Classic Poem

PROLOGUE

Almighty critics! whom our Indians here
Worship, just as they do the Devil, for fear;
In reverence to your pow'r I come this day
To give you timely warning of our play.
The scenes are old, the habits are the same
We wore last year, before the Spaniards came;
[Our prologue, th' old-cast too —
For to observe the new it should at least
Be spoke by some ingenious bird or beast.]
Now if you stay, the blood that shall be shed
From this poor play, be all upon your head.
We neither promise you one dance, or show,
Then plot and language they are wanting too:
But you, kind wits, will those light faults excuse;
Those are the common frailties of the Muse,
Which who observes, he buys his place too dear;
For 'tis your business to be cozen'd here.
These wretched spies of wit must then confess
They take more pains, to please themselves the less.
Grant us such judges, Phaebus, we request,
As still mistake themselves into a jest;
Such easy judges, that our poet may
Himself admire the fortune of his play;
And arrogantly, as his fellows do,
Think he writes well, because he pleases you.
This he conceives not hard to bring about,
If all of you would join to help him out;
Would each man take but what he understands,
And leave the rest upon the poet's hands.

EPILOGUE

To all and singular in this full meeting,
Ladies and gallants, Phaebus sends me greeting.
To all his sons, by whate'er title known,
Whether of court, of coffee-house, or town;
From his most mighty sons, whose confidence
Is plac'd in lofty sound, and humble sense,
Ev'n to his little infants of the time,
Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme;
Be't known, that Phaebus (being daily griev'd
To see good plays condemn'd, and bad receiv'd)
Ordains your judgment upon every cause,
Henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws.
He first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance
His censure farther than the song or dance.
Your wit burlesque may one step higher climb,
And in his sphere may judge all dogg'rel rhyme;
All proves, and moves, and loves, and honors too;
All that appears high sense, and scarce is low.
As for the coffee wits, he says not much;
Their proper bus'ness is to damn the Dutch:
For the great dons of wit —
Phaebus gives them full privilege alone,
To damn all others, and cry up their own.
Last, for the ladies, 'tis Apollo's will,
They should have power to save, but not to kill:
For love and he long since have thought it fit,
Wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit.

SONG

I

A H fading joy, how quickly art thou past!
Yet we thy ruin haste.
As if the cares of human life were few,
We seek out new:
And follow fate, which would too fast pursue.

II

See how on every bough the birds express
In their sweet notes their happiness.
They all enjoy, and nothing spare;
But on their mother Nature lay their care:
Why then should man, the lord of all below,
Such troubles choose to know,
As none of all his subjects undergo?

III

Hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall,
And with a murmuring sound
Dash, dash upon the ground,
To gentle slumbers call.