Univerfity of OXFORD, 1674.
Spoken by Mr. HART.
OETS, your Subjects, have their Parts affign'd
T'unbend, and to divert their Sov'reign's
When, tir'd with following Nature, you think
To feek repofe in the cool Shades of Wit,
And, from the fweet Retreat, with Joy furvey
What refts, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free your felves from Envy, Care, and Strife,
You view the various Turns of human Life :
Safe in our Scene, through dangerous Courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the Vice of Cities know.
Your Theories are here to Practice brought,
As in Mechanick Operations wrought;
And Man, the little World, before you fet,
As once the Sphere of Crystal fhew'd the Great.
While Troops of famifh'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whose Alms they live:
Old English Authors vanish, and give place
To thefe new Conqu❜rors of the Norman Race.
More tamely than your Fathers you submit ;
You're now grown Vaffals to 'em in your Wit.
Mark, when they Play, how our fine Fops advance
The Mighty Merits of their Men of France,
Keep time, cry Bon, and humour the Cadence.
Well, please your felves; but fure 'tis understood,
That French Machines have ne'er done England good.
I wou'd not prophefy our House's Fate:
But while vain Shows and Scenes you over-rate,
'Tis to be fear'd
That as a Fire the former House o'erthrew,
Machines and Tempefts will deftroy the New.
EPILOGUE on the fame Occafion.
Hough what our Prologue faid was fadly true,
Yet, Gentlemen, our homely House is new,
A Charm that feldom fails with, wicked, you.
A Country Lip may have the Velvet touch;
Though she's no Lady, you may think her fuch :
A ftrong Imagination may do much.
But you, loud Sirs, who through your Curls look big,
Criticks in Plume and white Vallancy Wig,
Who lolling on our foremost Benches fit,
And still charge firft (the true forlorn of Wit;)
Whofe favours, like the Sun, warm where you rowl,
Yet you, like him, have neither Heat nor Soul,
So may your Hats your Foretops never prefs,
Untouch'd your Ribbons, facred be your Drefs;
So may you flowly to old Age advance,
And have th' Excufe of Youth for Ignorance:
So may Fop-corner full of Noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive Train ;
So may your Midnight Scowrings happy prove,
And Morning Batt'ries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike Hands recal,
But leave you by each other's Swords to fall:
As you come here to ruffle Vizard Punk,
When fober, rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the Wits we can fome Merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been said:
Our House relieves the Ladies from the frights
Of ill-pav'd Streets, and long dark Winter Nights;
The Flanders Horses from a cold bleak Road,
Where Bears in Furs dare scarcely look abroad;
The Audience from worn Plays and Fuftian Stuff
Of Rhime, more naufeous than three Boys in Buff.
Though in their House the Poets Heads appear,
We hope we may prefume their Wits are here.
The beft which they reserv'd they now will play;
For, like kind Cuckolds, tho' w' have not the way
To please, we'll find you abler Men who may.
If they fhou'd fail, for laft Recruits we breed
A Troop of frifking Monfieurs to fucceed :
You know the French fure Cards at time of need.
PROLOGUE to CIRCE,
By Dr. DAVENANT. 1675.
ERE you but half fo wife as you're fevere,
W Our youthful Poet fhou'd not need to fear:
green
Not blast the Bloffom, but expect the Fruit.
The Sex, that beft does Pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t'other hand.
They check not him that's aukward in delight,
But clap the young Rogue's Cheek, and set him right
Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his Prey,
The Youth may prove a Man another Day.
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and fhort Excurfions made
From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid,
And each was guilty of fome flighted Maid.
Shakespear's own Mufe her Pericles first bore;
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore:
'Tis miracle to see a first good Play;
All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
A flender Poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his Brothers do.
Who ftill looks lean, sure with some Pox is curft:
But no Man can be Falftaff-fat at first.
Then damn not, but indulge his rude Essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with Praife,
That he may get more bulk before he dies:
He's not yet fed enough for Sacrifice.
Perhaps, if now your Grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.
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