[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, And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this, As the best model of his masterpiece. Here he was fashion'd, and we may sup Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns, Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains. But this our age such authors does afford, As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word; Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all, And what's their plunder, their possession call; Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey, 20 But rob by sunshine, in the face of day: But knock the poet down, and, with a grace, Mount Pegasus before the owner's face. Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad, "T is time for all true men to leave that road. Yet it were modest, could it but be said, They strip the living, but these rob the dead; Dare with the mummies of the Muses play, And make love to them the Egyptian 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, My part being small, I have had time today To mark your various censures of our play: The club of jests went round; he who had none Borrow'd o' th' next, and told it for his own. Among the rest they kept a fearful stir 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 ştir 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, Of taking 'em, the bill so high would mount That, like prize-goods, which thro' the office come, He could have had 'em much more cheap at home. He still must write, and, banquier-like, each day Accept new bills, and he must break or pay. When thro' his hands such sums must yearly run, You cannot think the stock is all his own. His haste his other errors might excuse, But there's no mercy for a guilty Muse; 39 For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall, And please you to a height, or not at all. |