PROLOGUE to SOPHONISBA at Oxford, 1680.

THelpis, the firft Profeffor of our Art,

At Country Wakes, fung Ballads from a Cart.
To prove this true, if Latin be no Trespass,
Dicitur & Plauftris vexiffe Poemata Thefpis.
But fchylus, fays Horace in fome Page,
Was the first Mountebank that trod the Stage:
Yet Athens never knew your learned Sport
Of toffing Poets in a Tennis-Court.
But 'tis the Talent of our English Nation,
Still to be plotting fome new Reformation :
And few Years hence, if Anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter fhall here erect his Throne,
Knock out a Tub with Preaching once a Day,
And ev'ry Pray'r be longer than a Play.
Then all your Heathen Wits shall go to pot,
For difbelieving of a Popish-plot :

Your Poets fhall be us'd like Infidels,

And worst the Author of the Oxford Bells:
Nor fhould we 'scape the Sentence, to depart,
E'en in our firft Original, a Cart.

No Zealous Brother there wou'd want a Stone,
To maul us Cardinals, and pelt Pope Joan:
Religion, Learning, Wit, wou'd be fuppreft,
Rags of the Whore, and Trappings of the Beast:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief Supporters of the Triple Crown;
And Ariftotle's for deftruction ripe ;
Some fay, he call'd the Soul an Organ-pipe,
Which, by fome little help of Derivation,
Shall then be prov'd a Pipe of Inspiration.

PRO

PROLOGUE to the University of OXFORD, 1681.

TH

HE fam'd Italian Muse, whofe Rhymes advance Orlando, and the Paladins of France, Records, that, when our Wit and Sense 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 restor’d. Whate'er the Story be, the Moral's true; The Wit we lost in Town, we find in you. Our Poets their fled Parts may draw from hence, And fill their windy Heads with fober Sense. When London Votes with Southwark's disagree, Here may they find their long-loft Loyalty. Here bufy Senates, 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 Crofs. We look'd what Representatives wou'd bring; But they help'd us, juft as they did the King. Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth The Sibyls Books to those who know their Worth; And tho' the first was Sacrific'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 spar'd the Vices of the Age, Here finding nothing that his Spleen can raise,, Is forc'd to turn his Satire into Praise.

PROLOGUE to his ROYAL HIGHNESS, upon his first Appearance at the Duke's Theatre, after his Return from Scotland, 1682.

IN

N thofe cold Regions which no Summers chear,
Where brooding Darkness covers half the Year,
To hollow Caves the shiv'ring Natives go;
Bears range abroad, and hunt in Tracks of Snow:
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 glimm'ring Sun:
The furly favage Offspring difappear,
And curfe the bright Succeffor of the Year.
Yet, though rough Bears in Covert feek Defence,
White Foxes ftay, with feeming Innocence :
That crafty Kind with Day-light can difpenfe.
Still we are throng'd fo full with Reynard's Race,
That Loyal Subjects scarce can find a Place:
Thus modeft Truth is caft behind the Croud:
Truth speaks too low; Hypocrify too loud.
Let 'em be first to flatter in Succefs;

Duty can ftay, but Guilt has need to prefs.
Once, when true Zeal the Sons of God did call,
To make their folemn Shew at Heav'n'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 Ty

A Tyrant's Pow'r in Rigour is expreft;
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 restless Motion ftill inclin'd,
Are Clouds, that tack according to the Wind.

Driv'n by their Chiefs they Storms of Hailftones pour;
Then mourn, and soften to a filent Show'r.
O welcome to this much-offending Land,
The Prince that brings Forgiveness in his Hand!
Thus Angels on glad Meffages appear:
Their first Salute commands us not to fear:
Thus Heav'n, that cou'd constrain us to obey,
(With Rev'rence if we might presume to say)
Seems to relax the Rights of fov'reign Sway:
Permits to Man the Choice of Good and Ill,
And makes us Happy by our own Free-will.

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PROLOGUE to the EARL of ESSEX. (By Mr. J. BANKS. 1682.)

Spoken to the King and the Queen at their coming to the Houfe.

Hen firft the Ark was landed on the Shore,
And Heav'n had vow'd to curfe the Ground no

WH

more;

When tops of Hills the longing Patriarch saw,.
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 to Love :
The Ark is open'd to dismiss the Train,
And people with a better Race the Plain.
Tell me, ye Pow'rs, why fhou'd vain Man pursue,
With endless Toil, each Object that is new,

And for the feeming Substance leave the True?
Why fhou'd he quit for hopes his certain Good,
And loath the Manna of his daily Food?
Muft England still 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 wou'd fight to be a Slave?
Or, what can Wars to after-times affure,
Of which our present Age is not secure?
All that our Monarch wou'd 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 preserve our State of Innocence:
That loft, then Beasts their brutal force employ,
And firft 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 ev'ry Heart confpire, and ev'ry Tongue,
Still to have fuch a King, and this King long..

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PRO