Prologue to the University of Oxford.

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Ifcord, and Plots, which have undone our Age, With the fame ruin, have o'erwhelm'd the Stage. Our House 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 Edenborough gone, or Coacht, 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 rofe there a Maid. Our Trufty Door-keepers of former time, There ftrut and fwagger in Heroick Rhime: Tack but a Copper-lace to Drugget Suit, And there's a Heroe made without difpute. 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 Linnen there would be a dangerous thing, It might perhaps a new Rebellion bring; The Scot who wore it, wou'd be chofen King. But why shou'd I these Renegades describe, When you your felves have feen a lewder Tribe, Teague has been here, and to this learned Pit, With Irish A&tion flander'd English Wit. You have beheld fuch barb'rous Mac's appear, As merited a fecond Maffacre.

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Such as like Cain were branded with disgrace, And had their Country ftampt upon their Face: When Stroulers, durft prefume to pick your Furse, We humbly thought our broken Troop not worse, How ill foe'er our Action may deserve,

Oxford's a Place, where Wit can never starve,

Prologue to the University of Oxford.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

HO' A&tors cannot much of Learning boast,

TH

Of all who want it, we admire it most,

We love the Praises of a learned Pit,

As we remotely ate ally'd to Wit.

We speak our Poets Wit, and Trade in Ore,
Like those who touch upon the Golden Shore:
Betwixt our Judges can diftinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our Poems take.
Mark if the Fools, or Men of Sense, rejoice,
Whether th' Applaufe be only Sound or Voice.
When our Fop Gallants, or our City Folly
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy :
We doubt that Scene which does their wonder raife,
And, for their Ignorance contemn their Praise.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
Shou'd not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofly, but this nicer Pit
Examines, fathoms all the Depths of Wit:
The ready Finger lays on every Blot,

Knows what fhou'd juftly please, and what shou'd not.
Nature her felf lyes open to your view,

You judge by her what draught of her is true,
Where out-lines Falfe, and Colours feem too faint,
Where Bunglers dawb, and where true Poets Paint.
But by the facred Genius of this Place,
By every Mufe, by each Domestick Grace,
Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, prefumes not to excel.
Our Poets hither for Adoption come,
As Nations fu'd to be made free of Rome.
Not in the fuffragating Tribes to ftand,
But in your utmoft, last, provincial Band.

If his Ambition may thofe Hopes pursue, .
Who with Religion loves your Arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer Name fhall be,
Than his own Mother University.

Thebes did his green, unknowing Youth ingage,
He chufes Athens in his riper Age.

The PROLOGUE at Oxford, 1682.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

Hefpis, the firft Profeffor of our Art,

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 Foets 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 & Day,
And every Prayer be longer than a Play.
Then all you Heathen Wits fhall go to pot,
For disbelieving of a Popish-plot :
Your Poets fhall be us'd like Infidels,
And worft the Author of the Oxford Bells:
Nor fhould we fcape the Sentence, to depart,
Ev'n 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 destruction 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.

The Prologue to ALBUMAZAR.

T

Written by Mr. Dryden.

O fay this Comedy pleas'd long ago; -
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, Gentlemen, your Ancestors had wit;
When few Men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Johnson (of those few the best) chose this
As the beft Model of his Mafter-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,

That Alchymift by this Aftrologer;

Here he was fafhion'd, and we may fuppofe,
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the Cloaths.
But Ben made nobly his, what he did Mould,
What was another's Lead, becomes his Gold:
Like an unrighteous Conqueror he Reigns,
Yet Rules that well, which he unjustly Gains.
But this our Age fuch Authors does afford,
As make whole Plays, and yet fcarce write one word
Who in this Anarchy of Wit, rob all;

And what's their Plunder, their Poffeffion call.
Who, like bold Padders, fcorn by Night to prey,
But rob by Sun-fhine, in the Face of Day.
Nay fcarce the common Ceremony use,
Of Stand Sir, and deliver up your Muse;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,
Mount Pegasus before the Owner's Face.
Faith, if you have fuch Country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true Men to leave that Road,
Yet it were modeft, could it but be faid
They trip the Living, but these rob the Dead;

Dare with the Mummies of the Mufes play,
And make Love to them the Ægyptian way:
Or as a Rhiming Author would have faid,
Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead.
Such Men in Poetry may claim some Part,
They have the License, tho' they want the Art.
And might, where Theft was prais'd, for Laureats
Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand.
They make the Benefits of others studying,

[ftand

Much like the Meals of Politick Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge, no Man has the Courage,
'Tis all his own when once h'has spit i'th' Porridge.
But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this,
You are in fault for what they do amiss.
For they their Thefts ftill undiscover'd think,
And durft not fteal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your Decree,
They thou'd refund, but that can never be.
For fhould you Letters of Reprisal feal,
These Men write that which no Man elfe would fteal,

Prologue to AVIRAGUS Reviv'd :

W

Spoken by Mr. HART.

Written by Mr. DRYDEN.

ITH fickly Actors and an old House too,
We're match'd with glorious Theatres and

new,

[worn, And with our Ale-houfe Scenes, and Cloaths bare Can neither raise old Plays, nor new adorn. If all these Ills could not undo us quite, A brisk French Troop is grown your dear delight. Who with broad bloody Bills call you each day, To laugh and break your Buttons at their Play.