Prologue To "Arvirgus And Philicia Revived."

BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ., 1690.

SPOKEN BY MR HART.


    With sickly actors and an old house too,
    We're match'd with glorious theatres and new;
    And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn,
    Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
    If all these ills could not undo us quite,
    A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
    Who with broad bloody bills call you each day
    To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
    Or see some serious piece, which we presume
    Is fallen from some incomparable plume;
    And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
    Send lackeys early to preserve your place.
    We dare not on your privilege intrench,
    Or ask you why you like them? they are French.
    Therefore some go, with courtesy exceeding,
    Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding:
    Each lady striving to out-laugh the rest;
    To make it seem they understood the jest.
    Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
    To teach us English where to clap the play:
    Civil, egad! our hospitable land
    Bears all the charge, for them to understand:
    Mean time we languish and neglected lie,
    Like wives, while you keep better company;
    And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,
    You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.

John Dryden

John Dryden was an influential English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made England’s first Poet Laureate in 1668. His work dominated the literary life of Restoration England and he is seen as a major figure in the literary history of the period. Dryden's notable works include the satirical poem 'Absalom and Achitophel' and the mock-heroic 'Mac Flecknoe.'

John Dryden

Songs In Albion And Albanius.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Don Sebastian." Spoken By A Woman.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Upon The Death Of The Earl Of Dundee.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Songs In "The Conquest Of Granada."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue. Spoken At The Opening Of The New House, March 26, 1674.

    A plain-built^[1] house, after so long a stay,
    Will send you half unsatisfied away;
    When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
    A bare convenience only is design'd.
    You, who each day can theatres behold,
    Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
    Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
    And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
    Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
    And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
    Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
    They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
    With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
    We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
    With our small stock to humble roofs retire:
    Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
 ...

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Prologue To "Albion And Albanius."

    Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage
    Has lost on this incorrigible age:
    Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,
    Have seem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation:
    But still no sign remains; which plainly notes,
    You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.
    What can we do, when mimicking a fop,
    Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?
    Faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you,
    Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you.
    Satire was once your physic, wit your food:
    One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood:
    We now prescribe, like doctors in despair,
    The diet your weak appetites can bear.
    Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,
    Here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and sho...

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Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.

    Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
    When silly plays so savourily go down;
    As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign
    A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
    Happy is he who, in his own defence,
    Can write just level to your humble sense;
    Who higher than your pitch can never go;
    And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.
    So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,
    A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board;
    He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,
    Secured by weakness not to reach the box.
    A feeble poet will his business do,
    Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:
    For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.
    An ape his own dear image will embrace;
    An ugly beau adores a h...

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Prologue To "The Loyal General;" By Mr Tate, 1680.

    If yet there be a few that take delight
    In that which reasonable men should write;
    To them alone we dedicate this night.
    The rest may satisfy their curious itch
    With city-gazettes, or some factious speech,
    Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
    Stirs up the shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
    Remove your benches, you apostate pit,
    And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;
    Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
    Or see, what's worse, the Devil and the Pope.
    The plays that take on our corrupted stage,
    Methinks, resemble the distracted age;
    Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,
    That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.
    The style of forty-one our poets write,
    And you are grown to judge l...

John Dryden

Prologue To "Aurengzebe."

    Our author, by experience, finds it true,
    'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
    And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
    Damns his laborious trifle of a play;
    Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
    But he has now another taste of wit;
    And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
    Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
    Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
    And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
    What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
    Which he presumes the most correct of his;
    But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
    Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name:
    Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
    He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
    An...

John Dryden

Prologue To The Rival Ladies.

    'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
    Would pass a vote to put all prologues down:
    For who can show me, since they first were writ,
    They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
    Yet the world's mended well; in former days
    Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
    For the reforming poets of our age,
    In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
    Expect no more when once the prologue's done:
    The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
    You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
    High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
    As for a clear contrivance, doubt it now;
    They blow out candles to give light to the plot.
    And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
    Fight till they die, then rise and dance agai...

John Dryden