No zealous brother there would want a ftone, Some fay, he call'd the foul an organ-pipe, PROLOGUE To the LoYAL GENERAL. By Mr. TATE, 1680. yet there be a few that take delight In that which reasonable men should write; To them alone we dedicate this night. } Noife, madnefs, all unreasonable things, A meal of tragedy would make ye fick, Some scenes in fippets would be worth our time; Thofe would go down; fome love that's poach'd rhime; If these fhould fail We must lie down, and, after all our coft, Keep holiday, like watermen in froft; While you turn players on the world's great ftage, ROLOGUE o the UNIVERSITY of OXFORD, 1681. Γ HE fam'd Italian mufe, whofe rhimes advance Orlando, and the Paladins of France, ecords, that, when our wit and fenfe is flown, 'is lodg'd within the circle of the moon, earthen jars, which one, who thither foar'd, et to his nofe, fnuff'd up, and was restor’d. 'hate'er the story be, the moral's true; he wit we loft in town, we find in you. ur poets their fled parts may draw from hence, nd fill their windy heads with fober sense. /hen London votes with Southwark's difagree, [ere may they find their long-loft loyalty. [ere bufy fenates, to th' old caufe inclin'd, Tay fnuff the votes their fellows left behind: our country neighbours, when their grain grows dear, Tay come, and find their last provifion here: Whereas we cannot much lament our lofs, Vho neither carry'd back, nor brought one cross. PRO EPILOGUE To a TRAGEDY call'd TAMERLANE the Great. [By Mr. SAUNDERS, 1681.] Adies, the beardless author of this day Commends to you the fortune of his play. A woman wit has often grac'd the stage; But he's the firft boy-poet of our age. Early as is the year his fancies blow, Like young Narciffus peeping thro' the fnow. Thus Cowley bloffom'd foon, yet flourish'd longs This is as forward, and may prove as ftrong. Youth with the fair fhould always favour find, Or we are damn'd diffemblers of our kind. What's all this love they put into our parts? 'Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts. Should hag and grey-beard make fuch tender moan, Faith, you'd e'en truft them to themselves alone, And cry, Let's go, here's nothing to be done. Since Love's our bufinefs, as 'tis your delight, The young, who beft can practise, beft can write. What tho' he be not come to his full power, He's mending and improving every hour. You fly fhe-jockies of the box and pit, Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken wit: By management he may in time be made, But there's no hopes of an old batter'd jade; Faint and unnerv'd he runs into a fweat, And always fails you at the fecond heat. PRO |