Among the Muses there's a gen'ral rot: The rhyming Mounsieur and the Spanish plot,

Defy or court, all 's one, they go to pot.

The ghosts of poets walk within this place, And haunt us actors wheresoe'er we pass, In visions bloodier than King Richard's

was.

For this poor wretch he has not much to say, But quietly brings in his part o' th' play, And begs the favor to be damn'd to-day.

He sends me only like a sh'riff's man here, To let you know the malefactor's near, And that he means to die en cavalier.

For if you should be gracious to his pen, Th' example will prove ill to other men, And you'll be troubled with 'em all again.

PROLOGUE TO ALBUMAZAR, REVIV'D

[This play was written by Thomas Tomkis, of Trinity College, Cambridge, where it was acted March 9, 1615, on the occasion of a visit by King James I. Pepys saw a revival of it, doubtless that for which Dryden wrote this prologue, on February 22, 1668. The prologue is printed anonymously in the Covent Garden Drollery, 1672; and with Dryden's name in Miscellany Poems, 1684, from which this text is taken.

Since The Alchemist was acted in 1610, there is no possible truth in Dryden's assertion in lines 5-10.]

To say, this comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men censur'd, and when fewer
writ.

And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,

As the best model of his masterpiece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by his Astrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and we may sup-

But, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this;

You are in fault for what they do amiss: For they their thefts still undiscover'd think,

And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.

Perhaps, you may award by your decree, They should refund; but that can never be. For should you letters of reprisal seal, These men write that which no man else would steal.

WHEN first our poet set himself to write, Like a young bridegroom on his weddingnight

He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honeymoon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you;
To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss
Like the faint smackings of an after-kiss. 10
But you, like wives ill-pleas'd, supply his

Among the rest they kept a fearful stir
In whisp'ring that he stole th' Astrologer; 10
And said, betwixt a French and English plot
He eas'd his half-tir'd Muse, on pace and

trot.

Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o'er and

warm

In the French stoop, and the pull-back o' th' arm:

"Morbleu," dit-il, and cocks, "I am a rogue, But he has quite spoil'd The Feign'd Astrologue."

"Pox," says another, "here 's so great a stir With a son of a whore farce that's regular; A rule, where nothing must decorum

shock!

Damme 'ts as dull as dining by the clock, 20 An evening! Why the devil should we be vex'd

Whether he gets the wench this night or next?"

When I heard this, I to the poet went, Told him the house was full of discontent, And ask'd him what excuse he could in

vent.

He neither swore nor storm'd as poets do, But, most unlike an author, vow'd 't was

true;

Yet said, he us'd the French like enemies,