PROLOGUE

TO THE

UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

THOUGH actors cannot much of learning

boaft,

Of all who want it, we admire it most:
We love the praises of a learned pit,
As we remotely are ally'd to wit.

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We fpeak our poet's wit, and trade in ore,
Like thofe, who touch upon the golden fhore:
Betwixt our judges can diftinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our poems take:

Ver. 8.

why, our poems take :] The pleasure properly to be expected from a good tragedy is "the pleasure that arifes from pity and terror." Has Pope in the first lines of his famous prologue to Cato touched on this pleasure? or made this the effential bufinefs of tragedy? It is obfervable that in Greece the Drama was perfected in half a century; in Europe it took up 400 years to bring it to any perfection. Ariftotle in the poetics, complains of the effeminacy of the Athenian tafte, in forcing their poets to foften fome of their moft ftriking catastrophes, and diminishing the terror and to poßipos of their pieces. In the Trachiniæ of Sophocles, Deianira utters a fentiment that was Solon's years before Solon lived. Sophocles alfo ufes the word per, long before it was framed at Athens. But the defcription of the chariot race at the Ifthmian games is the greatest anachronism. Dr. J. WARTON.

1'1

Mark if the fools, or men of fenfe, rejoice;
Whether the applause be only found or voice.
When our fop gallants, or our city folly
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:
We doubt that fcene which does their wonder
raife,

And, for their ignorance, contemn their praife.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who

write,

Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;
The ready finger lays on every blot;

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Knows what should justly please, and what fhould not.

Nature herfelf lies open to your view;

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You judge by her, what draught of her is true, Where outlines falfe, and colours feem too

faint,

Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.

25

But, by the facred genius of this place,
By every Mufe, by each domeftic grace,
Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, prefumes not to excel.
Our poets hither for adoption come,

As nations fued to be made free of Rome: 30
Not in the fuffragating tribes to ftand,

But in your utmost, laft, provincial band,

If his ambition may thofe hopes pursue,
Who with religion loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name fhall be,
Than his own mother-university.

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Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth en

gage;

He chooses Athens in his riper age.

PROLOGUE

TO

ALBION AND ALBANIUS.

FULL twenty years and more, our labouring

ftage

Has loft, on this incorrigible age:

Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,
Have feem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation; 4
But ftill no fign 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 fpare our pains! and, to con-

tent you,
Will fairly leave you what

you.

your

Maker meant

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food;

Satire was once your phyfic, wit your
One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood:
We now prescribe, like doctors in defpair,
The diet your weak appetites can bear.
Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,
Here's julep-dance, ptifan of fong and show:

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Give you strong fenfe, the liquour is too heady; You're come to farce,-that's affes milk,-already.

Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit, Who one day may be men, if heaven think fit; Sound may serve such, ere they to fenfe are grown,

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Like leading-strings, till they can walk alone. But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know,

The wife Italians firft invented show;

Thence into France the noble pageant past: 25 'Tis England's credit to be cozen'd last. Freedom and zeal have chous'd you o'er and

o'er ;

Pray give us leave to bubble you once more ;
You never were fo cheaply fool'd before :
We bring you change, to humour your dif-

eafe;

30

Change for the worse has ever used to please: Then, 'tis the mode of France; without whofe

rules,

None must presume to set up here for fools.
In France, the oldest man is always young,
Sees operas daily, learns the tunes fo long,
Till foot, hand, head, keep time with every
fong:

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Each fings his part, echoing from pit and box, With his hoarfe voice, half harmony, half pox.