PROLOGUE, TO THE Duke of GUISE.
OUR Play's a Parallel: The Holy League
Begot our Cov'nant: Guisards got the Whigg:
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.
Cou'd 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 wou'd think in reason,
Had giv'n us all our Bellys-full of Treason:
And yet, the Name but chang'd, our nasty Nation
Chaws its own Excrement, th'Association.
'Tis 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 though the Hook lies bare;
Twice in one Age expell the lawfull 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 two-Pence 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 others Throats,
[Page] 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 Whiggs, 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 independant of the Crown:
A Realm apart; the Kingdom of the Town.
Let
Ignoramus Juries find no Traitors:
And
Ignoramus Poets scribble Satyres.
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan,
Doe, what in Coffee-houses you began;
Pull down the Master, and Set up the Man.
EPILOGUE.
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 Broad-sides at the whole Party.
Duells are Crimes; but when the Cause is right,
In Battel, every Man is bound to fight.
For what shou'd hinder Me to sell my Skin
Dear as I cou'd, if once my hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a Sin.
'Tis a fine World, my Masters, right or wrong,
The Whiggs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.
They must doe all they can—
But We, forsooth, must bear a Christian mind;
And fight, like Boys, with one Hand ty'd behind;
Nay, and when one Boy's down, 'twere wondrous wise,
To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise.
[Page] When Fortune favours, none but Fools will dally:
Wou'd any of you Sparks, if
Nan or
Mally
Tipt you th'inviting Wink, stand shall I, shall I?
A
Trimmer cry'd, (that heard me tell this Story)
Fie, Mistress
Cooke! faith you're too rank a Tory!
Wish not Whiggs 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 Bloud—Nor I, Sir, as I breath;
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 Mens Lives enow already?
Yes sure:—but you're for holding all things steddy:
Now since the Weight hangs all on one side, Brother,
You
Trimmers shou'd, to poize it, hang on t'other.
Damn'd Neuters, in theri middle way of steering,
Are neither Fish, nor Flesh, nor good Red-Herring:
Not Whiggs, 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.
TWO Houses joyn'd, two Poets to a Play?
You noisy Whiggs will sure be pleas'd to day;
It looks so like two Shrieves the City way.
But since our Discords and Divisions cease,
You, Bilbo Gallants, learn to keep the Peace:
[Page] 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 defence:
That safe behind the Ladies they may stay;
Peep o'er the Fan, and Judg the bloudy Fray.
But other Foes give Beauty worse alarms;
The
Posse Poetarum's up in Arms:
No Womans Fame their Libells has escap'd;
Their Ink runs Venome, and their Pens are Clap'd.
When Sighs and Pray'rs their Ladies cannot move,
They Rail, write Treason, and turn Whiggs 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 besides, admit some expiation;
But this against our Sex is plain Damnation.
They joyn for Libells too, these Women-haters;
And as they club for Love, they club for Satyrs:
The best on't is they hurt not: for they wear
Stings in their Tayls; their onely Venom's there.
'Tis true, some Shot at first the Ladies hit,
Which able Markesmen made and Men of Wit:
But now the Fools give fire, whose Bounce is louder;
And ye
[...], like mere Train bands, they shoot but Powder.
Libells, like Plots, sweep all in their first Fury;
Then dwindle like an
Ignoramus Jury:
Thus Age begins with Towzing and with Tumbling;
But Grunts, and Groans, and ends at last in Fumbling.
FINIS.
Newly Printed, The Prologue and Epilogue to the King and Queen, at the Opening of their Theatre.
Religio Laici, or a Lay-man's Faith. A Poem. Both Written by Mr. Dryden.
LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-lane. 1683.