PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, Spoken by Mr. HART, at the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN.

W Hat

7Hat Greece, when learning flourish'd, only knew,
Athenian Judges, you this day renew.

Here too are Annual Rites to Pallas done,
And here Poetick Prizes loft or won.
Methinks I fee you, crown'd with Olives, fit,
And strike a facred Horror from the Pit.
A Day of Doom is this of your Decree,
Where even the Beft are but by Mercy free:

[fee.

A Day, which none but Johnson durft have wifh'd to

Here they, who long have known the ufeful Stage,
Come to be taught themselves to teach the Age.
As your Commiffioners our Poets go,
To cultivate the Virtue which you fow;
In your Lyceum firft themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to Human-kind.
But as Ambaffadors, when long from home,
For new Inftructions to their Princes come;
So Poets, who your Precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and Faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your Manners they correct their own.
Th' illiterate Writer, Emperick like, applies
To Minds difeas'd, unfafe, chance, Remedies:
The Learn'd in Schools, where Knowledge first began,
Studies with Care th' Anatomy of Man;

Sees Virtue, Vice, and Passions in their Cause,
And Fame from Science, not from Fortune, draws.

So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

An Art, in London only is a Trade.

There haughty Dunces, whofe unlearned Pen
Could ne'er fpell Grammar, would be reading Men.
Such build their Poems the Lucretian way;
So many huddled Atoms make a Play;
And if they hit in Order by fome Chance,
They call that Nature, which is Ignorance.
To fuch a Fame let mere Town-Wits aspire,
And their gay Nonfenfe their own Cits admire.
Our Poet, could he find Forgiveness here,
Would with it rather than a Plaudit there.
He owns no Crown from thofe Prætorian Bands,
But knows that Right is in the Senate's Hands.
Not impudent enough to hope your Praise,
Low at the Mufes Feet his Wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, refigns his Bays.
Kings make their Poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your Suffrage makes authentick Wit.

N

EPILOGUE, Spoken by the fame.

O poor Dutch Peafant, wing'd with all his Fear,
Flies with more hafte, when the French Arms
draw near,

Then we with our Poetick Train come down,
For refuge hither, from th' infected Town :
Heav'n for our Sins this Summer has thought fit
To vifit us with all the Plagues of Wit.

A French Troop firft fwept all things in its way;
But thofe hot Monfieurs were too quick to stay :
Yet, to our Coft, in phat short time, we find
They left their Itch of Novelty behind.

Th'

Th' Italian Merry- Andrews took their place,
And quite debauch'd the Stage with lewd Grimace:
Inftead of Wit, and Humours, your Delight
Was there to fee two Hobby-horfes fight;
Stout Scaramoucha with Rush Lance rode in,
And ran a Tilt at Centaur Arlequin.

For Love you heard how amorous Affes bray'd,
And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade.
Nature was out of Count'nance, and each Day
Some new-born Moniter fhewn you for a Play.
But when all fail'd, to ftrike the Stage quite dumb,
These wicked Engines call'd Machines are come.
Thunder and Lightning now for Wit are play'd,
And shortly Scenes in Lapland will be laid :
Art Magick is for Poetry profest;

And Cats and Dogs, and each obscener Beast,
To which Egyptian Dotards once did bow,
Upon our English Stage are worshipp'd now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to Renown
Macbeth, and Simon Magus of the Town,
Fletcher's defpis'd, your Johnson's out of Fashion,
And Wit the only Drug in all the Nation.
In this low Ebb our Wares to you are shown;
By you thofe ftaple Authors worth is known;
For Wit's a Manufacture of your own.

When you, who only can, their Scenes have prais'd,
We'll boldly back, and fay, their Price is rais'd.

EPILOGUE, Spoken at OXFORD

By Mrs. MARSHALL.

FT has our Poet wish'd, this happy Seat
Might prove fading Mures

I wonder'd at his Wish, but now I find

He fought for quiet, and content of Mind;
Which noifeful Towns, and Courts can never know,
And only in the fhades like Laurels grow.
Youth, ere it fees the World, here ftudies Reft,
And Age returning thence concludes it beft.
What wonder if we court that Happiness
Yearly to share, which hourly you poffefs,
Teaching e'en you, while the vext World we show,
Your Peace to value more, and better know?
"Tis all we can return for favours past,
Whose holy Memory fhall ever last,

For Patronage from him whose care prefides
O'er ev'ry noble Art, and every Science guides:
Bathurst, a name the learn'd with reverence know,
And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe;
Whofe Age enjoys but what his Youth deferv'd,
To rule thofe Mufes whom before he ferv'd.
His Learning, and untainted Manners too,
We find, Athenians, are deriv'd to you:
Such antient Hofpitality there refts
In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian Breafts,
Whose kindness was Religion to their Guests.
Such Modefty did to our Sex appear,

As, had there been no Laws, we need not fear,
Since each of you was our Protector here.

Con

Converse so chafte, and so ftrict Virtue shown,
As might Apollo with the Mufes own.
Till our return, we must despair to find
Judges fo juft, fo knowing, and fo kind.

PROLOGUE to the University of
OXFORD.

Difcord, and Plots, which have undone our Age,

With the fame ruin have o'erwhelm'd the Stage.

Our Houfe has fuffer'd in the common Woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch Rebels too.
Our Brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,
And of our Sifters, all the kinder-hearted,
To Edinborough gone, or Coach'd, or Carted.
With Bonny Blewcap there they act all Night
For Scotch half Crown, in English Three-pence hight.
One Nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean,
There with her fingle Perfon fills the Scene.
Another, with long Ufe and Age decay'd,
Div'd here old Woman, and rose there a Maid.
Our Trufty Door-keepers of former time
There ftrut and swagger in Heroick Rhime.
Tack but a Copper-lace to Drugget Suit,
And there's a Hero made without dispute :
And that, which was a Capon's Tail before,
Becomes a Plume for Indian Emperor.
But all his Subjects, to express the Care
Of Imitation, go, like Indians, bare:
Lac'd Linen there would be a dangerous thing;
It might perhaps a new Rebellion bring;
The Scot, who wore it, wou'd be chofen King.

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