The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume Ii Part 20

II.

PROLOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

As the music plays a soft air, the curtain rises slowly and discovers an Indian boy and girl sleeping under two plantain-trees; and, when the curtain is almost up, the music turns into a tune expressing an alarm, at which the boy awakes, and speaks:

BOY. Wake, wake, Quevira! our soft rest must cease, And fly together with our country's peace!

No more must we sleep under plantain shade, Which neither heat could pierce, nor cold invade; Where bounteous nature never feels decay, And opening buds drive falling fruits away.

QUE. Why should men quarrel here, where all possess As much as they can hope for by success?-- None can have most, where nature is so kind, As to exceed man's use, though not his mind. 10

BOY. By ancient prophecies we have been told, Our world shall be subdued by one more old;-- And, see, that world already's. .h.i.ther come.

QUE. If these be they, we welcome then our doom!

Their loots are such, that mercy flows from thence, More gentle than our native innocence.

BOY. Why should we then fear these, our enemies, That rather seem to us like deities?

QUE. By their protection, let us beg to live; They came not here to conquer, but forgive. 20 If so, your goodness may your power express, And we shall judge both best by our success.

III.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.

You see what s.h.i.+fts we are enforced to try, To help out wit with some variety; Shows may be found that never yet were seen, 'Tis hard to find such wit as ne'er has been: You have seen all that this old world can do, We therefore try the fortune of the new, And hope it is below your aim to hit At untaught nature with your practised wit: Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear, Would as soon choose to have the Spaniards here. 10 'Tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show, The poet's scenes, nay, more, the painter's too; If all this fail, considering the cost, 'Tis a true voyage to the Indies lost: But if you smile on all, then these designs, Like the imperfect treasure of our minds, Will pa.s.s for current wheresoe'er they go, When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.

IV.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN EMPEROR,

BY A MERCURY.

To all and singular in this full meeting, Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends ye greeting.

To all his sons, by whate'er t.i.tle known, Whether of court, or coffee-house, or town; From his most mighty sons, whose confidence Is placed in lofty sound, and humble sense, Even to his little infants of the time, Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme Be 't known, that Phoebus (being daily grieved To see good plays condemn'd, and bad received) 10 Ordains your judgment upon every cause, Henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws.

He first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance His censure farther than the song or dance, Your wit burlesque may one step higher climb, And in his sphere may judge all doggrel rhyme; All proves, and moves, and loves, and honours too; All that appears high sense, and scarce is low.

As for the coffee wits, he says not much; Their proper business is to d.a.m.n the Dutch: 20 For the great dons of wit-- Phoebus gives them full privilege alone, To d.a.m.n all others, and cry up their own.

Last, for the ladies, 'tis Apollo's will, They should have power to save, but not to kill: For love and he long since have thought it fit, Wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit.

V.

PROLOGUE TO SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL.

Fools, which each man meets in his dish each day, Are yet the great regalios of a play; In which to poets you but just appear, To prize that highest, which cost them so dear: Fops in the town more easily will pa.s.s; One story makes a statutable a.s.s: But such in plays must be much thicker sown, Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.

Observing poets all their walks invade, As men watch woodc.o.c.ks gliding through a glade: And when they have enough for comedy, They stow their several bodies in a pie: The poet's but the cook to fas.h.i.+on it, For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit.

To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong; None welcome those who bring their cheer along.

VI.

PROLOGUE TO THE TEMPEST.

As when a tree's cut down, the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot; So from old Shakspeare's honour'd dust, this day Springs up and buds a new reviving play: Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.

He, monarch like, gave those, his subjects, law; And is that nature which they paint and draw.

Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow, While Jonson crept, and gather'd all below. 10 This did his love, and this his mirth digest: One imitates him most, the other best.

If they have since outwrit all other men, 'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare's pen.

The storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring sh.o.r.e, Was taught by Shakspeare's Tempest first to roar.

That innocence and beauty, which did smile In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle.

But Shakspeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he. 20 I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now That liberty to vulgar wits allow, Which works by magic supernatural things: But Shakspeare's power is sacred as a king's.

Those legends from old priesthood were received, And he then writ, as people then believed.

But if for Shakspeare we your grace implore, We for our theatre shall want it more: Who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ One of our women to present a boy; 30 And that's a transformation, you will say, Exceeding all the magic in the play.

Let none expect in the last act to find, Her s.e.x transform'd from man to womankind.

Whate'er she was before the play began, All you shall see of her is perfect man.

Or, if your fancy will be further led To find her woman--it must be a-bed.

VII.

PROLOGUE TO TYRANNIC LOVE.

Self-love, which, never rightly understood, Makes poets still conclude their plays are good, And malice in all critics reigns so high, That for small errors, they whole plays decry; So that to see this fondness, and that spite, You'd think that none but madmen judge or write, Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit To impose upon you what he writes for wit; So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free, You equal judges of the whole will be: 10 They judge but half, who only faults will see.

Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare, They spoil their business with an over care; And he, who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.

Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring, Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing.

But when a tyrant for his theme he had, He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad: And though he stumbles in a full career, 20 Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.