SEE, 1 my lov’d Britons, see your Shakespeare rise, | |
| An awfull Ghost confess’d to human Eyes! | |
| Unnam’d, methinks, distinguish’d I had been | |
| From other Shades by this eternal Green, | |
| About whose Wreaths the vulgar Poets strive, | 5 |
| And with a Touch, their wither’d Bays revive. | |
| Untaught, unpractis’d, in a barbarous Age, | |
| I found not, but created first the Stage. | |
| And if I drain’d no Greek or Latin Store, | |
| ’Twas that my own Abundance gave me more. | 10 |
| On foreign Trade I needed not rely, | |
| Like fruitfull Britain, rich without Supply. | |
| In this my rough-drawn Play, you shall behold | |
| Some Master-strokes, so manly and so bold | |
| That he, who meant to alter, found ’em such | 15 |
| He shook; and thought it Sacrilege to touch. | |
| Now, where are the Successors to my Name? | |
| What bring they to fill out a Poets Fame? | |
| Weak, short-liv’d Issues of a feeble Age; | |
| Scarce living to be Christen’d on the Stage! | 20 |
| For Humour Farce, for Love they Rhyme dispence, | |
| That tolls the Knell for their departed Sence. | |
| Dulness might thrive in any Trade but this: | |
| ’Twould recommend to some fat Benefice. | |
| Dulness, that in a Playhouse meets Disgrace, | 25 |
| Might meet with Reverence in its proper place. | |
| The fulsome Clench that nauseats the town | |
| Wou’d from a Judge or Alderman go down! | |
| Such Virtue is there in a Robe and Gown! | |
| And that insipid Stuff which here you hate, | 30 |
| Might somewhere else be call’d a grave Debate; | |
| Dulness is decent in the Church and State. | |
| But I forget that still ’tis understood, | |
| Bad Plays are best decry’d by showing good: | |
| Sit silent then, that my pleas’d Soul may see | 35 |
| A Judging Audience once, and worthy me: | |
| My faithful Scene from true Records shall tell, | |
| How Trojan Valour did the Greek excell; | |
| Your great Forefathers shall their Fame regain, | |
| And Homers angry Ghost repine in vain. | 40 |
| |
EPILOGUE
Spoken by THERSITES.
These cruel Critiques put me into Passion, | |
| For in their lowring Looks I reade Damnation: | |
| You except a Satyr, and I seldom fail; | |
| When I’m first beaten, ’tis my Part to rail. | |
| You British Fools of the old Trojan Stock, | 45 |
| That stand so thick one cannot miss the Flock, | |
| Poets have cause to dread a keeping Pit, | |
| When Womens Cullyes come to judge of Wit. | |
| As we strew Rats-bane when we Vermine fear, | |
| ’Twere worth our Cost to scatter Fool-bane here; | 50 |
| And after all our judging Fops were serv’d, | |
| Dull Poets too shou’d have a Dose reserv’d, | |
| Such Reprobates as, past all Sence of Shaming, | |
| Write on, and nere are satisfy’d with Damming, | |
| Next, those, to whom the Stage does not belong | 55 |
| Such whose Vocation onely is to Song, | |
| At most to Prologue; when for Want of Time | |
| Poets take in for Journey work in Rhime. | |
| But I want Curses for those mighty Shoales | |
| Of scribling Chlorisses, and Phillis Fools: | 60 |
| Those Ophs should be restrain’d, during their Lives, | |
| From Pen and Ink, as Madmen are from Knives: | |
| I cou’d rayl on, but ’twere a Task as vain | |
| As Preaching Truth at Rome, or Wit in Spain: | |
| Yet to huff out our Play was worth my trying; | 65 |
| John Lilbourn scap’d his Judges by defying. | |
| If guilty, yet I’m sure oth’ Churches Blessing, | |
| By suffering for the Plot, without confessing. | |
