PROLOGUE to the UNIVERSITY of OXFORD,
THE fam'd Italian Mufe, whofe rhymes advance
Orlando, and the Paladins of France,
Records, that, when our wit and fenfe is flown, 'Tis lodg'd within the circle of the moon,
In earthen jars, which one, who thither foar'd, Set to his nofe, fnuff'd up, and was reftor'd. Whate'er the ftory be, the moral 's true; The wit we loft in town, we find in you. Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence, And fill their windy heads with fober fenfe. When London votes with Southwark's disagree, Here may they find their long-loft loyalty. Here bufy fenates, to th' old cause inclin'd, May fnuff the votes their fellows left behind : Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear, May come, and find their last provision here: Whereas we cannot much lament our lofs, Who neither carry'd back, nor brought one cross. We look'd what representatives would bring; But they help'd us, just as they did the king. Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth The Sibyls books to those who know their worth; And though the firft was facrific'd before, Thefe volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prefcription you are kind.
He, whofe undaunted Mufe, with loyal rage,
Has never fpar'd the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his fpleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his fatire into praise.
PROLOGUE to his Royal Highness, upon his first Appearance at the Duke's Theatre, after his Return from Scotland, 1682.
N thofe cold regions which no fummers chear,
Where brooding darkness covers half the year,
To hollow caves the shivering natives go;
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of fnow.
But when the tedious twilight wears away,
And stars grow paler at th' approach of day,
The longing crowds to frozen mountains run;
Happy who firft can fee the glimmering fun :
The furly favage offspring difappear,
And curfe the bright fucceffor of the year.
Yet, though rough bears in covert feek defence,
White foxes stay, with feeming innocence :
That crafty kind with day-light can difpenfe.
Still we are throng'd so full with Reynard's race,
That loyal fubjects scarce can find a place :
Thus modeft truth is caft behind the croud:
Truth fpeaks too low; hypocrify too loud.
Let them be first to flatter in fuccefs;
Duty can stay, but guilt has need to press;
Once, when true zeal the fons of God did call,
To make their folemn fhew at Heaven's Whitehall,
The fawning devil appear'd among the reft,
And made as good a courtier as the best.
The friends of Job, who rail'd at him before,
Came cap in hand when he had three times more.
Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;
Kings can forgive, if rebels can but fue :
A tyrant's power in rigour is exprest ;
The father yearns in the true prince's breast.
We grant, an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend;
But most are babes, that know not they offend.
The croud, to reftiefs motion ftill inclin'd,
Are clouds, that tack according to the wind.
Driven by their chiefs they ftorms of hailstones pour;
Then mourn, and foften to a filent fhower.
O welcome to this much-offending land,
The prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus angels on glad meffages appear :
Their firft falute commands us not to fear:
Thus heaven, that could conftrain us to obey,
(With reverence if we might presume to fay)
Seems to relax the rights of fovereign sway :
Permits to man the choice of good and ill,
And makes us happy by our own free-will.
PROLOGUE to the EARL of ESSEX.
[By Mr. J. BANK S, 1682.]
Spoken to the King and Queen at their coming to the
Houfe.
WHEN firft the ark was landed on the shore,
And heaven had vow'd to curfe the ground no
When tops of hills the longing patriarch faw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw;
The dove was fent to view the waves decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the royal dove,
Still innocent as harbinger of love:
The ark is open'd to difmifs the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, ye powers, why should vain man pursue,
With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the feeming fubftance leave the true?
Why fhould he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loath the manna of his daily food?
Muft England ftill the scene of changes be,
Toft and tempeftuous, like our ambient sea ?
Muft ftill our weather and our wills agree?
Without our blood our liberties we have:
Who that is free would fight to be a flave?
Or, what can wars to after-times affure,
Of which our prefent age is not secure?
All that our monarch would for us ordain,
Is but t'enjoy the bleffings of his reign.
Our land's an Eden, and the main's our fence,
While we preferve our fate of innocence :
That loft, then beafts their brutal force employ,
And first their lord, and then themselves destroy.
What civil broils have coft, we know too well;
Oh! let it be enough that once we fell!
And every heart confpire, and every tongue,
Still to have fuch a king, and this king long.
An EPILOGUE for the King's House.
E act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again. Let those who call us wicked change their fenfe; For never men liv'd more on Providence.
Not lottery cavaliers are half fo poor,
Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore.
Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last ungiving parliaments :
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,
He might have fspar'd his dream of seven lean kine,
And chang'd his vifion for the Mufes nine.
The comet, that, they fay, portends a dearth,
Was but a vapour drawn from play-house earth :
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