We'll take no blundering verse, no fustian tumor,
No dribbling love, from this or that presumer;
No dull fat fool, shamm'd on the stage for humour.
For, faith, some of them such vile stuff have made,
As none but fools or Fairies ever play'd;
But 'twas, as shopmen say, to force a trade.
We 'ave given you tragedies all sense defying,
And singing men, in woful metre dying;
Thus 'tis when heavy lubbers will be flying.
All these disasters we will hope to weather;
We bring you none of our old lumber hither;
Whig poets and Whig sheriffs may hang together.
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;
Their Adam cozen'd 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 dipp'd for soul and body too ;
And when found out, excuse themselves, pox cant
them,
With Latin stuff, perjuria ridet amantum.
I'm not book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue,
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a rogue.
I'm sure I never heard that screech-owl hollow'd
In my poor ears, but separation follow’d.
How can such perjured villains e'er be savéd?
Achitophel's not half so false to David;
With vows and soft expressions to allure,
They stand, like foreman 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.
HEAVEN Save ye, Gallants, and this hopeful age! You're welcome to the downfall of the stage: The fools have labour'd long in their vocation; And vice (the manufacture of the nation) O'erstocks the Town so much, and thrives so well, That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not sell.
In vain our wares on theatres are shown,
When each has a plantation of his own.
His cause ne'er fails; for whatsoe'er he spends, There's still God's plenty for himself and friends. Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord! what a poll would there be raised from fools!
Meantime poor Wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made some French commodity.
Fools you will have, and raised at vast expense,
And yet, as soon as seen, they give offence.
Time was when none would cry, 'That oaf was me;'
But now you strive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no sooner are thrown down,
But there's a miss of more than half the Town:
Each one will challenge a child's part at least;
A sign the family is well increased.
Of foreign cattle there's no longer need,
When we're supplied so fast with English breed.
Well! flourish, Countrymen, drink, swear, and roar,
Let every free-born subject keep his whore,
And, wandering in the wilderness about,
At end of forty years not wear her out.
But when you see these pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a limb or single share;
For where the punk is common, he's a sot
Who needs will father what the parish got,
REVIVED BY LODOWICK CARLELL, ESQ.
WITH sickly actors, and an old house too,
We're match'd with glorious theatres and new;
And with our ale-house 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 lackeys 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 out-laugh 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, i'gad! our hospitable land
Bears all the charge, for them to understand;
Meantime we languish and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,
You'dless good breeding, or had more good nature.
BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
REVIVED BY DRYDEN. SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON.
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 expenses 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! e'en 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 vanquish'd rebels you return,
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.
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