And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:
Thus thou, fometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool;
But fo his follies in thy posture sink,
The fenfelefs ideot seems at laft to think.
Good heav'n! that fots and knaves should be fo vain, To with their vile resemblance may remain! And ftand recorded, at their own request,
'To future days, a libel or a jest!
Elfe fhould we fee your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place:
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best,
With ev'ry various character exprest:
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view;
Lefs, and at diftance, an ignobler crew.
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main defign,
More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age fhall add the rest.
For Time fhall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add ev'ry grace, which Time alone can grant;
To future ages fhall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.
UNIVERSITY of OXFORD, 1674
OETS, your subjects, have their parts affign'd
T'unbend, and to divert their fov❜reign's mind:
When, tir'd with following nature, you think fit
To feek repofe in the cool fhades of wit,
And, from the sweet retreat, with joy furvey
What refts, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife,
You view the various turns of human life:
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know.
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere of crystal shew'd the great.
Bleft fure are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can fuit your mind;
Content to fee, and fhun, thofe ills we fhow,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
'That Shakespear's, Fletcher's, and great Johnson's claim May be renew'd from those who gave them fame. None of our living poets dare appear;
For Mufes fo fevere are worshipp'd here,
That, confcious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from facred places fly,
Rather than fee th' offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections, but our own ;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd ev'n to the level of their wit;
Difdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make:
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowledge all their pow'r tranfcends,
As what fhould be beyond what is extends.
PROLOGUE, fpoken at the opening of the
New House, March 26. 1674-
Plain built houfe, after fo long a stay,
Will fend you half unfatisfy'd away
When, fall'n from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is defign'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, fhining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded ftage will fcorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, difdain the chear.
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