And, from the fweet retreat, with joy furvey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife,
You view the various turns of human life:

Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know,
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you fet,
As once the sphere of crystal shew'd the great.
Bleft fure are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can fuit your mind:
Content to fee, and fhun, thofe ills we show,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.

With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:

That Shakespeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim,

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;

For Mufes fo fevere are worship'd here,

eye,

That, conscious of their faults, they shun the
And, as prophane, from facred places fly,
Rather than fee th' offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections, but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers fhown:
And have been fo kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges ftill can pardon most.
Poets muft ftoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd ev'n to the level of their wit;

you

Difdaining

Difdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowledge all their power transcends,
As what should be beyond what Is extends.

V.

PROLOGUE to CIRCE.

[By Dr. DA VENANT, 1675.]

WERE you but half so wife as you're fevere,

Our youthful poet fhould not need to fear: To his green years your cenfures you would fuit, Not blaft the bloffom, but expect the fruit, The sex, that beft does pleasure understand, Will always choose to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's aukward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek, and fet him right. Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey, The youth may prove a man another day. Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write; But hopp'd about, and fhort excursions made From bough to bough, as if they were afraid, And each was guilty of fome flighted maid. Shakespeare's own Mufe her Pericles firft bore; The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor: 'Tis miracle to fee a firft good play;

All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.

}

A

A flender poet must have time to grow,

And spread and burnish as his brothers do.
Who ftill looks lean, sure with some pox is curft:
But no man can be Falftaff-fat at first.

Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies:
He's not yet fed enough for facrifice.

Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

VI.

EPILOGUE intended to have been spoken by the Lady HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, when CALISTO was acted at Court.

As Jupiter I made my court in vain ;

I'll now affume my native fhape again.

I'm weary to be fo unkindly us'd,
And would not be a God to be refus'd.
State grows uneafy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wife remove.
Now as a nymph I need not fue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that fovereign power admits difpute;
Beauty fometimes is justly abfolute.

Our fullen Cato's, whatfoe'er they say,

Ev'n while they frown and dictate laws, obey.

You, mighty fir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take :
Above thofe forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wife to be fevere.

True wisdom may fome gallantry admit,

And foften business with the charms of wit.

These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought, And from the midst of fighting nations brought. You only hear it thunder from afar,

And fit in peace the arbiter of war :

Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize :
And in its happy leisure fit and fee

The promises of more felicity :

Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine:
Whom you to fuppliant monarchs shall dispose,
To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

VII.

EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE, or Sir FOPLING FLUTTER.

[By Sir GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.]

MOST

OST modern wits fuch monftrous fools have
shown,

They seem not of heaven's making, but their own.
Those naufeous harlequins in farce may pass;

But there goes more to a substantial ass :

Something

Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool fo nicely writ,

The ladies would miftake him for a wit;

And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks would cry, I vow, methinks, he's pretty company.

So brifk, fo gay, fo travel'd, fo refin'd,

As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' th' fhire, and reprefents you all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling o'er you, like a fnow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;

One taught the tofs, and one the new French wallow.
His fword-knot this, his cravat that defign'd;

And this, the yard-long fnake he twirls behind.
From one the facred periwig he gain'd,

Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan'd.

Another's diving bow he did adcre,

Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a water-fpaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,

Thefe fure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is fafe from what he fear'd;

For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

VIII. EPILOGUE