Ere you
deflower
his Muse, he hopes the pit
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Dryden - Complete
Nor do I count those
humours which a great many do; that is to say, such as consist in using
one or two by-words; or in having a fantastic extravagant dress, as
many pretended humours have; nor in the affectation of some French
words, which several plays have shown us. I say nothing of impossible,
unnatural, farce fools, which some intend for comical; who think it
the easiest thing in the world to write a comedy, and yet will sooner
grow rich upon their ill plays than write a good one: Nor is downright
silly folly a humour, as some take it to be, for it is a mere natural
imperfection; and they might as well call it a humour of blindness in a
blind man, or lameness in a lame one; or as a celebrated French farce
has the humour of one who speaks very fast, and of another who speaks
very slow: But natural imperfections are not fit subjects for comedy,
since they are not to be laughed at, but pitied. But the artificial
folly of those who are not coxcombs by nature, but, with great art and
industry, make themselves so, is a proper object of comedy; as I have
discoursed at large in the Preface to "The Humourists," written five
years since. Those slight circumstantial things, mentioned before, are
not enough to make a good comical humour; which ought to be such an
affectation as misguides men in knowledge, art, or science; or that
causes defection in manners and morality, or perverts their minds in
the main actions of their lives: And this kind of humour, I think, I
have not improperly described in the Epilogue to "The Humourists. "
"But your grace understands humour too well not to know this, and much
more than I can say of it. All I have now to do, is, humbly to dedicate
this play to your grace, which has succeeded beyond my expectation; and
the humours of which have been approved by men of the best sense and
learning. Nor do I hear of any professed enemies to the play, but some
women, and some men of feminine understandings, who like slight plays
only that represent a little tattle-sort of conversation like their
own: but true humour is not liked or understood by them; and therefore
even my attempt towards it is condemned by them: but the same people,
to my great comfort, damn all Mr Jonson's plays, who was incomparably
the best dramatic poet that ever was, or, I believe, ever will be; and
I had rather be author of one scene in his best comedies, than of any
play this age has produced. "]
[Footnote 394: This inhuman jest turns on the execution of Henry
Cornish, who, with Slingsby Bethel, was sheriff in 1680, and
distinguished himself in opposition to the court. --See Note on "Absalom
and Achitophel," Part I. vol. ix. p. 280. He was condemned as accessary
to the Rye-house plot, and executed accordingly on 23d October, 1685;
probably a short time before this prologue was spoken, which might be
in January 1686. ]
EPILOGUE
ON
THE SAME OCCASION.
New ministers, when first they get in place,
Must have a care to please; and that's our case:
Some laws for public welfare we design,
If you, the power supreme, will please to join.
There are a sort of prattlers in the pit,
Who either have, or who pretend to wit;
These noisy sirs so loud their parts rehearse,
That oft the play is silenced by the farce.
Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun,
Each to be thought my lady's eldest son.
But stay; methinks some vizard mask I see,
Cast out her lure from the mid gallery:
About her all the fluttering sparks are ranged;
The noise continues, though the scene is changed:
Now growling, sputtering, wauling, such a clutter!
'Tis just like puss defendant in a gutter:
Fine love, no doubt; but ere two days are o'er ye,
The surgeon will be told a woful story.
Let vizard mask her naked face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a nose:
Then for your lacqueys, and your train beside,
By whate'er name or title dignified,
They roar so loud, you'd think behind the stairs
Tom Dove,[395] and all the brotherhood of bears:
They're grown a nuisance, beyond all disasters;
We've none so great but--their unpaying masters.
We beg you, Sirs, to beg your men, that they
Would please to give you leave to hear the play.
Next, in the play-house, spare your precious lives;
Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives:
Think on your souls; but, by your lugging forth,[396]
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of these will move the warlike mind,
Think on the helpless whore you leave behind.
We beg you, last, our scene-room to forbear,
And leave our goods and chattels to our care.
Alas! our women are but washy toys,
And wholly taken up in stage employs:
Poor willing tits they are; but yet, I doubt,
This double duty soon will wear them out.
Then you are watched besides with jealous care;
What if my lady's page should find you there?
My lady knows t' a tittle what there's in ye;
No passing your gilt shilling for a guinea.
Thus, gentlemen, we have summed up in short
Our grievances, from country, town, and court:
Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure;
But first vote money, then redress at leisure. [397]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 395: A Bear so called, which was a favourite with the courtly
audience of the Bear Garden. ]
[Footnote 396: See Note, p. 237. ]
[Footnote 397: This was the course which Charles usually recommended to
Parliament, who generally followed that which was precisely opposite. ]
PROLOGUE
TO
THE PRINCESS OF CLEVES.
BY MR N. LEE, 1689.
_This play is one of the coarsest which ever appeared upon the
stage. The author himself seems to be ashamed of it, and gives, for
the profligacy of his hero, the Duke of Nemours, the odd reason
of a former play on the subject of the Paris massacre having been
prohibited, at the request, I believe, of the French ambassador. _
See Vol. VII. p. 188.
Ladies! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper something in your ear:
A secret, which does much my mind perplex,--
There's treason in the play against our sex.
A man that's false to love, that vows and cheats,
And kisses every living thing he meets;
A rogue in mode,--I dare not speak too broad,--
One that--does something to the very bawd.
Out on him, traitor, for a filthy beast!
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest:
None of them stick at mark; they all deceive. }
Some Jew has changed the text, I half believe; }
There Adam cozened our poor grandame Eve. }
To hide their faults they rap out oaths, and tear;
Now, though we lie, we're too well-bred to swear.
So we compound for half the sin we owe,
But men are dipt for soul and body too;
And, when found out, excuse themselves, pox cant them,
With Latin stuff, _Perjuria ridet Amantûm_.
I'm not book-learned, to know that word in vogue,
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a rogue.
I'm sure, I never heard that screech-owl hollowed
In my poor ears, but separation followed.
How can such perjured villains e'er be saved?
Achitophel's not half so false to David. [398]
With vows and soft expressions to allure,
They stand, like foremen of a shop, demure:
No sooner out of sight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their favour, when they have been kissing,
We can perceive the ready money missing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and something they will sink.
But, since they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts
To trump their diamonds, as they trump our hearts.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 398: Alluding to Shaftesbury and Charles II. in his own
admirable satire. ]
EPILOGUE
TO
THE SAME.
A qualm of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespattered men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys,
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.
I railed at wild young sparks; but, without lying,
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying.
The prodigal of love gives each her part,
And, squandering, shows at least a noble heart.
I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon,
Have hired a friend to make their valour known.
That accusation straight this question brings,--
What is the man that does such naughty things?
The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop,
Lies at our feet:--he's scarce worth taking up.
'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far;
But chamber-practice is not like the bar.
When men such vile, such faint petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take;
Since modesty's the virtue of our kind,
Pray let it be to our own sex confined.
When men usurp it from the female nation,
'Tis but a work of supererogation.
We shewed a princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæsar[399] more than all his due;
Told her own faults; but I should much abhor
To choose a husband for my confessor.
You see what fate followed the saint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had proved,
Had she confessed so much to him she loved.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try;
But damned confessing is flat Popery.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 399: The Princess of Cleves, in the play, confesses to her
husband her love for Nemours. ]
PROLOGUE
TO
ARVIRAGUS AND PHILICIA.
BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ.
SPOKEN BY MR HART.
_Lodowick Carlell, according to Langbaine, was an ancient courtier,
being gentleman of the bows to King Charles I. , groom of the king
and queen's privy chamber, and servant to the queen-mother many
years. His plays, the same author adds, were well esteemed of, and
acted chiefly at the private house in Blackfriars. They were seven
in number. "Arviragus and Philicia" consisted of two parts, and was
first printed in 8vo, 1639. The prologue, which was spoken upon
the revival of the piece, turns upon the caprice of the town, in
preferring, to the plays of their own poets, the performances of
a troop of French comedians, who, it seems, were then acting both
tragedies and comedies in their own language. _
With sickly actors, and an old house too,
We're matched with glorious theatres, and new;
And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn,
Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
If all these ills could not undo us quite,
A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call you each day,
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or see some serious piece, which, we presume,
Is fallen from some incomparable _plume_;
"And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preserve your place. "
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you, why you like them? --they are French.
Therefore, some go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding;
Each lady striving to outlaugh the rest,
To make it seem they understood the jest.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English were to clap the play:
Civil, egad! our hospitable land
Bears all the charge for them to understand:
Mean time we languish, and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,
You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE PROPHETESS.
BY
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
REVIVED
By DRYDEN.
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
_"The Prophetess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, even in its original
state, required a good deal of machinery; for it contains stage
directions for thunder-bolts brandished from on high, and for a
chariot drawn through mid air by flying dragons; but it was now
altered into an opera, with the addition of songs and scenical
decorations, by Betterton, in 1690. Our author wrote the following
prologue, to introduce it upon the stage in its altered state. The
music was by Henry Purcell, and is said to have merited applause.
Rich, whose attachment to scenery and decoration is ridiculed by
Pope, revived this piece, and piqued himself particularly upon a
set of dancing chairs, which he devised for the nonce. _
_The prologue gave offence to the court, and was prohibited by
the Earl of Dorset, Lord Chamberlain, after the first day's
representation. It contains, Cibber remarks, some familiar
metaphorical sneers at the Revolution itself; and as the poetry is
good, the offence was less pardonable. King William was at this
time prosecuting his campaigns in Ireland; and the author not only
ridicules the warfare in which he was engaged, and the English
volunteers who attended him, but even the government of Queen Mary
in his absence. _
What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a perspective set right,
Presents our vast expences close to sight;
But turn the tube, and there we sadly view
Our distant gains, and those uncertain too;
A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our losses warn us to be wise?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, 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 sated ere the second sight.
False men, even so you serve your mistresses;
They rise three stories in their towering dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen 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 should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn,
Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hose.
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 fashion of our blacks. [400]
Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;
We want not poets fit to sing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake
Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,
When they with happy gales are gone away, }
With your propitious presence grace our play, }
And with a sigh their empty seats survey; }
Then think,--On that bare bench my servant sat!
I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, called dum-founding. [401]--
Their loss with patience we will try to bear,
And would do more, to see you often here;
That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rise.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 400: It was the fashion, at this time, to have black boys
in attendance, decorated with silver collars. See the following
advertisement: "A black boy, about fifteen years of age, named John
White, ran away from Colonel Kirke, the 15th inst. ; he has a silver
collar about his neck, upon which is the Colonel's arms and cipher. "
Gazette, March 18th, 1685. ]
[Footnote 401: _Selling bargains_, a species of wit common, according
to Swift, among Queen Anne's maids of honour, consisted in leading
some innocent soul to ask a question, which was answered by the
bargain-seller's naming his, or her, sitting part, by its broadest
appellation. _Dum-founding_ is explained by a stage direction in
Bury-fair, where "Sir Humphrey dum-founds the Count with a rap betwixt
the shoulders. " The humour seems to have consisted in doing this with
such dexterity, that the party dum-founded should be unable to discover
to whom he was indebted for the favour. ]
PROLOGUE
TO
THE MISTAKES.
_This play was brought forward by Joseph Harris, a comedian, as his
own, although it is said to have been chiefly written by another
person. It was acted in_ 1690.
_Enter_ MR BRIGHT.
Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had
to-day. Our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as
bald as one of you young beaux without your periwig. I left our young
poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody
that has deceived him.
_Enter_ MR BOWEN.
Hold your prating to the audience; here's honest Mr Williams just come
in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. [402] He swears he is inspired
with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with
a prologue of his own, or something like one. O here he comes to his
trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.
[_Exeunt Mr_ BRIGHT _and Mr_ BOWEN.
_Enter Mr_ WILLIAMS.
Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way. }
I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play }
But the deuce take me, if I know what to say. }
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret in my belly.
So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting;
And, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting.
Our young poet has brought a piece of work, }
In which though much of art there does not lurk, }
It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork. [403] }
But, for this play--(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune--by the Lord--I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things----even of wit.
He's no high-flyer----he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price--just half a crown.
You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; }
But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er, }
For many a mother has done that before. }
How's this? you cry: an actor write? --we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often failed?
But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevailed.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserved and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,
Not one of us but means to be inspired.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; }
Peace and the butt[404] is all our business here; }
So much for that--and the devil take small beer. }
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 402: This was quite in character. Cibber says of Williams,
that his industry was not equal to his capacity, for he loved his
bottle better than his business. _Apology_, p. 115. ]
[Footnote 403: The taking of Cork was one of the first exploits of the
renowned Marlborough. The besieging army was disembarked on the 23d
September, 1690, and the garrison, amounting to four thousand men,
surrendered on the 28th of the same month. ]
[Footnote 404: A phrase in the "Tempest" as altered by Dryden, which
seems to have become proverbial. ]
EPILOGUE
TO
HENRY II.
BY JOHN BANCROFT,
AND PUBLISHED BY MR MOUNTFORT, 1693.
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
_This play is founded on the amours of Henry II. and the death
of fair Rosamond. John Bancroft, the author, was a surgeon, and
wrote another play called "Sertorius. " He gave both the reputation
and the profits of "Henry II. " to Mountfort, the comedian; and
probably made him no great compliment in the former particular,
though, as the piece was well received, the latter might be of some
consequence. Mountfort was an actor of great eminence. Cibber says,
that he was the most affecting lover within his memory. _
Thus you the sad catastrophe have seen,
Occasioned by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver;
Fair Rosamond was but her _nom de guerre_.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With such a mistress, or with such a wife?
If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan, your wife
Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honest whoring Harry in the play?
I guess your minds; the mistress would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony sent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you detest the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i'the lurch,
And you, like Haynes,[405] return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes cross your mind,
Chapels-of-ease behind our scenes you find.
The playhouse is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face;
Nay, some of you,--I dare not say how many,--
Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny.
E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide,}
Would make a shift my portion to provide, }
With some small perquisites I have beside. }
Though for your love, perhaps, I should not care,
I could not hate a man that bids me fair.
What might ensue, 'tis hard for me to tell; }
But I was drenched to-day for loving well, }
And fear the poison that would make me swell. }
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 405: The facetious Joe Haynes became a Catholic in the latter
part of James the Second's reign. But after the Revolution, he read his
recantation of the errors of Rome in a penitentiary prologue, which he
delivered in a suit of mourning. ]
A
PROLOGUE.
Gallants, a bashful poet bids me say,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauched upon the stage.
He wants the suffering part of resolution,
And comes with blushes to his execution.
Ere you deflower his Muse, he hopes the pit
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Promise him well, before the play begin;
For he would fain be cozened into sin.
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail; }
But, if you leave him after being frail, }
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail; }
To call you base, and swear you used him ill,
And put you in the new Deserters' bill.
Lord, what a troop of perjured men we see;
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the ladies may with patience brook;
Theirs are not the first colours you forsook.
He would be loth the beauties to offend;
But, if he should, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing;
But his friend swears, he will be worth the rearing.
His gloss is still upon him; though 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is best;
There's sweet and sour, and one side good at least.
Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,
Though not for food, are yet preserved for pickle.
So this green writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your stomachs for a better feast.
He makes this difference in the sexes too;
He sells to men, he gives himself to you.
To both he would contribute some delight;
A meer poetical hermaphrodite.
Thus he's equipped, both to be wooed, and woo; }
With arms offensive, and defensive too; }
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do. }
PROLOGUE
TO
ALBUMAZAR.
_The old Play, to which this prologue was prefixed upon its
revival, was originally acted in_ 1634, _three or four years after
the appearance of Jonson's_ "_Alchemist;_" _to which, therefore,
it could not possibly afford any hint. Dryden, observing the
resemblance between the plays, took the plagiarism for granted,
because the style of "Albumazar" is certainly the most antiquated.
This appearance of antiquity is, however, only a consequence of
the vein of pedantry which runs through the whole piece. It was
written by ---- Tomkins, a scholar of Trinity College, and acted
before King James VI. by the gentlemen of that house, 9th March_,
1614. _It is, upon the whole, a very excellent play; yet the author,
whether consulting his own taste, or that of our British Solomon,
before whom it was to be represented, has contrived to give it an
air of such learned stiffness, that it much more resembles the
translation of a play from Terence or Plautus, than an original
English composition. By this pedantic affectation, the humour of
the play is completely smothered; and although there are several
very excellent comic situations in the action_, _yet neither the
attempt to revive it in Dryden's time_, _nor those which followed
in_ 1748 _and_ 1773, _met with any success_.
_As Dryden had imputed, very rashly, however, and groundlessly,
the guilt of plagiarism to Jonson, he made this supposed crime
the introduction to a similar slur on Shadwell, who at that
time seems to have been possessed of the laurel; a circumstance
which ascertains the date of the prologue to be posterior to the
Revolution. _
To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
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 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,
But rob by sun-shine, 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,[406]
'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 rhiming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the license, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand;[407]
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 i'the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
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.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 406: This seems to have been a cant name for highwaymen.
Shadwell's christian name was Thomas. ]
[Footnote 407: Shadwell succeeded to our author's post of laureat,
after the Revolution. I am not able to discover, if Shadwell had
given any very recent cause for this charge of plagiarism. In the
"Libertine," "The Miser," "Bury-fair," and "The Sullen Lovers," he has
borrowed, or rather translated, from Moliere. The "Squire of Alsatia"
contains some imitations of Terence's "Adelphi. " "Psyche" is taken
from the French, and "Timon of Athens" from Shakespeare, although
Shadwell has the assurance to claim the merit of having made it into a
play. He was also under obligations to his contemporaries. The "Royal
Shepherdess" was originally written by one Mr Fountain of Devonshire.
Dryden, in "Mac-Flecnoe," intimates, that Sedley "larded with wit"
his play of "Epsom Wells;" and in the Dedication to the "True Widow,"
Shadwell himself acknowledges obligations to that gentleman's revision
of some of his pieces. Langbaine, who hated Dryden, and professed an
esteem for Shadwell, expresses himself thus, on the latter's claim to
originality:
"But I am willing to say the less of Mr Shadwell, because I have
publicly professed a friendship for him; and though it be not of
so long date as some former intimacy with others, so neither is it
blemished with some unhandsome dealings I have met with from persons
where I least expected it. I shall therefore speak of him with the
impartiality that becomes a critic, and own I like his comedies better
than Mr Dryden's, as having more variety of characters, and those drawn
from the life; I mean men's converse and manners, and not from other
men's ideas, copied out of their public writings: though indeed I
cannot wholly acquit our present laureat from borrowing; his plagiaries
being in some places too bold and open to be disguised, of which I
shall take notice, as I go along; though with this remark, that several
of them are observed to my hand, and in great measure excused by
himself, in the public acknowledgment he makes in his several prefaces,
to the persons to whom he was obliged for what he borrowed. "
Shadwell in the following lines, which occur in the prologue to the
"Scowerers," seems to retort on Dryden the accusation here brought
against him:
You have been kind to many of his plays,
And should not leave him in his latter days.
Though loyal writers of the last two reigns,}
Who tired their pens for Popery and chains, }
Grumble at the reward of all his pains; }
They would, like some, the benefit enjoy
Of what they vilely laboured to destroy.
They cry him down as for his place unfit, }
Since they have all the humour and the wit; }
They must write better e'er he fears them yet. }
'Till they have shewn you more variety }
Of natural, unstolen comedy than he, }
By you at least he should protected be. }
'Till then, may he that mark of bounty have,}
Which his renowned and royal master gave, }
Who loves a subject, and contemns a slave; }
Whom heaven, in spite of hellish plots, designed
To humble tyrants, and exalt mankind.
]
AN
EPILOGUE.
You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly tried,
And, without doubt, you are hugely edified;
For, like our hero, whom we showed to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show; }
Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow;}
But 'twas heaven knows how many years ago. }
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation.
In comedy your little selves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, poets toil to write!
The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly
To some new frisk of contrariety.
You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven devils, when dispossessed of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen,
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But every inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face;
For sins like these, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;[408]
He'll do your work this summer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phœbus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place! [409]
But for the pit confounders, let them go,
And find as little mercy as they show!
The actors thus, and thus thy poets pray;
For every critic saved, thou damn'st a play.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 408: Perhaps our author had in view the three oppositions
of Saturn and Jupiter in June and December 1692, and in April 1693,
which are thus feelingly descanted upon by John Silvester: "It hath
been long observed, that the most remarkable mutations of a kingdom, or
nation, have chiefly depended on the conjunctions or aspects of those
two superior planets, Saturn and Jupiter; and by their effects past, we
perceive that the most wise Creator first placed them higher than all
the other planets, that they should respect, chiefly, the highest and
most durable affairs and concerns of men on earth.
"And if one opposition of Saturn and Jupiter produceth much, how
then can those three oppositions to come do any less than cause some
remarkable changes and alterations of laws, or religious orders, in
England's chief and most renowned city? because Saturn then will be
stronger than Jupiter, who also, at his second opposition, will be near
unto the body of Mars, (the planet of war;) and having took possession
of religious Jupiter, should contend with him, (with a frowning lofty
countenance,) in London's ascendant, from whence I fear some religious
disturbances, if not some warlike violence, by insurrections, or
otherwise, occasioned by some frowning dissatisfied minds, which will
then happen in some part of Britain, or take its beginning there to the
purpose in those years.
"Ah poor Jupiter in Gemini! (London,) I fear thou wilt then be so much
humbled against thy will, that thou wilt think thou hast a sufficient
occasion to bewail thy condition; and if so, God will suffer this,
that thou mayest humbly endeavour to forsake thy accustomed sins, and
that thou mayest know power is not in thee to help thyself. But yet I
think thou wilt then have no need to fear that God hath wholly forsaken
thee; for look but a little back unto the years 1682 and 1683, where
Jupiter was three times in conjunction with Saturn, in a sign of his
own triplicity, and consider, was not he then stronger than Saturn, and
hast not thou been victorious ever since, throughout all those great
changes and alterations? And when thou hast thus considered, perhaps
thou wilt believe, that that which begins well will end well; and
indeed perhaps it may so happen; but be not too proud of this, a word
is enough to the wise. "--_Astrological Observations and Predictions for
the year of our Lord 1691, by John Silvester. _ London, 1690, 4to. ]
[Footnote 409: The Gallery. ]
EPILOGUE
TO THE
HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.
_This play was written by John Dryden, Junior, son to our poet. See
the preface among our author's prose works. It was dedicated to Sir
Robert Howard, and acted in_ 1696.
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care; }
For authors, such as our new authors are, }
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare; }
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more, }
That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, }
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. }
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, }
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, }
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. }
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, }
At what his beauship says, but what he wears; }
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. }
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author[410] hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise; }
For, though the immortal species never dies, }
Yet every year new maggots make new flies. }
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 410: Young Dryden was then in Rome with his brother Charles,
who was gentleman-usher to the Pope. ]
MAC-FLECNOE,
A SATIRE
AGAINST
THOMAS SHADWELL.
MAC-FLECNOE.
The enmity between Dryden and Shadwell at first probably only sprung
from some of those temporary causes of disgust, which must frequently
divide persons whose lives are spent in a competition for public
applause. That they were occasionally upon tolerable terms is certain,
for Dryden has told us so; and Shadwell, in 1676, when expressing
his dissent from one of our author's rules of theatrical criticism,
industriously and anxiously qualifies his opinion, with the highest
compliments to our author's genius. [411] They had formerly even
joined forces, and called in the aid of another wit, to overwhelm the
reputation of no less a person than Elkanah Settle. [412] But, between
the politics of the stage and of the nation, the friendship of these
bards, which probably never had a very solid foundation, was at length
totally overthrown. It is not very easy to discover who struck the
first blow; but it may be suspected, that Dryden was displeased to
see Shadwell not only dispute his canons of criticism in print, but
seem to establish himself as an imitator of the old school of dramatic
composition, and particularly of Jonson, on whom Dryden had thrown
some censure in his epilogue to "The Conquest of Grenada," and in the
Defence of these verses. It seems certain, that the feud had broke out
in 1675-6; for Shadwell has not only made some invidious allusions to
the success of "Aureng-Zebe," which was represented that season, but
has plainly intimated, that he needed only a pension to enable him to
write as well as Dryden himself. [413] This assault, however, seems to
have been forgiven; for Dryden obliged Shadwell with an epilogue to the
"True Widow," acted in 1678. But their precarious reconcilement did not
long subsist, when political animosity was added to literary rivalry.
Shadwell not only wrote the "Lancashire Witches," in ridicule of the
Tory party, but entered into a personal contest with our author on the
subject of "The Medal," which he answered by a clumsy, though venomous,
retort, called "The Medal of John Bayes. " In the preface he asserts,
that no one can think Dryden "hardly dealt with, since he knows, and
so do all his old acquaintance, that there is not one untrue word
spoke of him. " Neither was this a single offence; for Dryden, in his
"Vindication of the Duke of Guise," says, that Shadwell has repeatedly
called him Atheist in print. These reiterated insults at length drew
down the vengeance of our poet, who seems to have singled Shadwell
from the herd of those who had libelled him, to be gibbetted in rhyme
while the English language shall last. Neither was Dryden satisfied
with a single attack upon this obnoxious bard; but, having divided his
poetical character from that which he held as a political writer, he
discussed the first in the satire which follows, and the last, with
equal severity, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel. " These
two admirable pieces of satire appeared within less than a month of
each other; and leave it a matter of doubt, whether the bitter ridicule
of the anointed Prince of Dulness, or the sarcastic description of Og,
the seditious poetaster, be most cruelly severe.
"Mac-Flecnoe" must be allowed to be one of the keenest satires in the
English language. It is what Dryden has elsewhere termed a Varronian
satire;[414] that is, as he seems to use the phrase, one in which the
author is not contented with general sarcasm upon the object of attack,
but where he has woven his piece into a sort of imaginary story, or
scene, in which he introduces the person, whom he ridicules, as a
principal actor. The position in which Dryden has placed Shadwell is
the most mortifying to literary vanity which can possibly be imagined,
and is hardly excelled by the device of Pope in the "Dunciad," who
has obviously followed the steps of his predecessor. Flecnoe, who
seems to have been universally acknowledged as the very lowest of
all poetasters, and whose name had passed into a proverb for doggrel
verse and stupid prose, is represented as devolving upon Shadwell that
pre-eminence over the realms of Dulness, which he had himself possessed
without a rival. The spot chosen for this devolution of empire is
the Barbican, an obscure suburb, in which it would seem that there
were temporary theatrical representations of the lowest order, among
other receptacles of vulgar dissipation, for the amusement of the very
lowest of the vulgar. Here the ceremony of Shadwell's coronation is
supposed to be performed with an inaugural oration by Flecnoe, his
predecessor, in which all his pretensions to wit and to literary fame
are sarcastically enumerated and confuted, by a counter-statement of
his claims to distinction by pre-eminent and unrivalled stupidity. In
this satire, the shafts of the poet are directed with an aim acutely
malignant. The inference drawn concerning Shadwell's talents is
general and absolute; but in the proof, Dryden appeals with triumph
to those parts only of his literary character which are obviously
vulnerable. He reckons up among his titles to the throne of Flecnoe,
his desperate and unsuccessful attempts at lyrical composition, in
the opera of "Psyche;" the clumsy and coarse limning of those whom
he designed to figure as fine gentlemen in his comedies; the false
and florid taste of his dedications; his presumptuous imitation of
Jonson in composition, and his absurd resemblance to him in person.
But the satirist industriously keeps out of view those points, in
which perhaps he internally felt some inferiority to the object of
his wrath. He mentions nothing that could recal to the reader's
recollection that insight into human life, that acquaintance with the
foibles and absurdities displayed in individual pursuits, that bold
though coarse delineation of character, which gave fame to Shadwell's
comedies in the last century, and renders them amusing even at the
present day. This discrimination is an excellent proof of the exquisite
address with which Dryden wielded the satirical weapon, and managed
the feelings of his readers. We never find him attempting a desperate
or impossible task; at least in a way which seems, in the moment of
perusal, desperate or impossible. He never wastes his powder against
the impregnable part of a fortress, but directs all his battery
against some weaker spot, where a breach may be rendered practicable.
In short, by convincing his reader that he is right in the examples
which he quotes, he puts the question at issue upon the ground most
disadvantageous for his antagonist, and renders it very difficult for
one who has been proved a dunce in one instance to establish his credit
in any other.
I have had so frequently to call the attention of my reader to the
sonorous and emphatic effect of Dryden's versification, that it is
almost ridiculous to repeat epithets which apply to every poem which
succeeded his _Annus Mirabilis_; yet I cannot but remark, that the mock
heroic may be said to have owed its rise to our author, and that there
is hardly any poem, before "Mac-Flecnoe," in which it has been employed
with all its qualities of grave and pompous irony, expressed in solemn
and sounding verse.
It is no inconsiderable part of the merit of "Mac-Flecnoe," that it
led the way to the "Dunciad:" yet, while we acknowledge the more
copious and variegated flow of Pope's satire, we must not forget,
that, independent of the merit of originality, always inestimable,
Dryden's poem claims that of a close and more compact fable, of a
single and undisturbed aim. Pope's ridicule and sarcasm is scattered
so wide, and among such a number of authors, that it resembles small
shot discharged at random among a crowd; while that of Dryden, like a
single well-directed bullet, prostrates the individual object against
whom it was directed. Besides, the reader is apt to sympathise with
the degree of the satirist's provocation, which, in Dryden's case,
cannot be disputed; whereas Pope sometimes confounds those, from whom
he had received gross incivility, with others who had given him no
offence, and with some whose characters were above his accusation. To
posterity, the "Mac-Flecnoe" possesses a decided superiority over the
"Dunciad," for a very few facts make us master of the argument; while
that of the latter poem, excepting the Sixth Book, where the satire is
more general, requires a note at every tenth line to render it even
intelligible.
Mr Malone has given us the title of the first edition of "Mac-Flecnoe,"
which the present Editor has never seen, as indeed it is of the last
degree of rarity. It was published not by Tonson, but by D. Green, and
entitled, "Mac-Flecnoe, or a Satire on the True-blue[415] Protestant
Poet, T. S. ; by the Author of Absalom and Achitophel. " It consisted
only of one sheet and a half, and was sold for twopence. The satire
was too personal, and too poignant, to fail in attracting immediate
attention, and accordingly the poem was quickly sold off. It was not
republished until it appeared in Tonson's first Miscellany, in 1684,
with a few slight alterations, intended either to point particular
verses, or to correct errors of the press, or pen. It must have been
generally known, that Dryden was the author of this satire, both
because it is stated in the title-page to be by the author of "Absalom
and Achitophel," and because there existed no contemporary poet to whom
so masterly a production could have been ascribed, even with remote
probability; yet Shadwell, in his dedication of the tenth satire of
Juvenal, (a most miserable performance,) says, that Dryden, when he
taxed him with being the author, "denied it with all the execrations
he could think of;" an accusation which was echoed by Brown, though
apparently upon the authority of Shadwell alone. [416] From this
averment, which is probably made far too broadly, we can only infer,
that Dryden, like Swift in the same predicament, left his adversary
to prove what he had no title to call upon him to confess; for that
he seriously meant to disavow a performance, of which he had from the
very beginning sufficiently avouched himself the author, can hardly
be supposed for a moment. It has indeed been noticed, that our author
has omitted this poem, as well as the "Eulogy on Cromwell," in a list
of his plays and poems subjoined to one of his plays; but Dryden might
not think fit to admit a personal, and what he probably considered
as a fugitive satire, into a formal list of his poetry. We know he
entertained a conscious sense of his dignity in this respect; for,
excepting in a slight and passing sarcasm, he never deigned to answer
any of his literary adversaries, excepting Settle and Shadwell; and he
might possibly think, on reflection, that he had done the latter too
much honour in making him the subject of a separate and laboured poem.
Mr Malone also conceives, that he might be with-held from inserting
this poem in an authoritative list of his works, by delicacy towards
Dorset, his recent benefactor, who had thought Shadwell worthy of the
laurel of which our poet had been divested at the Revolution. Be it
as it may, he was afterwards so far from disowning the poem, that, in
the Essay on Satire, he gives it, with "Absalom and Achitophel," as
instances of his own attempts at the Varronian satire.
The purpose and scope of "Mac-Flecnoe" was strangely misconstrued by
the object of it, and by our poet's editors. Shadwell took it into his
head, that Dryden meant seriously to tax him with being an Irishman;
a charge which he seems more anxious to refute than seems necessary.
Cibber, or whoever wrote Dryden's Life in the collection bearing his
name, supposes, that Flecnoe, who died in 1678, had actually succeeded
our author in the office of poet-laureat. Derrick, though he corrects
this error, has fallen into another, in which he is followed by Dr
Johnson, who considers "Mac-Flecnoe" as written in express ridicule
of Shadwell's inauguration as court poet. The scarcity of the first
edition of "Mac-Flecnoe" might have been some excuse for these errors,
had not the piece been printed in the first Miscellany, in 1684, four
years before Dryden's being deposed, and Shadwell succeeding him.
Certainly the two events tallied strangely; and the friends of Shadwell
might have considered the substantial office which he gained by the
downfall of Dryden, as a just compensation for the ludicrous and mock
dignity with which his foe had invested him.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 411: See the whole passage, Vol. VII. p. 141. note. ]
[Footnote 412: See the Remarks on the Empress of Morocco, written in
conjunction by Dryden, Crown, and Shadwell. They were printed in 1674. ]
[Footnote 413: These circumstances of offence occur in the prologue,
epilogue, and preface to the "Virtuoso," which must have been acted in
the same season with "Aureng-Zebe," as the dedication is dated 26th
June, 1676. The prologue commences with an irreverend allusion to that
play, and to our author's theatrical engagements:
You came with such an eager appetite
To a late play, which gave so great delight,
Our poet fears, that by so rich a treat
Your palates are become too delicate.
Yet since you've had rhyme for a relishing bit,
To give a better taste to comic wit;
But this requires expence of time and pains,
Too great, alas! for poets' slender gains.
For wit, like china, should long buried lie,
Before it ripens to good comedy;
A thing we ne'er have seen since Jonson's days,
And but a few of his were perfect plays.
Now drudges of the stage must oft appear,
They must be bound to scribble twice a year.
That these insinuations might not be mistaken, Shadwell, in the
epilogue, severely attacks rhyming tragedies in general; the object of
which diatribe, considering the late success of "Aureng-Zebe," could
not possibly be misinterpreted:
But of those ladies he despairs to-day,
Who love a dull romantic whining play;
Where poor frail woman's made a deity, }
With senseless amorous idolatry, }
And snivelling heroes sigh, and pine, and cry. }
Though singly they beat armies, and huff kings,
Rant at the gods, and do impossible things;
Though they can laugh at danger, blood, and wounds,
Yet if the dame once chides, the milk-sop hero swoons.
These doughty things nor manners have nor wit;
We ne'er saw hero fit to drink with yet.
The passage in the Dedication, in which he insinuates that the
provision of a pension was all he wanted, to place him on a level with
the proudest of his rivals, is as follows: "That there are a great many
faults in the conduct of this play, I am not ignorant; but I (having
no pension but from the theatre, which is either unwilling, or unable,
to reward a man sufficiently for so much pains as correct comedies
require) cannot allot my whole time to the writing of plays, but am
forced to mind some other business of advantage. Had I as much money,
and as much time for it, I might perhaps write as correct a comedy as
any of my contemporaries. "]
[Footnote 414: See Essay on Satire, Vol. XIII. p. 65. ]
[Footnote 415: This epithet preceded the nickname of Whig. See Vol. IX.
p. 211. ]
[Footnote 416: "I make bold to use his own expression in "Mac-Flecnoe,"
if it is _his_, I say, for Mr Shadwell, in the preface before his
Translation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal, has been lately pleased to
acquaint the world, that he publicly disowned the writing it with as
solemn imprecations as his friend the Spanish Friar did the Cavalier
Lorenzo. "--_Reasons_, &c. ]
MAC-FLECKNOE.
All human things are subject to decay,
And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found,[417] who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owned, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state;
And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried,--'Tis resolved! for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years;[418]
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he,
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense;
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems designed for thoughtless majesty;
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley[419] were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology!
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,[420] came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute,--the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I sung,--
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,[421]
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,--
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. [422]
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. [423]
At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore,
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar;
Echoes, from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'st thy papers in thy threshing hand;
St André's[424] feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel;[425]
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton[426] forswore }
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, }
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more. --}
Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,[427])
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains;
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys;
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturbed by watch, in silence sleep. [428]
Near these a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry;}
Where infant punks their tender voices try, }
And little Maximins the gods defy. }
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin[429] just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanished minds;
Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords,
And Panton[430] waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker[431] prophesied long since, }
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,}
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; }
To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists, and Hypocrites, it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. [432]
Now empress Fame had published the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
humours which a great many do; that is to say, such as consist in using
one or two by-words; or in having a fantastic extravagant dress, as
many pretended humours have; nor in the affectation of some French
words, which several plays have shown us. I say nothing of impossible,
unnatural, farce fools, which some intend for comical; who think it
the easiest thing in the world to write a comedy, and yet will sooner
grow rich upon their ill plays than write a good one: Nor is downright
silly folly a humour, as some take it to be, for it is a mere natural
imperfection; and they might as well call it a humour of blindness in a
blind man, or lameness in a lame one; or as a celebrated French farce
has the humour of one who speaks very fast, and of another who speaks
very slow: But natural imperfections are not fit subjects for comedy,
since they are not to be laughed at, but pitied. But the artificial
folly of those who are not coxcombs by nature, but, with great art and
industry, make themselves so, is a proper object of comedy; as I have
discoursed at large in the Preface to "The Humourists," written five
years since. Those slight circumstantial things, mentioned before, are
not enough to make a good comical humour; which ought to be such an
affectation as misguides men in knowledge, art, or science; or that
causes defection in manners and morality, or perverts their minds in
the main actions of their lives: And this kind of humour, I think, I
have not improperly described in the Epilogue to "The Humourists. "
"But your grace understands humour too well not to know this, and much
more than I can say of it. All I have now to do, is, humbly to dedicate
this play to your grace, which has succeeded beyond my expectation; and
the humours of which have been approved by men of the best sense and
learning. Nor do I hear of any professed enemies to the play, but some
women, and some men of feminine understandings, who like slight plays
only that represent a little tattle-sort of conversation like their
own: but true humour is not liked or understood by them; and therefore
even my attempt towards it is condemned by them: but the same people,
to my great comfort, damn all Mr Jonson's plays, who was incomparably
the best dramatic poet that ever was, or, I believe, ever will be; and
I had rather be author of one scene in his best comedies, than of any
play this age has produced. "]
[Footnote 394: This inhuman jest turns on the execution of Henry
Cornish, who, with Slingsby Bethel, was sheriff in 1680, and
distinguished himself in opposition to the court. --See Note on "Absalom
and Achitophel," Part I. vol. ix. p. 280. He was condemned as accessary
to the Rye-house plot, and executed accordingly on 23d October, 1685;
probably a short time before this prologue was spoken, which might be
in January 1686. ]
EPILOGUE
ON
THE SAME OCCASION.
New ministers, when first they get in place,
Must have a care to please; and that's our case:
Some laws for public welfare we design,
If you, the power supreme, will please to join.
There are a sort of prattlers in the pit,
Who either have, or who pretend to wit;
These noisy sirs so loud their parts rehearse,
That oft the play is silenced by the farce.
Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun,
Each to be thought my lady's eldest son.
But stay; methinks some vizard mask I see,
Cast out her lure from the mid gallery:
About her all the fluttering sparks are ranged;
The noise continues, though the scene is changed:
Now growling, sputtering, wauling, such a clutter!
'Tis just like puss defendant in a gutter:
Fine love, no doubt; but ere two days are o'er ye,
The surgeon will be told a woful story.
Let vizard mask her naked face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a nose:
Then for your lacqueys, and your train beside,
By whate'er name or title dignified,
They roar so loud, you'd think behind the stairs
Tom Dove,[395] and all the brotherhood of bears:
They're grown a nuisance, beyond all disasters;
We've none so great but--their unpaying masters.
We beg you, Sirs, to beg your men, that they
Would please to give you leave to hear the play.
Next, in the play-house, spare your precious lives;
Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives:
Think on your souls; but, by your lugging forth,[396]
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of these will move the warlike mind,
Think on the helpless whore you leave behind.
We beg you, last, our scene-room to forbear,
And leave our goods and chattels to our care.
Alas! our women are but washy toys,
And wholly taken up in stage employs:
Poor willing tits they are; but yet, I doubt,
This double duty soon will wear them out.
Then you are watched besides with jealous care;
What if my lady's page should find you there?
My lady knows t' a tittle what there's in ye;
No passing your gilt shilling for a guinea.
Thus, gentlemen, we have summed up in short
Our grievances, from country, town, and court:
Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure;
But first vote money, then redress at leisure. [397]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 395: A Bear so called, which was a favourite with the courtly
audience of the Bear Garden. ]
[Footnote 396: See Note, p. 237. ]
[Footnote 397: This was the course which Charles usually recommended to
Parliament, who generally followed that which was precisely opposite. ]
PROLOGUE
TO
THE PRINCESS OF CLEVES.
BY MR N. LEE, 1689.
_This play is one of the coarsest which ever appeared upon the
stage. The author himself seems to be ashamed of it, and gives, for
the profligacy of his hero, the Duke of Nemours, the odd reason
of a former play on the subject of the Paris massacre having been
prohibited, at the request, I believe, of the French ambassador. _
See Vol. VII. p. 188.
Ladies! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper something in your ear:
A secret, which does much my mind perplex,--
There's treason in the play against our sex.
A man that's false to love, that vows and cheats,
And kisses every living thing he meets;
A rogue in mode,--I dare not speak too broad,--
One that--does something to the very bawd.
Out on him, traitor, for a filthy beast!
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest:
None of them stick at mark; they all deceive. }
Some Jew has changed the text, I half believe; }
There Adam cozened our poor grandame Eve. }
To hide their faults they rap out oaths, and tear;
Now, though we lie, we're too well-bred to swear.
So we compound for half the sin we owe,
But men are dipt for soul and body too;
And, when found out, excuse themselves, pox cant them,
With Latin stuff, _Perjuria ridet Amantûm_.
I'm not book-learned, to know that word in vogue,
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a rogue.
I'm sure, I never heard that screech-owl hollowed
In my poor ears, but separation followed.
How can such perjured villains e'er be saved?
Achitophel's not half so false to David. [398]
With vows and soft expressions to allure,
They stand, like foremen of a shop, demure:
No sooner out of sight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their favour, when they have been kissing,
We can perceive the ready money missing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and something they will sink.
But, since they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts
To trump their diamonds, as they trump our hearts.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 398: Alluding to Shaftesbury and Charles II. in his own
admirable satire. ]
EPILOGUE
TO
THE SAME.
A qualm of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespattered men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys,
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.
I railed at wild young sparks; but, without lying,
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying.
The prodigal of love gives each her part,
And, squandering, shows at least a noble heart.
I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon,
Have hired a friend to make their valour known.
That accusation straight this question brings,--
What is the man that does such naughty things?
The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop,
Lies at our feet:--he's scarce worth taking up.
'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far;
But chamber-practice is not like the bar.
When men such vile, such faint petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take;
Since modesty's the virtue of our kind,
Pray let it be to our own sex confined.
When men usurp it from the female nation,
'Tis but a work of supererogation.
We shewed a princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæsar[399] more than all his due;
Told her own faults; but I should much abhor
To choose a husband for my confessor.
You see what fate followed the saint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had proved,
Had she confessed so much to him she loved.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try;
But damned confessing is flat Popery.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 399: The Princess of Cleves, in the play, confesses to her
husband her love for Nemours. ]
PROLOGUE
TO
ARVIRAGUS AND PHILICIA.
BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ.
SPOKEN BY MR HART.
_Lodowick Carlell, according to Langbaine, was an ancient courtier,
being gentleman of the bows to King Charles I. , groom of the king
and queen's privy chamber, and servant to the queen-mother many
years. His plays, the same author adds, were well esteemed of, and
acted chiefly at the private house in Blackfriars. They were seven
in number. "Arviragus and Philicia" consisted of two parts, and was
first printed in 8vo, 1639. The prologue, which was spoken upon
the revival of the piece, turns upon the caprice of the town, in
preferring, to the plays of their own poets, the performances of
a troop of French comedians, who, it seems, were then acting both
tragedies and comedies in their own language. _
With sickly actors, and an old house too,
We're matched with glorious theatres, and new;
And with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn,
Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
If all these ills could not undo us quite,
A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call you each day,
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or see some serious piece, which, we presume,
Is fallen from some incomparable _plume_;
"And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preserve your place. "
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you, why you like them? --they are French.
Therefore, some go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding;
Each lady striving to outlaugh the rest,
To make it seem they understood the jest.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English were to clap the play:
Civil, egad! our hospitable land
Bears all the charge for them to understand:
Mean time we languish, and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,
You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.
PROLOGUE
TO
THE PROPHETESS.
BY
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
REVIVED
By DRYDEN.
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
_"The Prophetess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, even in its original
state, required a good deal of machinery; for it contains stage
directions for thunder-bolts brandished from on high, and for a
chariot drawn through mid air by flying dragons; but it was now
altered into an opera, with the addition of songs and scenical
decorations, by Betterton, in 1690. Our author wrote the following
prologue, to introduce it upon the stage in its altered state. The
music was by Henry Purcell, and is said to have merited applause.
Rich, whose attachment to scenery and decoration is ridiculed by
Pope, revived this piece, and piqued himself particularly upon a
set of dancing chairs, which he devised for the nonce. _
_The prologue gave offence to the court, and was prohibited by
the Earl of Dorset, Lord Chamberlain, after the first day's
representation. It contains, Cibber remarks, some familiar
metaphorical sneers at the Revolution itself; and as the poetry is
good, the offence was less pardonable. King William was at this
time prosecuting his campaigns in Ireland; and the author not only
ridicules the warfare in which he was engaged, and the English
volunteers who attended him, but even the government of Queen Mary
in his absence. _
What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a perspective set right,
Presents our vast expences close to sight;
But turn the tube, and there we sadly view
Our distant gains, and those uncertain too;
A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our losses warn us to be wise?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, 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 sated ere the second sight.
False men, even so you serve your mistresses;
They rise three stories in their towering dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen 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 should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn,
Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hose.
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 fashion of our blacks. [400]
Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;
We want not poets fit to sing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake
Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,
When they with happy gales are gone away, }
With your propitious presence grace our play, }
And with a sigh their empty seats survey; }
Then think,--On that bare bench my servant sat!
I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, called dum-founding. [401]--
Their loss with patience we will try to bear,
And would do more, to see you often here;
That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rise.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 400: It was the fashion, at this time, to have black boys
in attendance, decorated with silver collars. See the following
advertisement: "A black boy, about fifteen years of age, named John
White, ran away from Colonel Kirke, the 15th inst. ; he has a silver
collar about his neck, upon which is the Colonel's arms and cipher. "
Gazette, March 18th, 1685. ]
[Footnote 401: _Selling bargains_, a species of wit common, according
to Swift, among Queen Anne's maids of honour, consisted in leading
some innocent soul to ask a question, which was answered by the
bargain-seller's naming his, or her, sitting part, by its broadest
appellation. _Dum-founding_ is explained by a stage direction in
Bury-fair, where "Sir Humphrey dum-founds the Count with a rap betwixt
the shoulders. " The humour seems to have consisted in doing this with
such dexterity, that the party dum-founded should be unable to discover
to whom he was indebted for the favour. ]
PROLOGUE
TO
THE MISTAKES.
_This play was brought forward by Joseph Harris, a comedian, as his
own, although it is said to have been chiefly written by another
person. It was acted in_ 1690.
_Enter_ MR BRIGHT.
Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had
to-day. Our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as
bald as one of you young beaux without your periwig. I left our young
poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody
that has deceived him.
_Enter_ MR BOWEN.
Hold your prating to the audience; here's honest Mr Williams just come
in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. [402] He swears he is inspired
with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with
a prologue of his own, or something like one. O here he comes to his
trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.
[_Exeunt Mr_ BRIGHT _and Mr_ BOWEN.
_Enter Mr_ WILLIAMS.
Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way. }
I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play }
But the deuce take me, if I know what to say. }
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret in my belly.
So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting;
And, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting.
Our young poet has brought a piece of work, }
In which though much of art there does not lurk, }
It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork. [403] }
But, for this play--(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune--by the Lord--I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things----even of wit.
He's no high-flyer----he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price--just half a crown.
You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; }
But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er, }
For many a mother has done that before. }
How's this? you cry: an actor write? --we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often failed?
But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevailed.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserved and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,
Not one of us but means to be inspired.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; }
Peace and the butt[404] is all our business here; }
So much for that--and the devil take small beer. }
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 402: This was quite in character. Cibber says of Williams,
that his industry was not equal to his capacity, for he loved his
bottle better than his business. _Apology_, p. 115. ]
[Footnote 403: The taking of Cork was one of the first exploits of the
renowned Marlborough. The besieging army was disembarked on the 23d
September, 1690, and the garrison, amounting to four thousand men,
surrendered on the 28th of the same month. ]
[Footnote 404: A phrase in the "Tempest" as altered by Dryden, which
seems to have become proverbial. ]
EPILOGUE
TO
HENRY II.
BY JOHN BANCROFT,
AND PUBLISHED BY MR MOUNTFORT, 1693.
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
_This play is founded on the amours of Henry II. and the death
of fair Rosamond. John Bancroft, the author, was a surgeon, and
wrote another play called "Sertorius. " He gave both the reputation
and the profits of "Henry II. " to Mountfort, the comedian; and
probably made him no great compliment in the former particular,
though, as the piece was well received, the latter might be of some
consequence. Mountfort was an actor of great eminence. Cibber says,
that he was the most affecting lover within his memory. _
Thus you the sad catastrophe have seen,
Occasioned by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver;
Fair Rosamond was but her _nom de guerre_.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With such a mistress, or with such a wife?
If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan, your wife
Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honest whoring Harry in the play?
I guess your minds; the mistress would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony sent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you detest the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i'the lurch,
And you, like Haynes,[405] return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes cross your mind,
Chapels-of-ease behind our scenes you find.
The playhouse is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face;
Nay, some of you,--I dare not say how many,--
Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny.
E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide,}
Would make a shift my portion to provide, }
With some small perquisites I have beside. }
Though for your love, perhaps, I should not care,
I could not hate a man that bids me fair.
What might ensue, 'tis hard for me to tell; }
But I was drenched to-day for loving well, }
And fear the poison that would make me swell. }
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 405: The facetious Joe Haynes became a Catholic in the latter
part of James the Second's reign. But after the Revolution, he read his
recantation of the errors of Rome in a penitentiary prologue, which he
delivered in a suit of mourning. ]
A
PROLOGUE.
Gallants, a bashful poet bids me say,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauched upon the stage.
He wants the suffering part of resolution,
And comes with blushes to his execution.
Ere you deflower his Muse, he hopes the pit
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Promise him well, before the play begin;
For he would fain be cozened into sin.
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail; }
But, if you leave him after being frail, }
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail; }
To call you base, and swear you used him ill,
And put you in the new Deserters' bill.
Lord, what a troop of perjured men we see;
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the ladies may with patience brook;
Theirs are not the first colours you forsook.
He would be loth the beauties to offend;
But, if he should, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing;
But his friend swears, he will be worth the rearing.
His gloss is still upon him; though 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is best;
There's sweet and sour, and one side good at least.
Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,
Though not for food, are yet preserved for pickle.
So this green writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your stomachs for a better feast.
He makes this difference in the sexes too;
He sells to men, he gives himself to you.
To both he would contribute some delight;
A meer poetical hermaphrodite.
Thus he's equipped, both to be wooed, and woo; }
With arms offensive, and defensive too; }
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do. }
PROLOGUE
TO
ALBUMAZAR.
_The old Play, to which this prologue was prefixed upon its
revival, was originally acted in_ 1634, _three or four years after
the appearance of Jonson's_ "_Alchemist;_" _to which, therefore,
it could not possibly afford any hint. Dryden, observing the
resemblance between the plays, took the plagiarism for granted,
because the style of "Albumazar" is certainly the most antiquated.
This appearance of antiquity is, however, only a consequence of
the vein of pedantry which runs through the whole piece. It was
written by ---- Tomkins, a scholar of Trinity College, and acted
before King James VI. by the gentlemen of that house, 9th March_,
1614. _It is, upon the whole, a very excellent play; yet the author,
whether consulting his own taste, or that of our British Solomon,
before whom it was to be represented, has contrived to give it an
air of such learned stiffness, that it much more resembles the
translation of a play from Terence or Plautus, than an original
English composition. By this pedantic affectation, the humour of
the play is completely smothered; and although there are several
very excellent comic situations in the action_, _yet neither the
attempt to revive it in Dryden's time_, _nor those which followed
in_ 1748 _and_ 1773, _met with any success_.
_As Dryden had imputed, very rashly, however, and groundlessly,
the guilt of plagiarism to Jonson, he made this supposed crime
the introduction to a similar slur on Shadwell, who at that
time seems to have been possessed of the laurel; a circumstance
which ascertains the date of the prologue to be posterior to the
Revolution. _
To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
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 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,
But rob by sun-shine, 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,[406]
'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 rhiming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the license, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand;[407]
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 i'the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
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.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 406: This seems to have been a cant name for highwaymen.
Shadwell's christian name was Thomas. ]
[Footnote 407: Shadwell succeeded to our author's post of laureat,
after the Revolution. I am not able to discover, if Shadwell had
given any very recent cause for this charge of plagiarism. In the
"Libertine," "The Miser," "Bury-fair," and "The Sullen Lovers," he has
borrowed, or rather translated, from Moliere. The "Squire of Alsatia"
contains some imitations of Terence's "Adelphi. " "Psyche" is taken
from the French, and "Timon of Athens" from Shakespeare, although
Shadwell has the assurance to claim the merit of having made it into a
play. He was also under obligations to his contemporaries. The "Royal
Shepherdess" was originally written by one Mr Fountain of Devonshire.
Dryden, in "Mac-Flecnoe," intimates, that Sedley "larded with wit"
his play of "Epsom Wells;" and in the Dedication to the "True Widow,"
Shadwell himself acknowledges obligations to that gentleman's revision
of some of his pieces. Langbaine, who hated Dryden, and professed an
esteem for Shadwell, expresses himself thus, on the latter's claim to
originality:
"But I am willing to say the less of Mr Shadwell, because I have
publicly professed a friendship for him; and though it be not of
so long date as some former intimacy with others, so neither is it
blemished with some unhandsome dealings I have met with from persons
where I least expected it. I shall therefore speak of him with the
impartiality that becomes a critic, and own I like his comedies better
than Mr Dryden's, as having more variety of characters, and those drawn
from the life; I mean men's converse and manners, and not from other
men's ideas, copied out of their public writings: though indeed I
cannot wholly acquit our present laureat from borrowing; his plagiaries
being in some places too bold and open to be disguised, of which I
shall take notice, as I go along; though with this remark, that several
of them are observed to my hand, and in great measure excused by
himself, in the public acknowledgment he makes in his several prefaces,
to the persons to whom he was obliged for what he borrowed. "
Shadwell in the following lines, which occur in the prologue to the
"Scowerers," seems to retort on Dryden the accusation here brought
against him:
You have been kind to many of his plays,
And should not leave him in his latter days.
Though loyal writers of the last two reigns,}
Who tired their pens for Popery and chains, }
Grumble at the reward of all his pains; }
They would, like some, the benefit enjoy
Of what they vilely laboured to destroy.
They cry him down as for his place unfit, }
Since they have all the humour and the wit; }
They must write better e'er he fears them yet. }
'Till they have shewn you more variety }
Of natural, unstolen comedy than he, }
By you at least he should protected be. }
'Till then, may he that mark of bounty have,}
Which his renowned and royal master gave, }
Who loves a subject, and contemns a slave; }
Whom heaven, in spite of hellish plots, designed
To humble tyrants, and exalt mankind.
]
AN
EPILOGUE.
You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly tried,
And, without doubt, you are hugely edified;
For, like our hero, whom we showed to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show; }
Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow;}
But 'twas heaven knows how many years ago. }
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation.
In comedy your little selves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, poets toil to write!
The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly
To some new frisk of contrariety.
You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven devils, when dispossessed of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen,
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But every inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face;
For sins like these, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;[408]
He'll do your work this summer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phœbus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place! [409]
But for the pit confounders, let them go,
And find as little mercy as they show!
The actors thus, and thus thy poets pray;
For every critic saved, thou damn'st a play.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 408: Perhaps our author had in view the three oppositions
of Saturn and Jupiter in June and December 1692, and in April 1693,
which are thus feelingly descanted upon by John Silvester: "It hath
been long observed, that the most remarkable mutations of a kingdom, or
nation, have chiefly depended on the conjunctions or aspects of those
two superior planets, Saturn and Jupiter; and by their effects past, we
perceive that the most wise Creator first placed them higher than all
the other planets, that they should respect, chiefly, the highest and
most durable affairs and concerns of men on earth.
"And if one opposition of Saturn and Jupiter produceth much, how
then can those three oppositions to come do any less than cause some
remarkable changes and alterations of laws, or religious orders, in
England's chief and most renowned city? because Saturn then will be
stronger than Jupiter, who also, at his second opposition, will be near
unto the body of Mars, (the planet of war;) and having took possession
of religious Jupiter, should contend with him, (with a frowning lofty
countenance,) in London's ascendant, from whence I fear some religious
disturbances, if not some warlike violence, by insurrections, or
otherwise, occasioned by some frowning dissatisfied minds, which will
then happen in some part of Britain, or take its beginning there to the
purpose in those years.
"Ah poor Jupiter in Gemini! (London,) I fear thou wilt then be so much
humbled against thy will, that thou wilt think thou hast a sufficient
occasion to bewail thy condition; and if so, God will suffer this,
that thou mayest humbly endeavour to forsake thy accustomed sins, and
that thou mayest know power is not in thee to help thyself. But yet I
think thou wilt then have no need to fear that God hath wholly forsaken
thee; for look but a little back unto the years 1682 and 1683, where
Jupiter was three times in conjunction with Saturn, in a sign of his
own triplicity, and consider, was not he then stronger than Saturn, and
hast not thou been victorious ever since, throughout all those great
changes and alterations? And when thou hast thus considered, perhaps
thou wilt believe, that that which begins well will end well; and
indeed perhaps it may so happen; but be not too proud of this, a word
is enough to the wise. "--_Astrological Observations and Predictions for
the year of our Lord 1691, by John Silvester. _ London, 1690, 4to. ]
[Footnote 409: The Gallery. ]
EPILOGUE
TO THE
HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.
_This play was written by John Dryden, Junior, son to our poet. See
the preface among our author's prose works. It was dedicated to Sir
Robert Howard, and acted in_ 1696.
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care; }
For authors, such as our new authors are, }
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare; }
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more, }
That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, }
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. }
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, }
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, }
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. }
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, }
At what his beauship says, but what he wears; }
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. }
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author[410] hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise; }
For, though the immortal species never dies, }
Yet every year new maggots make new flies. }
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 410: Young Dryden was then in Rome with his brother Charles,
who was gentleman-usher to the Pope. ]
MAC-FLECNOE,
A SATIRE
AGAINST
THOMAS SHADWELL.
MAC-FLECNOE.
The enmity between Dryden and Shadwell at first probably only sprung
from some of those temporary causes of disgust, which must frequently
divide persons whose lives are spent in a competition for public
applause. That they were occasionally upon tolerable terms is certain,
for Dryden has told us so; and Shadwell, in 1676, when expressing
his dissent from one of our author's rules of theatrical criticism,
industriously and anxiously qualifies his opinion, with the highest
compliments to our author's genius. [411] They had formerly even
joined forces, and called in the aid of another wit, to overwhelm the
reputation of no less a person than Elkanah Settle. [412] But, between
the politics of the stage and of the nation, the friendship of these
bards, which probably never had a very solid foundation, was at length
totally overthrown. It is not very easy to discover who struck the
first blow; but it may be suspected, that Dryden was displeased to
see Shadwell not only dispute his canons of criticism in print, but
seem to establish himself as an imitator of the old school of dramatic
composition, and particularly of Jonson, on whom Dryden had thrown
some censure in his epilogue to "The Conquest of Grenada," and in the
Defence of these verses. It seems certain, that the feud had broke out
in 1675-6; for Shadwell has not only made some invidious allusions to
the success of "Aureng-Zebe," which was represented that season, but
has plainly intimated, that he needed only a pension to enable him to
write as well as Dryden himself. [413] This assault, however, seems to
have been forgiven; for Dryden obliged Shadwell with an epilogue to the
"True Widow," acted in 1678. But their precarious reconcilement did not
long subsist, when political animosity was added to literary rivalry.
Shadwell not only wrote the "Lancashire Witches," in ridicule of the
Tory party, but entered into a personal contest with our author on the
subject of "The Medal," which he answered by a clumsy, though venomous,
retort, called "The Medal of John Bayes. " In the preface he asserts,
that no one can think Dryden "hardly dealt with, since he knows, and
so do all his old acquaintance, that there is not one untrue word
spoke of him. " Neither was this a single offence; for Dryden, in his
"Vindication of the Duke of Guise," says, that Shadwell has repeatedly
called him Atheist in print. These reiterated insults at length drew
down the vengeance of our poet, who seems to have singled Shadwell
from the herd of those who had libelled him, to be gibbetted in rhyme
while the English language shall last. Neither was Dryden satisfied
with a single attack upon this obnoxious bard; but, having divided his
poetical character from that which he held as a political writer, he
discussed the first in the satire which follows, and the last, with
equal severity, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel. " These
two admirable pieces of satire appeared within less than a month of
each other; and leave it a matter of doubt, whether the bitter ridicule
of the anointed Prince of Dulness, or the sarcastic description of Og,
the seditious poetaster, be most cruelly severe.
"Mac-Flecnoe" must be allowed to be one of the keenest satires in the
English language. It is what Dryden has elsewhere termed a Varronian
satire;[414] that is, as he seems to use the phrase, one in which the
author is not contented with general sarcasm upon the object of attack,
but where he has woven his piece into a sort of imaginary story, or
scene, in which he introduces the person, whom he ridicules, as a
principal actor. The position in which Dryden has placed Shadwell is
the most mortifying to literary vanity which can possibly be imagined,
and is hardly excelled by the device of Pope in the "Dunciad," who
has obviously followed the steps of his predecessor. Flecnoe, who
seems to have been universally acknowledged as the very lowest of
all poetasters, and whose name had passed into a proverb for doggrel
verse and stupid prose, is represented as devolving upon Shadwell that
pre-eminence over the realms of Dulness, which he had himself possessed
without a rival. The spot chosen for this devolution of empire is
the Barbican, an obscure suburb, in which it would seem that there
were temporary theatrical representations of the lowest order, among
other receptacles of vulgar dissipation, for the amusement of the very
lowest of the vulgar. Here the ceremony of Shadwell's coronation is
supposed to be performed with an inaugural oration by Flecnoe, his
predecessor, in which all his pretensions to wit and to literary fame
are sarcastically enumerated and confuted, by a counter-statement of
his claims to distinction by pre-eminent and unrivalled stupidity. In
this satire, the shafts of the poet are directed with an aim acutely
malignant. The inference drawn concerning Shadwell's talents is
general and absolute; but in the proof, Dryden appeals with triumph
to those parts only of his literary character which are obviously
vulnerable. He reckons up among his titles to the throne of Flecnoe,
his desperate and unsuccessful attempts at lyrical composition, in
the opera of "Psyche;" the clumsy and coarse limning of those whom
he designed to figure as fine gentlemen in his comedies; the false
and florid taste of his dedications; his presumptuous imitation of
Jonson in composition, and his absurd resemblance to him in person.
But the satirist industriously keeps out of view those points, in
which perhaps he internally felt some inferiority to the object of
his wrath. He mentions nothing that could recal to the reader's
recollection that insight into human life, that acquaintance with the
foibles and absurdities displayed in individual pursuits, that bold
though coarse delineation of character, which gave fame to Shadwell's
comedies in the last century, and renders them amusing even at the
present day. This discrimination is an excellent proof of the exquisite
address with which Dryden wielded the satirical weapon, and managed
the feelings of his readers. We never find him attempting a desperate
or impossible task; at least in a way which seems, in the moment of
perusal, desperate or impossible. He never wastes his powder against
the impregnable part of a fortress, but directs all his battery
against some weaker spot, where a breach may be rendered practicable.
In short, by convincing his reader that he is right in the examples
which he quotes, he puts the question at issue upon the ground most
disadvantageous for his antagonist, and renders it very difficult for
one who has been proved a dunce in one instance to establish his credit
in any other.
I have had so frequently to call the attention of my reader to the
sonorous and emphatic effect of Dryden's versification, that it is
almost ridiculous to repeat epithets which apply to every poem which
succeeded his _Annus Mirabilis_; yet I cannot but remark, that the mock
heroic may be said to have owed its rise to our author, and that there
is hardly any poem, before "Mac-Flecnoe," in which it has been employed
with all its qualities of grave and pompous irony, expressed in solemn
and sounding verse.
It is no inconsiderable part of the merit of "Mac-Flecnoe," that it
led the way to the "Dunciad:" yet, while we acknowledge the more
copious and variegated flow of Pope's satire, we must not forget,
that, independent of the merit of originality, always inestimable,
Dryden's poem claims that of a close and more compact fable, of a
single and undisturbed aim. Pope's ridicule and sarcasm is scattered
so wide, and among such a number of authors, that it resembles small
shot discharged at random among a crowd; while that of Dryden, like a
single well-directed bullet, prostrates the individual object against
whom it was directed. Besides, the reader is apt to sympathise with
the degree of the satirist's provocation, which, in Dryden's case,
cannot be disputed; whereas Pope sometimes confounds those, from whom
he had received gross incivility, with others who had given him no
offence, and with some whose characters were above his accusation. To
posterity, the "Mac-Flecnoe" possesses a decided superiority over the
"Dunciad," for a very few facts make us master of the argument; while
that of the latter poem, excepting the Sixth Book, where the satire is
more general, requires a note at every tenth line to render it even
intelligible.
Mr Malone has given us the title of the first edition of "Mac-Flecnoe,"
which the present Editor has never seen, as indeed it is of the last
degree of rarity. It was published not by Tonson, but by D. Green, and
entitled, "Mac-Flecnoe, or a Satire on the True-blue[415] Protestant
Poet, T. S. ; by the Author of Absalom and Achitophel. " It consisted
only of one sheet and a half, and was sold for twopence. The satire
was too personal, and too poignant, to fail in attracting immediate
attention, and accordingly the poem was quickly sold off. It was not
republished until it appeared in Tonson's first Miscellany, in 1684,
with a few slight alterations, intended either to point particular
verses, or to correct errors of the press, or pen. It must have been
generally known, that Dryden was the author of this satire, both
because it is stated in the title-page to be by the author of "Absalom
and Achitophel," and because there existed no contemporary poet to whom
so masterly a production could have been ascribed, even with remote
probability; yet Shadwell, in his dedication of the tenth satire of
Juvenal, (a most miserable performance,) says, that Dryden, when he
taxed him with being the author, "denied it with all the execrations
he could think of;" an accusation which was echoed by Brown, though
apparently upon the authority of Shadwell alone. [416] From this
averment, which is probably made far too broadly, we can only infer,
that Dryden, like Swift in the same predicament, left his adversary
to prove what he had no title to call upon him to confess; for that
he seriously meant to disavow a performance, of which he had from the
very beginning sufficiently avouched himself the author, can hardly
be supposed for a moment. It has indeed been noticed, that our author
has omitted this poem, as well as the "Eulogy on Cromwell," in a list
of his plays and poems subjoined to one of his plays; but Dryden might
not think fit to admit a personal, and what he probably considered
as a fugitive satire, into a formal list of his poetry. We know he
entertained a conscious sense of his dignity in this respect; for,
excepting in a slight and passing sarcasm, he never deigned to answer
any of his literary adversaries, excepting Settle and Shadwell; and he
might possibly think, on reflection, that he had done the latter too
much honour in making him the subject of a separate and laboured poem.
Mr Malone also conceives, that he might be with-held from inserting
this poem in an authoritative list of his works, by delicacy towards
Dorset, his recent benefactor, who had thought Shadwell worthy of the
laurel of which our poet had been divested at the Revolution. Be it
as it may, he was afterwards so far from disowning the poem, that, in
the Essay on Satire, he gives it, with "Absalom and Achitophel," as
instances of his own attempts at the Varronian satire.
The purpose and scope of "Mac-Flecnoe" was strangely misconstrued by
the object of it, and by our poet's editors. Shadwell took it into his
head, that Dryden meant seriously to tax him with being an Irishman;
a charge which he seems more anxious to refute than seems necessary.
Cibber, or whoever wrote Dryden's Life in the collection bearing his
name, supposes, that Flecnoe, who died in 1678, had actually succeeded
our author in the office of poet-laureat. Derrick, though he corrects
this error, has fallen into another, in which he is followed by Dr
Johnson, who considers "Mac-Flecnoe" as written in express ridicule
of Shadwell's inauguration as court poet. The scarcity of the first
edition of "Mac-Flecnoe" might have been some excuse for these errors,
had not the piece been printed in the first Miscellany, in 1684, four
years before Dryden's being deposed, and Shadwell succeeding him.
Certainly the two events tallied strangely; and the friends of Shadwell
might have considered the substantial office which he gained by the
downfall of Dryden, as a just compensation for the ludicrous and mock
dignity with which his foe had invested him.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 411: See the whole passage, Vol. VII. p. 141. note. ]
[Footnote 412: See the Remarks on the Empress of Morocco, written in
conjunction by Dryden, Crown, and Shadwell. They were printed in 1674. ]
[Footnote 413: These circumstances of offence occur in the prologue,
epilogue, and preface to the "Virtuoso," which must have been acted in
the same season with "Aureng-Zebe," as the dedication is dated 26th
June, 1676. The prologue commences with an irreverend allusion to that
play, and to our author's theatrical engagements:
You came with such an eager appetite
To a late play, which gave so great delight,
Our poet fears, that by so rich a treat
Your palates are become too delicate.
Yet since you've had rhyme for a relishing bit,
To give a better taste to comic wit;
But this requires expence of time and pains,
Too great, alas! for poets' slender gains.
For wit, like china, should long buried lie,
Before it ripens to good comedy;
A thing we ne'er have seen since Jonson's days,
And but a few of his were perfect plays.
Now drudges of the stage must oft appear,
They must be bound to scribble twice a year.
That these insinuations might not be mistaken, Shadwell, in the
epilogue, severely attacks rhyming tragedies in general; the object of
which diatribe, considering the late success of "Aureng-Zebe," could
not possibly be misinterpreted:
But of those ladies he despairs to-day,
Who love a dull romantic whining play;
Where poor frail woman's made a deity, }
With senseless amorous idolatry, }
And snivelling heroes sigh, and pine, and cry. }
Though singly they beat armies, and huff kings,
Rant at the gods, and do impossible things;
Though they can laugh at danger, blood, and wounds,
Yet if the dame once chides, the milk-sop hero swoons.
These doughty things nor manners have nor wit;
We ne'er saw hero fit to drink with yet.
The passage in the Dedication, in which he insinuates that the
provision of a pension was all he wanted, to place him on a level with
the proudest of his rivals, is as follows: "That there are a great many
faults in the conduct of this play, I am not ignorant; but I (having
no pension but from the theatre, which is either unwilling, or unable,
to reward a man sufficiently for so much pains as correct comedies
require) cannot allot my whole time to the writing of plays, but am
forced to mind some other business of advantage. Had I as much money,
and as much time for it, I might perhaps write as correct a comedy as
any of my contemporaries. "]
[Footnote 414: See Essay on Satire, Vol. XIII. p. 65. ]
[Footnote 415: This epithet preceded the nickname of Whig. See Vol. IX.
p. 211. ]
[Footnote 416: "I make bold to use his own expression in "Mac-Flecnoe,"
if it is _his_, I say, for Mr Shadwell, in the preface before his
Translation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal, has been lately pleased to
acquaint the world, that he publicly disowned the writing it with as
solemn imprecations as his friend the Spanish Friar did the Cavalier
Lorenzo. "--_Reasons_, &c. ]
MAC-FLECKNOE.
All human things are subject to decay,
And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found,[417] who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owned, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state;
And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried,--'Tis resolved! for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years;[418]
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he,
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense;
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems designed for thoughtless majesty;
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley[419] were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology!
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,[420] came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute,--the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I sung,--
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,[421]
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,--
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. [422]
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. [423]
At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore,
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar;
Echoes, from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'st thy papers in thy threshing hand;
St André's[424] feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel;[425]
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton[426] forswore }
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, }
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more. --}
Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,[427])
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains;
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys;
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturbed by watch, in silence sleep. [428]
Near these a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry;}
Where infant punks their tender voices try, }
And little Maximins the gods defy. }
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin[429] just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanished minds;
Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords,
And Panton[430] waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker[431] prophesied long since, }
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,}
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; }
To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists, and Hypocrites, it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. [432]
Now empress Fame had published the renown
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
