Immortal in himself, we need not strive
To keep his facred Memory alive.

Juft, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Gen'rous, Kind;
The English he has, to the height-refin'd, [hind.
And the best Standard of it leaves (his Legacy) be-

PROLOGU E, to the University of Oxon, Spoken by Mr. Hart, at the Afting of the Silent Woman.

W

Written by Mr. Dryden.

[knew,

HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd, only
(Athenian Judges,) you this day renew.

Here too are Annual Rites to Pallas done,
And here Poctick Prizes loft or won.
Methinks I fee you, crown'd with Olives fit,
And ftrike a facred Horrour from the Pit.
A Day of Doom is this of your Decree,
Where even the Beft are but by Mercy free: [fee.
A Day which none but Johnson durft have wifh'd to
Here they who long have known the ufeful Stage,
Come to be taught themfelves to teach the Age.
As your Commiffioners our Poets go,

To cultivate the Virtue which you fow
In your Lyceum, first themfelves refin'd,
And delegated thence to Human-kind.
But as Embaffadors, when long from home,
For new Inftructions to their Princes come;
So Poets who your Precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and Faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your Manners they correct their own.
Th' illiterate Writer, Emperick like, applies
To Minds difeas'd, unfafe, chance Remedies:
The Learn'd in Schools, where Knowledge firft began,
Studies with Care th' Anatomy of Man;

Sees Virtue, Vice, and Paffions in their Caufe, And Fame from Science, not from Fortune draws, So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

An Art, in London only is a Trade.

There haughty Dunces, whofe unlearned Pen
Could ne'er spell Grammar, would be reading Men.
Such build their Poems the Lucretian way,
So many huddled Atoms make a Play;
And if they hit in Order by fome Chance,
They call that Nature, which is Ignorance.
To fuch a Fame let mere Town-Wits aspire,
And their gay Nonfenfe their own Citts admire.
Our Poet, could he find Forgiveness here
Would with it rather than a Plaudit there.
He owns no Crown from thofe Fratorian Bands,
But knows that Right is in the Senate's Hands.
Not impudent enough to hope your Praife,
Low at the Mufes Feet his Wreath he lays,
And where he took it up, refigns his Bays.
Kings make their Poets whom themfelves think fit,
But 'tis your Suffrage makes authentick Wit.

EPILOGUE, Spoken by the fame. Written by Mr. Dryden.

O poor Dutch Peafant, wing'd with all his Fear,

draw near,

Than we with our Poetick Train come down
For refuge hither, from th' infected Town;
Heaven for our Sins this Summer has thought fit
To vifit us with all the Plagues of Wit.

A French Troop firft fwept all things in its way,
But thofe hot Monfieurs were too quick to ftay;
Yet, to our Coft in that short time, we find
They left their Itch of Novelty behind.

Th' Italian Merry-Andrews took their place,
And quite debauch'd the Stage with lewd Grimace ;
Instead of Wit, and Humours, your Delight
Was there to fee two Hobby-horfes fight,
Stout Scaramoucha with Rush Lance rode in,
And ran a Tilt at Centaure Arlequin.

For Love you heard how amorous Affes bray'd,
And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade.
Nature was out of Countenance, and each Day
Some new-born Monster fhewn you for a Play.

But when all fail'd, to ftrike the Stage quite dumb,
Those wicked Engines call'd Machines are come.
Thunder and Lightning now for Wit are play'd,
And fhortly Scenes in Lapland will be laid:
Art Magick is for Poetry profeft,

And Cats and Dogs, and each obfcener Beaft
To which Egyptian Dotards once did bow,
Upon our English Stage are worship'd now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to Renown
Macbeth, and Simon Magus of the Town.
Fletcher's defpis'd, your Johnfon out of Fashion,
And Wit the only Drug in all the Nation.

In this low Ebb our Wares to you are shown,

By you thofe Staple Authors worth is known,
For Wit's a Manufacture of your own.

When you, who only can, their Scenes have prais'd,
We'll boldly back, and fay their Price is rais'd.

PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, 1674. Spoken by Mr. Hart.

Written by Mr. DRYDEN.

Poets, your Subjects, have their Parts affign'd

T'unbend, and to divert their Sov'reign's Mind: When tir'd with following Nature, you think fit To feek repofe in the cool Shades of Wit,

And from the sweet Retreat, with Joy furvey
What refts, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here free your felves, 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 Mechanick Operations wrought;
And Man the little World before you fet,
As once the Sphere of Chryftal, fhew'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. [Claim
That Shakespear's, Fletcher's, and great Johnson's
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living Poets dare appear,

For Mufes fo fevere are worshipt here;

That confcious of their Faults they fhun the Eye,.
And as Prophane, 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 fhown.
And you have been fo kind, that we may boast,
The greatest Judges ftill can pardon most.
Poets muft ftoop, when they would please our Pit,
Debas'd even to the Level of their Wit.

Difdaining that, which yet they know, will take,
Hating themselves, what their Applause must make:
But when to Praife from you they would afpire.
Though they like Eagles mount, your fove is higher.
So far your Knowledge, all their Pow'r transcends,
As what should be, beyond what Is, extends.

Written by Mr. Dryden.

FT has, our Poet wifht, this happy Seat
prove

I wonder'd at his Wifh, but now I find

retreat

He fought for quiet, and content of Mind;

Which noifeful Towns, and Courts can never know,
And only in the fhades like Laurels grow.

Youth, e'er it fees the World, here ftudies Reft,
And Age returning thence concludes it beft.
What wonder if we court that happiness
Yearly to fhare, which hourly you possess,
Teaching ev'n you, (while the vext World we show,)
Your Peace to value mdre, and better know?
'Tis all we can return for favours paft,
Whofe holy Memory fhall ever laft,

For Patronage from him whofe care prefides
O'er every noble Art, and every Science guides:
Bathurst, a name the learn'd with reverence know,
And scarcely more to his own Virgil owe.
Whofe Age enjoys but what his Youth deferv'd,
To rule thofe Mufes whom before he ferv'd:
His Learning, and untainted Manners too
We find (Athenians) are deriv'd to you;
Such ancient Hofpitality there refts

In yours, as dwelt in the firft Grecian Breafts,
whose kindness was Religion to their Guests.
Such Modefty did to our Sex appear,

As had there been no Laws, we need not fear,
Since each of you was our Protector here.
Converse fo chaft, and so ftri& Virtue fhown,
As might Apollo with the Mufes own.
Till our return we muft defpair to find
Judges fo juft, fo knowing, and fo kind,

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