, " says I, " 's an excellent physician. "
" I love no blood. " — " Nor I, sir, as I breathe;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of death. "
" We Trimmers are for holding all things even. "
" Yes — just like him that hung 'twixt hell and heaven. "
" Have we not had men's lives enow already? "
" Yes, sure, — but you 're for holding all things steady.
Now since the weight hangs all on one side, brother,
You Trimmers should, to poise it, hang on t'other. "
Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steering,
Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red herring:
Not Whigs, nor Tories they; nor this, nor that;
Not birds, nor beasts; but just a kind of bat:
A twilight animal, true to neither cause,
With Tory wings, but Whiggish teeth and claws.

ANOTHER EPILOGUE

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN TO THE PLAY BEFORE IT WAS FORBIDDEN LAST SUMMER

T WO houses join'd, two poets to a play?
You noisy Whigs will sure be pleas'd today;
It looks so like two shrieves the city way.
But since our discords and divisions cease,
You, bilbo-gallants, learn to keep the peace;
Make here no tilts; let our poor stage alone;
Or if a decent murther must be done,
Pray take a civil turn to Marybone.
If not, I swear we 'll pull up all our benches;
Not for your sakes, but for our orange-wenches:
For you thrust wide sometimes; and many a spark,
That misses one, can hit the other mark.
This makes our boxes full; for men of sense
Pay their four shillings in their own defense,
That safe behind the ladies they may stay,
Peep o'er the fan, and judge the bloody fray.
But other foes give beauty worse alarms;
The posse poetarum 's up in arms:
No woman's fame their libels has escap'd;
Their ink runs venom, and their pens are clapp'd.
When sighs and pray'rs their ladies cannot move,
They rail, write treason, and turn Whigs to love.
Nay, and I fear they worse designs advance;
There 's a damn'd love-trick new brought o'er from France.
We charm in vain, and dress, and keep a pother,
While those false rogues are ogling one another.
All sins beside admit some expiation,
But this against our sex is plain damnation.
They join for libels too, these women-haters;
And as they club for love, they club for satires.
The best on 't is they hurt not: for they wear
Stings in their tails; their only venom's there.
'T is true, some shot at first the ladies hit,
Which able marksmen made and men of wit:
But now the fools give fire, whose bounce is louder;
And yet, like mere trainbands, they shoot but powder.
Libels, like plots, sweep all in their first fury;
Then dwindle like an ignoramus jury:
Thus age begins with towsing and with tumbling;
But grunts, and groans, and ends at last in fumbling.

SONG

S HEPHERDESS

T ELL me, Thyrsis, tell your anguish;
Why you sigh, and why you languish:
When the nymph whom you adore
Grants the blessing of possessing,
What can love and I do more?
What can love, what can love and I do more?

S HEPHERD

Think it 's love beyond all measure
Makes me faint away with pleasure:
Strength of cordial may destroy,
And the blessing of possessing
Kills me with excess of joy.

S HEPHERDESS

Thyrsis, how can I believe you?
But confess, and I 'll forgive you.
Men are false and so are you:
Never nature fram'd a creature
To enjoy, and yet be true:
Never nature fram'd a creature
To enjoy and yet be true;
To enjoy and yet be true;
And yet be true.

S HEPHERD

Mine 's a flame beyond expiring,
Still possessing, still desiring,
Fit for love's imperial crown;
Ever shining, and refining,
Still the more 't is melted down.

C HORUS TOGETHER

Mine 's a flame beyond expiring,
Still possessing, still desiring,
Fit for love's imperial crown;
Ever shining, and refining,
Still the more 't is melted down.