PROLOGUE to the PROPHETESS.

Written by Mr. DRYDEN and Spoken by

WH

Mr. BETTERTON.

HAT Noftradame, with all his Art, can guess The Fate of our approaching Prophetess? A Play, which, like a Prospective set right, Prefents our vaft Expences close to Sight; But turn the Tube, and there we fadly view Our diftant Gains; and thofe uncertain too. A fweeping Tax, which on our felves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better Days. When will our Loffes warn us to be Wife? Our Wealth decreases, and our Charges rise. Mony, the sweet Allurer of our Hopes, Ebbs out in Oceans, and comes in by Drops; We raise new Objects to provoke. Delight, But you grow fated, e'er the fecond Sight. Falfe Men, ev'n fo you ferve your Mistresses, They rife three Stories in their Tow'ring Dress : And after all, you Love not long enough To pay the Rigging, e'er you leave 'em off. Never content with what you had before, But true to Change, and English Men all o'er. Now Honour calls you hence; and all your Care Is to provide the horrid Pomp of War. In Plume and Scarf, Jack-Boots and Bilbo Blade, Your Silver goes, that thou'd fupport our Trade. Go, unkind Hero's, leave our Stage to Mourn ; 'Till rich from vanquish'd Rebels you return: And the fat Spoils of Teague in Triumph draw, His Firkin-Butter, and his Ufquebaugh.

Go, Conqu❜rors of your Male and Female Foes; Men without Hearts, and Women without Hofe. Each bring his Love a Bogland Captive home, Such proper Pages will long Trains become:

With Copper Collars, and with Brawny Backs,
Quite to put down the Fafhion of our Blacks.
Then fhall the Pious Mufes pay their Vows,
And furnish all their Laurels for your Brows;
Their tuneful Voice fhall rife for your Delights;
We want not Poets fit to fing your Flights.
But you bright Beauties, for whofe only fake
These Doughty Knights such Dangers undertake,
When they with happy Gales are gone away,
With your propitious Prefence grace our Play;
And with a Sigh their Empty Seats furvey:
Then think on that bare Bench my Servant fate,
I fee him Ogle ftill; and hear him Chat :
Selling facetious Bargains, and propounding
That witty Recreation, call'd Dum-founding.
Their Lofs with Patience we will try to bear;
And wou'd do more, to see you often here!
That our dead Stage, reviv'd by your fair Eyes,
Under a Female Regency may rise.

The VISION of BEN. JOHNSON, on the Mufes of his Friend Michael Drayton, Efq;

hath been question'd, Michael, if I be A Friend at all; or, if at all, to thee: Because, who make the question, have not seen Those ambling Visits, pass in Verse, between Thy Mufe, and mine, as they expect. 'Tis true: You have not writ to me, nor I to you; And, tho' I now begin, 'tis not to rub Hanch against Hanch, or raise a rhyming Club About the Town: This reck'ning I will pay, Without conferring Symbols. This's my Day.

It was no Dream! I was awake, and faw! Lend me thy Voice, O Fame, that I may draw

Wonder to Truth! and have my Vision hurl'd,
Hot from thy Trumpet, round about the World.
Ifaw a Beauty from the Sea to rife,

That all Earth look'd on; and that Earth, all Eyes!
It caft a Beam as when the chearful Sun
Is fair got up, and Day fome Hours begun!
And fill'd an Orb as circular, as Heaven!
The Orb was cut forth into Regions feven,.
And thofe fo fweet, and well proportion'd parts,
As it had been the Circle of the Arts!
When, by thy bright Ideas ftanding by,

I found it pure, and perfect Poesy.

There read I, ftreight, thy learned Legends three,
Heard the foft Airs, between our Swains and thee,
Which made me think, the old Theocritus,

Or Rural Virgil, come to pipe to us!
But then, th' epiftolar Heroick Songs,

Their Loves, their Quarrels, Jealousies, and Wrongs,
Did alfo ftrike me, as I cry'd, who can
With us be call'd, the Nafo, but this Man?
And looking up, I faw Minerva's Fowl,

Pearch'd over Head, the wife Athenian Owl:
I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldft try
Like him, to make the Air, one Volary:
And I had ftil'd thee Orpheus, but before"
My Lips could form the Voice, I heard that roar,
And rouze, the marching of a mighty Force,
Drums against Drums, the neighing of the Hoife,
The Fights, the Cries," and wondring at the Jars
I faw, and read, it was thy Baron's Wars!
O, how in those, doft thou inftru&t these Times,"
That Rebels A&tions, are but valiant Crimes!
And carried, tho' with Shour, and Noife, confefs
A wild, and an authoriz'd Wickedness!
Say'ft thou fo, Luan? But thou feorn'ft to ftay
Under one Title. Thou haft made thy way
And fight about the Ife, well near, by this,
In thy admired Periégefis,

Or universal Circumduction
Of all that read thy Poly-Olbion.

That read it? that are ravifh'd! fuch was I
With every Song, I fwear, and so would die:
But that I hear, again, thy Drum to beat.
A better Caufe, and ftrike the braveft Heat
That ever yet did fire the English Blood!
Our Right in France! if rightly understood.
There, thou art Homer! Pray thee, ufe the Stile
Thou haft deferv'd: And let me read the while
Thy Catalogue of Ships, exceeding his,
Thy Lift of Aids, and Force, for fo it is;
The Poet's act! and for his Country's fake
Brave are the Mufters, that the Mufe will make.
And when he Ships them where to use their Arms,
How do his Trumpets breath! What loud Alarms!
Look, how we read the Spartans were inflam'd
With bold Tyrtaus Vere, when thou art nam'd,
So fhall our English Youth urge on, and cry
An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or die.
This Book! it is a Catechism to fight,

And will be bought of every Lord, and Knight,
That can but read; who cannot, may in Profe
Get broken Pieces, and fight well by those,
The Miferies of Margaret the Queen

Of tender Eyes will more be wept, than feen:
I feel it by mine own, that overflow,
And ftop my fight, in every Line I go.
But then refreshed, with thy Fairy Court,
I look on Cynthia, and Sirenas Sport,
As on two flowry Carpets, that did rife,
And with their graffie green reftor'd mine Eyes.
Yet give me leave to wonder at the Birth
Of thy strange Moon-Calf, both thy strain of Mirth,
And Goffip-got Acquaintance, as, to us
Thou hadst brought Lapland, or old Cobalus,
Empufa, Lamia, or fome Monster, more
Than Africk knew, or the full Grecian store!

I gratulate it to thee, and thy Ends,

To all thy virtuous, and well chofen Friends,
Only my Lofs is, that I am not there :
And, 'till I worthy am to wish I were,
I call the World, that envies me, to fee
If I can be a Friend, and Friend to thee.

To my Honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his Excellent Poems.

By Mr. JOHN DRYDEN.

S there is Mufick uninform'd by Art

In those wild Notes, which with a merry Heart
The Birds in unfrequented Shades express,
Who better taught at home, yet please us less:
So in your Verfe, a native Sweetnefs dwells,
Which fhames Compofure, and its Art excells.
Singing, no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than Paint adds Charms unto a Beauteous Face.
Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep,
Their even Calmnefs does fuppofe them deep;
Such is your Mufe: No Metaphor fwell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the Sky;
Those mounting Fancies, when they fall again,
Shew Sand and Dirt at bottom do remain.
Se firm a Strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Sampfon's Riddle meet.

'Tis strange each Line fo great a weight should bear,
And yet no fign of Toil, no Sweat appear.
Either your Art hides Art, as Stoicks feign
Then leaft to feel, when moft they fuffer Pain;
And we, dull Souls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden Springs within the Engine be
Or, 'tis fome Happiness that ftill pursues
Each at and Motion of your Graceful Muse.