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§ 143. Yanko. By the same. DEAR Yanko say, and true he say,

A mankind, one and t'other,
Negro, mulatto, and Malay,
Through all the world be broder.
In black, in yellow, what disgrace,
That scandal so he use 'em?
For dere no virtue in de face,

De virtue in de bosom.

What harm dere in a shape or make? What harm in ugly feature? Whatever color, form, he take,

The heart make human creature. Then black and copper both be friend, No color he bring beauty; For beauty, Yanko say, attend On him who do him duty. Dear Yanko say, &c.

What though by duty I am call'd
Where thund'ring cannons rattle,
Where Valor's self might stand appall'd?
When on the wings of thy dear love
To Heaven above

Thy fervent orisons are flown,
The tender prayer
Thou putt'st up there
Shall call a guardian angel down,
To watch me in the battle.

My safety thy fair truth shall be,

As sword and buckler serving ; My life shall be more dear to me, Because of thy preserving. Let peril come, let horror threat, Let thund'ring cannons rattle, I'll fearless seek the conflict's heat, Assur'd when on the wings of love To Heaven above, &c.

Enough. With that benignant smile Some kindred god inspir'd thee;

$144. Let us all be unhappy together. By Who knew thy bosom void of guile,

the same.

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshine's succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of life's stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know

Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh! taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus friendship's a flimsy affair,
Thus riches and health are a bubble;
Thus there's nothing delightful but care,
Nor any thing pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal would point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honor are given,
But honor and truth are so rare,
And horns, when they 're cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
I'd advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasure's a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy :
That all those who laugh ought to cry,
That 'tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.

§ 145. The Soldier's Adieu. By the same. ADIEU, adieu, my only life!

My honor calls me from thee; Remember thou 'rt a soldier's wife, Those tears but ill become thee.

Who wonder'd and admir'd thee. I go assur'd: my life, adieu;

Though thund'ring cannons rattle, Though murdering carnage stalk in view, When on the wings of thy true love To Heaven above, &c.

§ 146.

Indian Song. By the same.
THE sun's descending in the wave;
I I go, my fate to brave:
go,
Ghosts of dead incas, now appear,

Shriek as ye come
Cold from the tomb,

And see if Moniaco knows to fear.
Oh Sun, my sire!

Lend me all thy noble fire:
Illia Moniaco to thy tomb,
Oh Atabalipa, soon shall come;
Cover me with scars,
Nought can control
The dauntless soul,

That shall live among its kindred stars.
What is 't to die? To leave this clay,
And breathe an everlasting day,
For robes celestial shake off dust;

Among the blest,

From care to rest,
And emulate the virtues of the just:
Then, Sun, my sire,

Lend me all thy noble fire,
Illia Moniaco, &c.

Adieu, ye friends! vain world, adien!
Bliss is for me, but woe for you;
While I, new-born, shall go to find
The upper heaven,
You shall be driven

Like scatter'd chaff before false fortune's wind.
Now, Sun, my sire,

I feel, I feel thy noble fire!

Illia Moniaco, &c.

§ 147. By the sume.

HARK the din of distant war, How noble is the clangor ! Pale Death ascends his ebon car, Clad in terrific anger.

A doubtful fate the soldier tries
Who joins the gallant quarrel:
Perhaps on the cold ground he lies,
No wife, no friend, to close his eyes,
Though nobly mourn'd;
Perhaps, return'd,

He's crown'd with victory's laurel.
How many, who, disdaining fear,
Rush on the desperate duty,
Shall claim the tribute of the tear
That dims the eye of beauty?

A doubtful fate, &c.

What nobler fate can fortune give?
Renown shall tell our story
If we should fall; but if we live,
We live our country's glory.

'Tis true, a doubtful fate, &c.

§ 148. By the same.

POOR Peggy lov'd a soldier lad
More, far more, than tongue can tell ye;
Yet was her tender bosom sad
Whene'er she heard the loud reveiller.

The fifes were screech-owls to her ears,
The drums like thunder seem'd to rattle;
Ah, too prophetic were her fears,
They call d'him from her arms to battle.
There wonders he against the foe
Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd;
Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low
On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her soul all truth,
That none her fears or flight discover,
Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth,
Follow'd to the field her lover.

Directed by the fife and drum
To where the work of death was doing;
Where of brave hearts the time was come,
Who, seeking honor, grasp at ruin :

Her very soul was chill'd with woe, New horror came in every sound,

And whisper'd, death had laid him low On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood, While her woman's fears confound her, With terror all her soul subdued, A mourning train came thronging round her. The plaintive fife, and muffled drum, The marshal obsequies discover;

His name she heard, and cried, I come, Faithful to meet my murder'd lover!

Then heart-rent by a sigh of woe, Fell, to the grief of all around,

Where death had laid her lover low On the cold ground!

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ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial feast, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing, Merry Momus among them appeared as a guest: Homer says the celestials love laughing. This happen'd 'fore Chaos was fix'd into form, While nature disorderly lay;

While elements adverse engender'd the storm,
And uproar embroil'd the loud fray.

On every Olympic the humorist droll'd,
So none could his jokes disapprove;
He sung, reparteed, and some old stories told,
And at last thus began upon Jove :
Sire, mark how yon matter is heaving below,
Were it settled 't would please all your court;
'Tis not wisdom to let it lie useless, you know;
Pray people it, just for our sport.

Jove nodded assent, all Olympus bow'd down,
At his fiat creation took birth;
The cloud-keeping deity smil'd on his throne,
Then announc'd the production was earth.
To honour their sov'reign each god gave a boon:
Apollo presented it light;"

The goddess of child-bed dispatch'd us a moon,
To silver the shadow of night:

The queen of soft wishes, foul Vulcan's fair bride,

Leer'd wanton on her man of war; [guide. Saying, As to these earth-folks, I'll give them a So she sparkled the morn and eve star. From her cloud, all in spirits, the goddess up

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Licentiousness freedom's destruction may bring, | The blossoms of liberty gaily 'gan smile,
Unless prudence prepares its defence.
The goddess of sapience bid Iris take wing,
And on Britons bestow'd common-sense.

Four cardinal virtues she left in this isle, As guardians to cherish the root;

And Englishmen fed on the fruit. Thus fed, and thus bred, by a bounty so rare, Oh! preserve it as pure as 'twas giv'n. We will while we've breath; nay we'll grasp it in death,

And return it untainted to heav'n.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

$1. Epilogue to A Woman killed with Kindness. 1617.

An honest crew, disposed to be merry,
Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine:
The drawer brought it (smiling like a cherry),
And told them it was pleasant, neat, and fine.
Taste it, quoth one; he did: O fie! (quoth
he):

This wine was good: now't runs too near
the lee.

Another sipp'd to give the wine his due,

And said unto the rest it drank too flat; The third said it was old; the fourth too new; Nay, quoth the fifth, the sharpness likes me

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§ 2. Prologue to The Unfortunate Lovers.
Spoken at Black-Friars. 1843. DAVENANT.
WERE you but half so humble to confess,
As you are wise to know, your happiness;
Our author would not grieve to see you sit
Ruling with such unquestion'd pow'r his wit:
What would I give, that I could still preserve
My loyalty to him, and yet deserve
Your kind opinion by revealing now
The cause of that great storm which clouds his
brow;
[you,
And his close murmurs, which, since meant to
I cannot think or mannerly or true!
Well; I begin to be resolv'd, and let
My melancholy tragic Monsieur fret;
Let him the several harmless weapons use
Of that all-daring trifle call'd his Muse.
Yet I'll inform you what, this very day,
Twice before witness I have heard him say;
Which is, that you are grown excessive proud;
For ten times more of wit, than was allow'd
Your silly ancestors in twenty year,

*།

[here:

xpect should in two hours be given you

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Good easy-judging souls! with what delight
They would expect a gig or target fight;
A furious tale of Troy, which they ne'er thought
Was weakly written, so 'twere strongly fought;
Laugh'd at a clinch, the shadow of a jest,
And cry'd A passing good one, I protest!'
Such dull and humble-witted people were
Even your forefathers, whom we govern'd here;
And such had you been too, he swears, had not
The poets taught you how to unweave a plot,
And trace the winding scenes; taught you t

admit

[wit.

Thus they have arm'd you 'gainst themselves to
What was true sense, not what did sound like
fight,
[write.
Made strong and mischievous from what they
With two great wits, that grac'd our theatre.
You have been lately highly feasted here.
But, if to feed you often with delight
Will more corrupt, thau mend, your appetite;
He vows to use you, which he much abhors,
As others did your homely ancestors.

$3.

Epilogue to The Cutter of Colemanstreet, spoken by the Person who acted Cutter. 1656. COWLEY. METHINKS a vision bids me silence break, [Without his Peruke. And some words to this congregation speak; So great and gay a one I ne'er did meet At the fifth monarch's court in Colemanstreet;

But yet I wonder much, not to espy a
Brother in all this court, call'd Zephaniah.
Bless me! what are we? what may this place
be?

For I begin my vision now to see,
That this is a mere theatre-Well then,
If't be e'en so, I'll Cutter be again.
[Puts on his Peruke.

* Beaumont and Fletcher.

Not Cutter the pretended cavalier;
For, to confess ingenuously here
To you, who always of that party were,'
I never was of any; up and down
I roll'd, a very rake-hell of this town.
But now my follies and my faults are ended,
My fortune and my mind are both amended ;
And if we may believe one who has fail'd be-
fore,
[no more.
Our author says he'll mend—that is, he'll write

§ 4. Prologue to Nero. 1675. Lee.

GOOD plays, and perfect sense, as scarce are

grown

As civil women in this d-d lewd town;
Plain sense is despicable as plain clothes,
As English hats, bone-lace, or woollen hose.
"Tis your brisk fool that is your man of note;
Yonder he goes, in the embroider'd coat:
Such wenching eyes, and hands so prone to
ruffle,

The genteel fling, the trip, and modish shuffle;
Salt soul and flame, as gay as any prince;
Thus tags and silks make up your men of sense.
I'm told that some are present here to-day
Who, ere they see, resolve to damn this play,
So much would interest with ill-nature sway.
But, ladies, you, we hope, will prove more civil,
And charm these wits that damn beyond the
Then let each critic here all hell inherit, (devil;
You have attractions that can lay a spirit.
A bloody fatal play you'll see to-night;
I vow to God, 't has put me in a fright.
The meanest waiter huffs, looks big, and struts,
Gives breast a blow, then hand on hilt he puts.
'Tis a fine age, a tearing thundering age,
Pray heaven this thund'ring does not crack the
This play I like not now→→
[stage:
And yet, for aught I know, it may be good,
But still I hate this fighting, wounds, and
blood.
[nour?
Why, what the devil have I to do with Ho-
Let heroes court her; I cry, Pox upon her!
All tragedies, i'gad, to me sound oddly;
I can no more be serious, than you godly.

§ 5. Epilogue to Tyrannic Love; spoken by
Nell Gwyn, when she was to be carried off
dead by the bearers. 1672. DRYDEN.
To the Bearer.

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 sweet kind 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 my prime
Of Easter-term, in tart and cheesecake 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. Cath'rinef.

§6. Prologue to Alcibiades. 1675. OTWAY.
NEVER did rhymer greater hazards run,
Mongst us by your severity undone ;
Tho' we, alas! to oblige ye have done most,
And bought ye pleasures at our own sad cost,
Yet all our best endeavours have been lost.
So oft a statesman lab'ring to be good,
His honesty's for treason understood;
Whilst some false flattering minion of the court
Shall play the traitor, and be honour'd for't.
To you, known judges of what's sense and wit,
Our author swears he gladly will submit:
But there's a sort of things infest the pit,
That would be witty spite of nature too,
And, to be thought so, haunt and pester you.
Hither sometimes those would-be-wits repair,
In quest of you; where, if you don't appear,
Cries one-Pugh! D-n me, what do we do
here?

Straight up he starts, his garniture then puts
In order, so he cocks, and out he struts
To the coffee-house, where he about him looks:
Spies friend; cries, Jack-I've been to-night at
th' Duke's;

The silly rogues are all undone, my dear,
I'gad, not one of sense that I saw there.
Thus to himself he'd reputation gather
Of wit, and good acquaintance, but has neither.
Wit has indeed a stranger been, of late ;
'Mongst its pretenders, nought so strange as that.
Both houses too so long a fast have known,
That coarsest nonsense goes most glibly down.

HOLD! are you mad, you damn'd con- Thus though this trifler never wrote before,

founded dog?

I am to rise, and speak the epilogue.

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Yet faith he ventured on the common score:
Since nonsense is so generally allow'd,
He hopes that this may pass amongst the crowd.

§7. Epilogue to Aurengzebe. 1676. DRYDEN.

A PRETTY task! and so I told the fool, Who needs would undertake to please by rule:

• Her real character.

The character she represented in the play.

He thought that if his characters were good, The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood,

The action great, yet circumscrib'd by time,
The words not forc'd, but sliding into rhyme,
The passions rais'd and calm'd by just degrees,
As tides are swell'd and then retire to seas;
He thought in hinting these his bus'ness done,
Though he, perhaps, has fail'd in ev'ry one.
But, after all, a poet must confess,
His art's like physic, but a happy guess.
Your pleasure on your fancy must depend;
The lady's pleas'd, just as she likes her friend.
No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll

say,

You love all naked beauties, but a play.
He much mistakes your methods to delight,
And, like the French, abhors our target fight:
But those damn'd dogs can never be i'th' right.
True English hate your Monsieurs' paltry arts;
For you are all silk-weavers* in your hearts.
Bold Britons, at a brave bear-garden fray,
Ate rous'd, and, clatt'ring sticks, cry, Play,
play, play!

Mean time, your fribbling foreigner will stare,
And mutter to himself, Ah, gens barbare!
And, 'gad, 'tis well he mutters, well for him;
Our butchers else would tear him limb from
limb.

'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be
Infected with this French civility :
But this in after-ages will be done;
Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.
This age comes on too slow or he too fast;
And early springs are subject to a blast.
Who would excel, when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?
For favours cheap and common who would
strive,

Which, like abandon'd prostitutes, you give?
Yet scatter'd here and there I some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold;
To these he writes; and, if by them allow'd,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd;
For he more fears (like a presuming man)
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who

can.

$8. Epilogue to the First Part of The Rover, or the Banished Cavaliers. 1677. Mrs.BEHN.

THE banish'd cavaliers! a roving blade!
A popish carnival! a masquerade!
The devil's in't if this will please the nation,
In these our blessed times of reformation,
When conventicling is so much in fashion."
And yet-

That mutinous tribe less factions do beget,
Than your continual differing in wit.
Your judgment (as your passion) 's a disease;
Nor Muse nor Miss your appetite can please;
You're grown as nice as queasy consciences,

Whose each convulsion, when the spirit moves,
Damns every thing that maggot disapproves.
With canting rule you would the stage refine,
And to dull method all our sense confine.
With th' insolence of commonwealths you rule,
Where each gay fop, and politic brave fool,
On monarch Wit impose without controul.
As for the last, who seldom sees a play,
Unless it be the old Black-Friars way,
Shaking his empty noddle o'er bamboo,
He cries, Good faith, these plays will never do.
Ah, sir! in my young days, what lofty wit,
What high-strain'd scenes of fighting, there
were writ!

These are slight airy toys. But tell me, pray,
What has the House of Commons done to-day?
Then shows his politics, to let you see
Of state affairs he'll judge as notably
As he can do of wit and poetry.
The younger sparks, who hither do resort,
Cry-

Pox o' your gentle things! give us more sport;
Damme! I'm sure't will never please the court.

Such fops are never pleas'd, unless the play Be stuff'd with fools, as brisk and dull as they; Such might the half-crown spare, and in a glass

At home behold a more accomplish'd ass; Where they may set their cravats, wigs, and faces,

And practise all their buffoon'ry grimacesSee how this huff becomes-this damme stare, Which they at home may act, because they

dare;

But must with prudent caution do elsewhere. O, that our Nokes, or Tony Lee, could shew A fop but half so much to th' life as you!

$9.

Epilogue to The Duke of Guise. 1683. Spoken by Mrs. Cook. DRYDEN. MUCH 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 heart were in?
Se defendendo never was a sin.

'Tis 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 'twere wond-
rous wise

To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise.

Alluding to the rivalry of the Spitalfields manufactures with those of France.
This play was written jointly by Dryden and Lee.

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