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What though by duty I am call'd
Where thund'ring cannons rattle, Dear Yanko say, and true he say,
Where Valor's self might stand appalld? All mankind, one and t'other,
When on the wings of thy dear love Negro, mulatto, and Malay,
To Heaven above Through all the world be broder.
Thy fervent orisons are flown, In black, in yellow, what disgrace,
The tender prayer That scandal so he use 'em ?
Thou putt'st up there For dere no virtue in de face,
Shall call a guardian angel down, De virtue in de bosom.
To watch me in the batile. What harm dere in a shape or make ? My safety thy fair truth shall be, What harm in ugly feature ?
As sword and buckler serving; Whatever color, form, he take,
My life shall be more dear to me, The heart make human creature.
Because of thy preserving: Then black and copper both be friend,
Let peril come, let horror ihreat, No color he bring beauty;
Let thund'ring cannons rattle, For beauty, Yanko say, attend
I'll fearless seek the conflict's heat,
Assur'd when on the wings of love
To Heaven above, &c.
Some kindred god inspir'd thee;
Who wonder'd and admir'd thee. We bipeds, made up of frail clay,
I go assur’d: my life, adieu; Alas! are the children of sorrow;
Though thund'ring cannons rattle, And, though brisk and merry to-day,
Though murdering carnage stalk in view, We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
When on the wings of thy true love
To Heaven above, &c.
$ 146. Indian Song. By the same. I
grant the best blessing we know Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure;
The sun's descending in the wave ; And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
I go, I go, niy fate to brave:
Ghosts of dead incas, now appear,
Sbriek as ye come
Cold from the tomb,
And see if Moniaco knows to fear.
Oh Sun, my sire !
Lend me all thy noble fire : If a mortal would point out that life
Illia Moniaco to thy tomh, Which on earth could be nearest to hearen, Oh Atabalipa, soon shall come; Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
Cover me with scars, To whom truth and honor are given.
Nought can control But honor and truth are so rare,
The dauntless soul, And horns, when they 're cutting, so tingle,
That shall live among its kindred stars, That, with all my respect to the fair,
What is 't to die? To leave this clay, I'd advise him to sigh, and live single.
And breathe an everlasting day, It appears from these premises plain,
For robes celestial shake off dust; That wisdom is nothing but folly;
Among the blest, That pleasure 's a term that means pain,
From care to rest, And that joy is your true melancholy:
And emulate the virtues of the just : That all those who laugh ought to cry,
Then, Sun, my sire, That 'tis fine frísk and fun to be grieving;
Lend me all thy noble fire, And that, since we must all of us die,
Illia Moniaco, &c.
Adieu, ye friends ! vain world, adien!
While I, new-born, shall go to Bind $ 145. The Soldier's Adieu. By the same.
The upper heaven,
You shall be driven Adieu, adieu, my only life!
Like scatter'd chaff before false fortune's wind. My honor calls me from thee;
Now, Sun, my sire, Remember thou 'rt a soldier's wife,
I feel, I feel thy noble fire ! Those tears but ill become thee.
Illia Moniaco, &c.
§ 147. By the sume.
$ 149. Song. STEPHENS. HARK the din of distant war,
Once the gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial feast, How noble is the clangor !
Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing, Pale Death ascends his ebon car,
Merry Momus among them appeared as a guest: Clad in terrific anger.
Homer says the celestials love laughing. A doubtful fate the soldier tries
This happen'd 'fore Chaos was fix'd into form, Who joins the gallant quarrel :
While nature disorderly lay; Perhaps on the cold ground he lies,
While elements adverse engender'd the storm, No wife, no friend, to close his eyes,
embroil'd the loud fray.
On every Olympic thc humorist drolld,
So none could his jokes disapprove;.
He How many, who, disdaining fear,
sung, reparteed, and some old stories told,
And at last thus began upon Jove :
Sire, mark how yon matter is heaving below, Shall claim the tribute of the tear
Were it settled 't would please all your court; That dims the eye of beauty?
'Tis not wisdom to let it lie useless, you know; A doubtful' fate, &c.
Pray people it, just for our sport.
Jove nodded assent, all Olympus bow'd down, If we should fall; but if we live,
At his fiat creation took birih; We live our country's glory.
The cloud-keeping deity smil'd on his throne, 'Tis true, a doubtful fate, &c.
Then announc'd the production was earth.
Apollo presented it light;'
To silver the shadow of night :
The queen of soft wishes, foul Vulcan's fair More, far more, than tongue can tell ye;
Leer'd wanton on her man of war; [guide. Yet was her tender bosom sad Whene'er she heard the loud reveiller.
Saying, As to these earth-folks, l'll give them a The fifes were screech-owls to her ears,
So she sparkled the morn and eve star. The drums like thunder seem'd to rattle;
From her cloud, all in spirits, the goddess up Ah, too prophetic were her fears,
In ellipsis each planet advanc'd;
The tune of the spheres the Nine Sisters sung, Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd;
As round Terra Nova they danc'd. Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low
Even Jove himself could not insensible stand, On the cold ground.
Bid Saturn his girdle fast bind : [hand, Her heart all love, her soul all truth, The expounder of fate grasp'd the globe in his That none her fears or flight discover,
And laugh'd at those mites call'd mankind. Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth,
From the hand of great Jove into space it was Follow'd to the field her lover.
hurl'd, Directed by the fife and drum
He was charm’d with the roll of the ball, To where the work of death was doing;
Bid his daughter Attraction take charge of the Where of brave hearts the time was come,
And she hung it up high in his hall. [world, Who, seeking honor, grasp at ruin :
Her very soul was chill'd with woe, Miss, pleas'd with the present, review'd the New horror came in every sound,
globe round, And whisper'd, death had laid him low Saw with rapture hills, valleys, and plains; On the cold ground.
The self-balanc'd orb in an atmosphere bound,
Prolific by suns, dews, and rains. With mute affliction as she stood,
With silver, gold, jewels, she India endow'd, While her woman's fears confound her,
France and Spain she taught vineyards to With terror all her soul subdued,
rear; A mourning train came thronging round her. What was fit for each clime on each clime she The plaintive fife, and muffled drum,
bestow'd, The marshal obsequies discover ;
And freedom she found flourish'd here.
The blue-ey'd celestial, Minerva the wise,
Ineffably smild on the spot ; Fell, to the grief of all around,
My dear, says plum'd Pallas, your last gift I Where death had laid her lover low
prize, On the cold ground!
But, excuse me, one thing is forgot.
Licentiousness freedom's destruction may bring, | The blossoms of liberty gaily 'gan smile,
Unless prudence prepares its defence. And Englishmeu fed on the fruit.
We will while we've breath; nay we'll grasp Four cardinal virtues she left in this isle,
it in death, As guardians to cherish the root ;
And return it untainted to heav'n.
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.
§ 1. Epilogue to A Woman killed with Kind- For they, he swears, to th' theatre would come 1617.
Ere they had din'd, to take up the best room ; An honest crew, disposed to be merry,
There sit on benches, not adorn'd with mats, Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine :
And graciously did vail their high-crown'd hats The drawer brought it (smiling like
a cherry), To every half-dress'd player, as he still And told them it was pleasant, neat, and fine. Thro' th' hangings peep'd to see how the house Taste it, quoth one; he did : O fie! (quoth
Good easy-judging souls! with what delight This wine was good: now't runs too near They would expect a gigor target fight; the lee.
Afurious tale of Troy, which they ne'er thought
Was weakly written, so'twere strongly fought; Another sipp'd to give the wine his due, Laugh'd at a clinch, the shadow of a jest,
and said unto the rest it drank too flat; And cry'd . A passing good one, I protest!" The third said it was old; the fourth too new; Such dull and humble-witted people were Nay, quoth the fifth, the sharpness likes me Even your forefathers, whom we govern d here;
And such had you been too, he swears, had not Thus, gentlemen, you see how in one hour The poets taught you how to unweave a plot, The wine was new, old, fat, sharp, sweet, And 'trace the winding scenes; taught you t' and sour.
Twit. Unto this wine do we allude our play; [grave: What was true sense, not what did sound like Which some will judge too trivial, 'some too Thus they have armd you 'gainst themselves to
fight, You, as our guests, we entertain this day,
[write. And bid you welcome to the best we have.
Made strong and mischievous from what they Excuse me then ;, good wine may be disgracid with two great wits", that grac'd our theatre.
You have been lately highly feasted here. When ev'ry sev'ral mouth has sundry taste.
But, if to feed you often with delight
Will more corrupt, thau mend, your appetite; § 2. Prologue to The Unfortunate Lovers. As others did your homely ancestors.
He vows to use you, which he much abhors, Spoken at Black-Friars. 1643. 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
§ 3. Epilogue to The Cutter of ColemanRuling with such unquestion'd pow'r his wit : streel, spoken by the Person who acted What would I give, that I could still preserve
COWLEY. My loyalty to him, and yet deserve
METHINKS a vision bids me silence break, Your kind opinion by revealing now
[Without his Peruke. The cause of that great storm which clouds his And some words to this congregation speak; brow;
[you, So great and gay a one I ne'er did meet And his close murinurs, which, since meant to At the fifth monarch's court in ColemanI cannot think or mannerly or true!
street; Well; I begin to be resolv'd, and let But yet I wonder much, not to espy a My melancholy tragic Monsieur fret; Brother in all this court, call'd Zephaniah. Let him the several harmless weapons use Bless me! what are we? what may this place Of that all-daring trifle calld his Muse.
be? Yet I 'll inform you what, this very day, For I begin my vision now to see, Twice before witness I have heard him
say; That this is a mere theatre-Well then, Which is, that you are grown excessive proud; If't be e'en so, I'll Cutter be again. For ten times more of wit, than was allow'd
(Puts on his Peruke. Your silly ancestors in twenty year,
[here : xpeci should in two hours be given you
* Beaumont and Fletcher.
Not Cutter the pretended cavalier ;
Gallants, look to't; you say there are no sprites; For, to confess ingenuously here
But I'll come dance about your beds at nights; To you, who always of that party were, And 'faith you'll be in a sweet kind of taking, I never was of any ; up and down
When I surprise you between sleep
and waking. I rolld, a very rake-hell of this town.
To tell you true, 'I walk, because I die But now iny follies and my faults are ended, Out of my calling, in a tragedy. My fortune and my mind are both amended; O poet, damn'd dull poet ! who could prove And if we may believe one who has fail'd be- So senseless, to make Nelly die for love! fore,
[no more. Nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in my prime Our author says he'll mend--that is, he'll write Of Easter-lerm, 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 ; $ 4. Prologue to Nero. 1675. LEE.
A play which if you dare but twice sit out,
You'll all be slander'd, and be thought devout. Good plays, and perfect sense, as scarce are But farewell, gentlemen; make haste to me; grown
I'm sure ere long to have your company. As civil women in this dad lewd town; As for my epitaph, when I am gone, Plain sense is despicable as plain clothes, I'll trust no poet, but will write my own : As English hats, bone-lace, or woollen hose. Here Nelly lies, who, tho'she liv'd a slattern", "Tis your brisk fool that is your man of note ; Yet died a princess, acting in St. Cath'rinet. Yonder he goes, in the embroider'd coat: Snch wenching eyes, and hands so prone to ruffle,
Şo. Prologue to Alcibiades. 1675. OTWAY.
Then let each critie here all hell inherit, [devil; Shall play the traitor, and be honour'd for't.
[stage: Cries one-Pugh! Den me, what do we do And yet, for aught I know, it may be good,
here? But still I hate this fighting, wounds, and Straight up he starts, his garniture then puts blood.
[nour? In order, so he cocks, and out he struts Why, what the devil have I to do with Ho- To the coffee-house, where he about him looks: Let heroes court her; I cry, Pox upon her! Spies friend; cries, Jack-I've been to-night at All tragedies, i gad, to me sound oddly;
th' Duke's; I can no more be serious, than you godly. The silly rogues are all undone, my dear,
I'gau, not one of sense that I saw there.
Thus to himself he'd reputation gather $ 5. Epilogue to Tyrannic Love; spoken by Of wit, and good acquaintance, but has neither.
Neil Gwyn, when she was to be carried off Wit has indeed a stranger been, of late; dead by the bearers. , 1672. Dryden.
'Mongst its pretenders, nought so strange as that.
Both houses too so long a fast have known, To the Bearer.
That coarsest nonsense goes inost glibly down. Hold! are you mad, you damn'd con- | Thus though this trifler never wrote before, founded dog?
Yet faith he ventured on the common score : I am to rise, and speak the epilogue.
Since nonsense is so generally allow'd,
He hopes that this may pass amongst the crowd.
$7. Epilogue to Aurengzebe. 1676. I'm what I was, a little harinless devil;
DRYDEN. For, after death, we sprites have just such na- A PRETTY task ! and so I told the fool, tures
[tures : Who needs would undertake to please by rule: We had, for all the world, when human creaInd therefore I, that was an actress here, • Her real character. Play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there. + The character she represented in the play. Cry
He thought that if his characters were good, Whose each convulsion, when the spirit mores, The scenes entire, and freed from poise and Damos every thing that maggot disapproves. blood,
With canting rule you would the stage refine, The action great, yet circumscrib'd by time, And to dull method all our sense contine. The words not forc'd, but sliding into rhyme, With th’insolence of commonwealths you rule, The passions rais'd and calm'd by just degrees, Where each gay fop, and politic brave fool, As tides are swell'd and then retire to seas; On monarch Wit impose without controul. He thought in hinting these his bus'ness done, As for the last, who seldom sees a play, Though he, perhaps, has fail'd in ev'ry one. Unless it be the old Black-Friars way, But, after all, a poet must confess,
Shaking his empty noddle o'er bamboo, His art's like physic, but a happy guess. He cries, Good faith, these plays will never do. Your pleasure on your fancy must depend; Ah, sir! in my young days, what lofty wit, The lady's pleas'd, just as she likes her friend. What high-strain'd scenes of fighting, there No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll were writ! say,
These are slight airy toys. But tell me, pray, You love all naked beauties, but a play. What has the House of Commons done to-day? He much mistakes your inethods to delight, Then shows his politics, to let you see And, like the French, abhors our target fight: Of state affairs he'll judge as notably But those damn'd dogs can never be i'th' right. As he can do of wit and poetry. True English hate your Monsienrs' paltry arts; The younger sparks, who hither do resort, For you are all silk-weavers* in your hearts. Bold Britons, at a brave bear-garden fray, Pox o'your gentle things! give us more sport; Are rous'd, and, clatt'ring sticks, cry, Play, Damme! I'm sure't will never please the court.
Such fops are never pleas'd, unless the play Mean time, your fribbling foreigner will stare, Be stufl’d with fools, as brisk and dull as they; And mutter to himself, Ah, gens barbare ! Such inight the half-crown spare, and in a And, 'gad, 'tis well he mutters, well for him; glass Our butchers else would tear him limb from At home behold a more accomplish'd ass ; limb.
Where they may set their cravats, wigs, and 'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be
faces, Infected with this French civility :
And practise all their buffoon'ry grimacese But this in after-ages will be done; .
See how this huff becomes this damme stare, Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.
Which they at hoine may act, because they This age comes ou too slow or he too fast; And early springs are subject to a blast. But must with prudent caution do elsewhere, Who would excel, when few can make a test O, that our Nokes, or Tony Lee, could shew Betwixt indifferent writing and the best? A fop but half so much to th’ life as you! For favours cheap and common who would
strive, Which, like abandon'd prostitutes, you give? $9. Epilogue to The Duke of Guise. 1683. Yet scatter'd here and there I some behold,
Spoken by Mrs. Cook. DRYDEN. Who can discern the tinsel from the gold; Much timeand trouble this poor play has cost, To these he writes; and, if by them allow'd,
And, 'faith, I doubted once the cause was lost. 'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd;
Yet no one man was meant, nor great nor For he more fears (like a presuming man)
small; Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who Our poets, like frank gamesterst, threw at all. can.
They took no single aim---
Huzza'd, and fir'd broadsides at the whole party. $ 8. Epilogue to the First Part of The Rover, or Duels are crimes; but when the cause is right the Banished Cavaliers. 1677. Mrs.Bean. In battle every man is bound to fight:
For what should hinder me to sell my skin The banish'd cavaliers! a roving blade! Dear as I could, if once my heart were in? A popish carnival! a masquerade!
Se defendendo never was a sin. The devil's in't if this will please the nation, 'Tis a fine world, my masters-right or wrong, In these our blessed times of reformation, The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their When conventicling is so much in fashion."
They must do all they canThat mutinous tribe less factions do beget, But we, forsooth, must bear a Christian mind, Than your continual differing in wit. And fight like boys with one hand tied behind : Your judgment (as your passion) 's a disease ; Nay, and when one boy's down 'twere wondNor Nuse nor Miss your appetite can please ;
rous wise You're grown as nice as queasy consciences, To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise.
• Alluding to the rivalry of the Spitalfields manufactures with those of France.