Classic Poem

PROLOGUE

A S some raw squire, by tender mother bred,
Till one and twenty keeps his maiden-head,
(Pleas'd with some sport, which he alone does find,
And thinks a secret to all humankind,)
Till mightily in love, yet half afraid,
He first attempts the gentle dairymaid.
Succeeding there, and led by the renown
Of Whetstone's Park, he comes at length to town,
Where enter'd, by some school-fellow or friend,
He grows to break glass windows in the end:
His valor too, which with the watch began,
Proceeds to duel, and he kills his man.
By such degrees, while knowledge he did want,
Our unfletch'd author writ a Wild Gallani .
He thought him monstrous lewd (I'll lay my life)
Because suspected with his landlord's wife;
But, since his knowledge of the town began,
He thinks him now a very civil man;
And, much asham'd of what he was before,
Has fairly play'd him at three wenches more.
'Tis some amends his frailties to confess:
Pray pardon him his want of wickedness.
He's towardly, and will come on apace;
His frank confession shows he has some grace.
You balk'd him when he was a young beginner,
And almost spoil'd a very hopeful sinner;
But, if once more you slight his weak indeavor,
For aught I know, he may turn tail for ever.

EPILOGUE

O F all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit,
For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humor is that which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat:
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow salvages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began,
So you, at each new play, must have a man.
Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught.
But fools grow wary now; and, when they see
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.
Few of 'em will be found for public use,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the trainbands, and every man ingage
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory should appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' play;
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry squires in country churches do.
Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make
A comedy which should the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
'Tis a land tax, which he 's too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other impost lay.
Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motley garniture of fool and farce,
Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vests, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you should this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.