But you, my friend, your worth does safely bear Above their spleen; you have no cause for fear;Like a well-mettled hawk, you took your flight Quite out of reach, and almost out of sight.
As the strong sun, in a fair summer's day, You rise, and drive the mists and clouds away, The owls and bats, and all the birds of prey.
Each line of yours, like polished steel's so hard, In beauty safe, it wants no other guard.
Nature herself's beholden to your dress, Which though still like, much fairer you express.
Some vainly striving honour to obtain, Leave to their heirs the traffic of their brain:
Like China under ground, the ripening ware, In a long time, perhaps grows worth our care.
But you now reap the fame, so well you've sown;The planter tastes his fruit to ripeness grown.
As a fair orange-tree at once is seen Big with what's ripe, yet springing still with green, So at one time, my worthy friend appears, With all the sap of youth, and weight of years.
Accept my pious love, as forward zeal, Which though it ruins me I can't conceal:
Exposed to censure for my weak applause, I'm pleased to suffer in so just a cause;And though my offering may unworthy prove, Take, as a friend, the wishes of my love.
J.MARSH.
To Mr.Congreve, on his play called The Old Bachelor.
Wit, like true gold, refined from all allay, Immortal is, and never can decay:
'Tis in all times and languages the same, Nor can an ill translation quench the flame:
For, though the form and fashion don't remain, The intrinsic value still it will retain.
Then let each studied scene be writ with art, And judgment sweat to form the laboured part.
Each character be just, and nature seem:
Without th' ingredient, wit, 'tis all but phlegm:
For that's the soul, which all the mass must move, And wake our passions into grief or love.
But you, too bounteous, sow your wit so thick, We are surprised, and know not where to pick;And while with clapping we are just to you, Ourselves we injure, and lose something new.
What mayn't we then, great youth, of thee presage, Whose art and wit so much transcend thy age?
How wilt thou shine at thy meridian height, Who, at thy rising, giv'st so vast a light?
When Dryden dying shall the world deceive, Whom we immortal, as his works, believe, Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the stage, Adorn and entertain the coming age.
BEVIL.HIGGONS.
PROLOGUE INTENDED FOR THE OLD BACHELOR.
Written by the Lord Falkland.
Most authors on the stage at first appear Like widows' bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear:
They judge, from the experience of the dame, How hard a task it is to quench her flame;And who falls short of furnishing a course Up to his brawny predecessor's force, With utmost rage from her embraces thrown, Remains convicted as an empty drone.
Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner Proves in the end a miserable sinner.
As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him, With all the vigour of his youth about him;But he, more sanguine, trusts in one and twenty, And impudently hopes he shall content you:
For though his bachelor be worn and cold, He thinks the young may club to help the old, And what alone can be achieved by neither, Is often brought about by both together.
The briskest of you all have felt alarms, Finding the fair one prostitute her charms With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms:
But for our spark, he swears he'll ne'er be jealous Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows.
Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave, After his bragging, prove a washy knave, May he be banished to some lonely den And never more have leave to dip his pen.
But if he be the champion he pretends, Both sexes sure will join to be his friends, For all agree, where all can have their ends.
And you must own him for a man of might, If he holds out to please you the third night.
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs.Bracegirdle.
How this vile world is changed! In former days Prologues were serious speeches before plays, Grave, solemn things, as graces are to feasts, Where poets begged a blessing from their guests.
But now no more like suppliants we come;
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum.
Armed with keen satire and with pointed wit, We threaten you who do for judges sit, To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit.
But for your comfort, it falls out to-day, We've a young author and his first-born play;So, standing only on his good behaviour, He's very civil, and entreats your favour.
Not but the man has malice, would he show it, But on my conscience he's a bashful poet;You think that strange--no matter, he'll outgrow it.
Well, I'm his advocate: by me he prays you (I don't know whether I shall speak to please you), He prays--O bless me! what shall I do now?
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how!
And 'twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it!
Well, the deuce take me, if I han't forgot it.
O Lord, for heav'n's sake excuse the play, Because, you know, if it be damned to-day, I shall be hanged for wanting what to say.
For my sake then--but I'm in such confusion, I cannot stay to hear your resolution.[Runs off]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
MEN.
HEARTWELL, a surly old bachelor, pretending to slight women, secretly in love with Silvia--Mr.Betterton.
BELLMOUR, in love with Belinda--Mr.Powell VAINLOVE, capricious in his love; in love with Araminta--Mr.
Williams SHARPER--Mr.Verbruggen SIR JOSEPH WITTOL--Mr.Bowen CAPTAIN BLUFFE--Mr.Haines.
FONDLEWIFE, a banker--Mr.Dogget SETTER, a pimp--Mr Underhill SERVANT to Fondlewife.
WOMEN.
ARAMINTA, in love with Vainlove--Mrs.Bracegirdle BELINDA, her cousin, an affected lady, in love with Bellmour--Mrs.
Mountfort LAETITIA, wife to Fondlewife--Mrs.Barry SYLVIA, Vainlove's forsaken mistress--Mrs.Bowman LUCY, her maid--Mrs.Leigh BETTYBOY and FOOTMEN.
SCENE: London.
