Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose
He liked the fashion well who wore the clothes.*
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead becomes† his gold:
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 a 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,
But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of "Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse!"
But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,
'Tis 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 way;

Or, as a rhyming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.

Such men || in Poetry may claim some part;

They have the licence, though they want the art;

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And might, where theft was praised, for Laureates stand,¶ 35

Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.

They make the benefits of others' studying,'

**

Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,

Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;

'Tis all his own, when once he has spit in the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;

You are in fault for what they do amiss :

* In "Covent Garden Drollery" version:

"And I should suppose

He likes my fashion well that wears my clothes."

+ Became, in "Covent Garden Drollery" version.

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1 Scott erroneously conjectured that " Country Toms" has a reference to Dryden's adversary, Thomas Shadwell, who succeeded him as Laureat, and, as Laureats are afterwards spoken of, that this Prologue was written after Shadwell became Laureat. But Shadwell was not appointed Laureat till after the Revolution of 1688; and this Prologue was published in "Covent Garden Drollery" in 1672, and in its last revised form, in which "Laureates" is substituted for "laurels," was published in 1684.

§ In "Covent Garden Drollery" version:

"They stript the living, but they rob the dead."

"Yet such" in "Govent Garden Drollery" version.

This line stood in the "Covent Garden Drollery' version:

"Such as in Sparta weight for laurels stand."

** This and the three following lines stand thus in the "Covent Garden Drollery" version:

"They make their benefit of others' studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,

Whose broth to claim there's no one has the courage,
'Tis all his own after he has spit in the porridge.

AN EVENING'S LOVE.

For they their thefts still undiscovered 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.

45

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO "AN EVENING'S LOVE, OR THE MOCK ASTROLOGER.”+

1668.

PROLOGUE.

WHEN first our poet set himself to write,
Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night,
He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honey-moon 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 smacking of an after-kiss.
But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want;
Each writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant:
And though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before,
Yet still there's something in a new amour.
Your several poets work with several tools,
One gets you wits, another gets you fools:
This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit,
This finds some cranny that was never hit.
But should these jaunty lovers daily come
To do your work, like your good man at home,
Their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay;
These are gallants but for a holiday.

Others you had, who oftener have appeared,
Whom for mere impotence you have cashiered:
Such as at first came on with pomp and glory,
But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye.

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Lines 45-6 are not in the "Covent Garden Drollery" version. Dryden's comedy, "An Evening's Love, or the Mock Astrologer," was produced at the King's House, June 22, 1668. The play was taken from "Le Feint Astrologue" of the younger Corneille, who again had imitated Calderon's "El Astrologo Fingido." Pepys saw this play He adds that Herringman, the publisher, told him, Acted, June 20, 1668, and "did not like it." He pronounces it "Dryden do himself call it but a fifth-rate play." The play was published in 1671. Pepys and his wife disapproved much of this play, which they saw performed June 20, 1658.

very smutty, and nothing so good as the Maiden Queen or the Indian Emperor of Dryden's making.' And he goes on to say, "I was troubled at it, and my wife tells me, wholly (which he confirms a little in the Epilogue) taken out of the Illustrious Bassa." The Epilogue is a skilful "Ibrahim, or the Illustrious Bassa," was a romance by defence of borrowing from the French.

Scudery founded on the same story as Corneille's and C-lderon's dramas.

DD 2

Their useless weight with patience long was borne,
But at the last you threw them off with scorn.
As for the poet of this present night,

Though now he claims in you an husband's right,
He will not hinder you of fresh delight.
He, like a seaman, seldom will appear,
And means to trouble home but thrice a-year;
That only time from your gallants he'll borrow;
Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.

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35

EPILOGUE.

My part being small, I have had time to-day
To mark your various censures of our play.
First, looking for a judgment* or a wit,

Like Jews, I saw them scattered through the pit ;
And where a lot of smilers lent an ear

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To one that talked, I knew the foe was there.
The club of jests went round; he, who had none,
Borrowed of the next, and told it for his own.
Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,
In whispering that he stole the Astrologer;
And said, betwixt a French and English plot,
He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot.
Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warm
In the French stoop, and the pull-back of the arm:
Morbleu," dit-il, and cocks, "I am a rogue,

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But he has quite spoiled the Feigned 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, 'tis as dull as dining by the clock.
An evening! Why the devil should we be vext,
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 asked him what excuse he could invent.
He neither swore nor stormed, as poets do,

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But, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true;
Yet said, he used the French like enemies,

When through his hands such sums must yearly run,
You cannot think the stock is all his own.

And did not steal their plots, but made them prize.
But should he all the pains and charges count
Of taking them, the bill so high would mount,
That, like prize-goods, which through the office come,
He should have had them much more cheap at home.
He still must write, and, banquier-like, each day
Accept new bills, and he must break or pay.

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* For this use of judgment, meaning judge, see Prologue to "Secret Love," 45.

His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there's no mercy for a guilty muse;
For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall,
And please you to a height, or not at all.

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PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO "TYRANNIC LOVE, OR THE ROYAL MARTYR."

1669.

PROLOGUE.

SELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood,
Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
And malice in all critics reigns so high,

That for small errors they whole plays decry;
So that to see this fondness, and that spite,
You'd think that none but madmen judge or write.
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
To impose upon you what he writes for wit,
So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free,
You equal judges of the whole will be:
They judge but half, who only faults will see.
Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare,
They spoil their business with an over-care;
And he, who servilely creeps after sense,+
Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.
Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allowed his fancy the full scope and swing.
But when a tyrant for his theme he had,

He loosed the reins, and bid his Muse run mad;
And though he stumbles in a full career,
Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.

He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,

To choose the ground might be to lose the race.
They then, who of each trip the advantage take,
Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

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The "Tyrannic Love, or the Royal Martyr," was produced at the Theatre Royal in the spring of 1669. It was printed in 1670. This tragedy is written in heroic verse. Dryden says in his Preface that it was contrived and written in seven weeks.

+ This line being found fault with, Dryden defended it in the Preface to the published play by "For the little critics, who please themselves with the example of Horace, whom he imitated. thinking they have found a flaw in that line of the Prologue,

And he, who servilely creeps after sense,
Is safe, &c.

as if I patronized my own nonsense, I may reasonably suppose they have never read Horace. Serpit humi tutus, &c. are his words. He who creeps after plain, dull, common sense, is safe from committing absurdities; but can never reach any height, or excellence of wit: and sure I could not mean that any excellence was to be found in nonsense.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by MRS. ELLEN when she was to be carried off dead by the Bearers.*

TO THE BEARER.

Hold are you mad? you damned, confounded dog!
I am to rise, and speak the epilogue.

TO THE AUDIENCE.

I come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye ;

I am the ghost of poor departed Nelly.
Sweet ladies, be not frighted; I'll be civil;
I'm what I was, a little harmless devil.

For, after death, we sprites have just such natures,
We had, for all the world, when human creatures;
And, therefore, I, that was an actress here,
Play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there.
Gallants, look to 't, you say there are no sprites;
But I'll come dance about your beds at nights;
And faith you'll be in a sweet kind of taking,
When I surprise you between sleep and waking.
To tell you true, I walk, because I die
Out of my calling, in a tragedy.

O poet, damned dull poet, who could prove
So senseless, to make Nelly die for love!
Nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in the prime
Of Easter-term, in tart and cheese-cake time!
I'll fit the fop; for I'll not one word say,
To excuse his godly, out-of-fashion play;
A play, which, if you dare but twice sit out,
You'll all be slandered, and be thought devout.
But, farewell, gentlemen, make haste to me,
I'm sure ere long to have your company.
As for my epitaph when I am gone,
I'll trust no poet, but will write my own:-

Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a slattern,
Yet died a princess, acting in St. Catherine. +

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* "Mrs. Ellen" is Nell Gwyn. She acted the part of Valeria in this play; having stabbed herself, at the end of the play, she is about to be carried off dead, when by a strange surprise she rouses herself to deliver this Epilogue. Curll says that the King was so captivated by Nell's delivery of this Epilogue on the occasion of the first acting of the play, that he went behind the scenes, and carried her off that night. There may be some truth in the story: there is no doubt that Nell Gwyn first became Charles's mistress about this time. She produced a son to the King in May of the following year. See the note on next page.

+ St. Catherine was the Royal Martyr" of the play; and Mrs. Boutell was the lady who performed that part.