| |
PROLOGUE. SELF-LOVE (which never rightly understood) 1 | |
| Makes Poets still conclude their Plays are good. | |
| And Malice in all Criticks raigns so high, | |
| That for small Errors, they whole Plays decry; | |
| So that to see this fondness, and that spite, | 5 |
| You’d think that none but Mad-men judge or write. | |
| Therefore our Poet, as he thinks not fit | |
| T’ impose upon you what he writes for Wit | |
| So hopes that, leaving you your censures free, | |
| You equal Judges of the whole will be: | 10 |
| They judge but half, who only faults will see. | |
| Poets, like Lovers, should be bold and dare, | |
| They spoil their business with an over-care; | |
| And he, who servilely creeps after sence, | |
| Is safe, but ne’re will reach an Excellence. | 15 |
| Hence ’tis, our Poet, in his conjuring, | |
| Allow’d his Fancy the full scope and swing. | |
| But when a Tyrant for his Theme he had, | |
| He loos’d the Reins, and bid his Muse run mad; | |
| And though he stumbles in a full career, | 20 |
| Yet rashness is a better fault than fear. | |
| He saw his way; but in so swift a pace, | |
| To chuse the ground might be to lose the race. | |
| They then, who of each trip th’ advantage take, | |
| Find but those Faults, which they want Wit to make. | 25 |
| |
EPILOGUE
Spoken by MRS. ELLEN when she was to be carried off dead by the Bearers. TO THE BEARER. Hold! are you mad? you damn’d, confounded Dog! | |
| I am to rise, and speak the Epilogue. | |
| TO THE AUDIENCE. I come, kind Gentlemen, strange news to tell ye; | |
| I am the Ghost of poor departed Nelly. | |
| Sweet Ladies, be not frighted; I’le be civil; | 30 |
| I’m what I was, a little harmless Devil. | |
| For, after death, we Sprights have just such Natures, | |
| We had, for all the World, when humane Creatures; | |
| And, therefore, I, that was an Actress here, | |
| Play all my Tricks in Hell, a Goblin there. | 35 |
| Gallants, look to ’t, you say there are no Sprights; | |
| But I’ll come dance about your Beds at nights; | |
| And faith you’ll be in a sweet kind of taking, | |
| When I surprise you between sleep and waking. | |
| To tell you true, I walk, because I dye | 40 |
| Out of my Calling, in a Tragedy. | |
| O Poet, damn’d dull Poet, who could prove | |
| So senseless, to make Nelly dye for Love! | |
| Nay, what’s yet worse, to kill me in the prime | |
| Of Easter-term, in Tart and Cheese-cake time! | 45 |
| I’le fit the Fopp; for I’le not one word say, | |
| T’ excuse his godly, out of fashion Play; | |
| A Play, which, if you dare but twice sit out, | |
| You’ll all be slander’d, and be thought devout. | |
| But, farewel, Gentlemen, make haste to me, | 50 |
| I’m sure e’re long to have your company. | |
| As for my Epitaph when I am gone, | |
| I’le trust no Poet, but will write my own. | |
| |
| Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a Slater’n, | |
| Yet dy’d a Princess, acting in S. Cathar’n. | 55 |
