Classic Poem

PROLOGUE

S ELF-LOVE , which never rightly understood,
Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
And malice, in all critics, reigns so high,
That for small errors they whole plays decry;
So that to see this fondness, and that spite,
You 'd think that none but madmen judge or write.
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
T' impose upon you what he writes for wit;
So hopes, that leaving you your censures free,
You equal judges of the whole will be:
They judge but half, who only faults will see.
Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare;
They spoil their business with an over-care;
And he, who servilely creeps after sense,
Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.
Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing.
But when a tyrant for his theme he had,
He loos'd the reins, and bid his Muse run mad:
And tho' he stumbles in a full career,
Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.
He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,
To choose the ground might be to lose the race.
They then, who of each trip th' advantage take,
Find but those faults which they want wit to make.

EPILOGUE

[ To the Bearer .] Hold, are you mad? you damn'd confounded dog,
I am to rise, and speak the epilogue.
[ To the Audience .] I come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye,
I am the ghost of poor departed Nelly.
Sweet ladies, be not frighted, I 'll be civil;
I 'm what I was, a little harmless devil:
For after death, we sprites have just such natures
We had for all the world, when human creatures;
And therefore I that was an actress here,
Play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there.
Gallants, look to 't, you say there are no sprites;
But I 'll come dance about your beds at nights.
And faith you'll be in a sweetkind of taking,
When I surprise you between sleep and waking.
To tell you true, I walk because I die
Out of my calling in a tragedy.
O poet, damn'd dull poet, who could prove
So senseless! to make Nelly die for love!
Nay, what 's yet worse, to kill me in the prime
Of Easter term, in tart and cheese-cake time!
I 'll fit the fop, for I 'll not one word say
T' excuse his godly out-of-fashion play:
A play, which if you dare but twice sit out,
You 'll all be slander'd, and be thought devout.
But farewell, gentlemen, make haste to me;
I 'm sure ere long to have your company.
As for my epitaph, when I am gone,
I 'll trust no poet, but will write my own:

Here Nelly lies, who, tho' she liv'd a slattern,
Yet died a princess, acting in St. Cathar'n.

SONG

I

A H how sweet it is to love!
Ah how gay is young desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach love's fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

II

Sighs which are from lovers blown,
Do but gently heave the heart:
Ev'n the tears they shed alone,
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart.
Lovers when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

III

Love and time with reverence use,
Treat 'em like a parting friend:
Nor the golden gifts refuse,
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

IV

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again:
If a flow in age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.