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 Ruth 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 shortly Scenes in Lapland will be laid:
Art Magick is for Poetry profeft,

And Cats and Dogs, and each obscener Beaft
To which Ægyptian 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 Johnson 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.

Pran bend, and to divert their Sov'reign's Mind;
Oets, your Subjects, have their Parts affign'd
When tir'd with following Nature, you think fit
To feek repose in the cool Shades of Wit,

And from the fweet 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,

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As once the Sphere of Chrystal, fhew'd the Great :
Bleft fure are you above all Mortal kind,
If to your Fortunes you can fuit your Mind. A
Content to fee, and fhun, thofe Ills we show,dley
And Crimes, on Theatres alone, to know:)ZATIA
With joy we bring what our dead Authors writ, TRAY
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 thun 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 so kind, that we may boaft,
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 Praise from you they would afpire Though they like Eagles mount, your Jove is higher. So far your Knowledge, all their Pow'r transcends, As what should be, beyond what Is, extends.

EPILOGUE Spoken at Oxford, by Mrs. MARSHALL.

Written by Mr. Dryden.

FT has our Poet wifht, this happy Seat
Might prove his fading Mufe's laft Retreat :

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

He fought for quiet, and content of Mind;
Which noifeful Towns, and Courts can never know,
And only in the shades 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 poffefs,

Teaching ev'n you, (while the vext World we show,)
Your Peace to value more, and better know?
'Tis all we can return for favours past,
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 fcarcely 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 Hospitality there rests.
In yours, as dwelt in the first Grecian Breasts,
Whofe 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.
Converfe fo chaft, and fo ftri& Virtue shown,
As might Apollo with the Mufes own.
Till our return we must defpair to find
Judges fo juft, fo knowing, and fo kind,

}

Prologue to the University of Oxford.

Ifcord, and Plots, which have undone our Age,

Our House has fuffer'd in the common Woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch Rebels too;
Our Brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,
And of our Sifters, all the kinder-hearted,
To Edenborough gone, or Coacht, or Carted.
With Bonny Blewcap there they act all Night
For Scotch half Crown, in English Three-pence hight.
One Nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean,
There with her fingle Perfon fills the Scene.
Another, with long use, and Age decay'd,
Div'd here old Woman, and rose there a Maid,"
Our Trufty Door-keepers of former time,
There strut and swagger in Heroick Rhime:
Tack but a Copper-lace to Drugget Suit,
And there's a Heroe made without difpute.
And that which was a Capon's Tail before,
Becomes a Plume for Indian Emperor.
But all his Subjects, to exprefs the Care
Of Imitation, go, like Indians, bare;
Lac'd Linnen there would be a dangerous thing,
It might perhaps a new Rebellion bring;
The Scot who wore it, wou'd be chofen King.
But why fhou'd I thefe Renegades defcribe,
When you your felves have feen a lewder Tribe.
Teague has been here, and to this learned Pit,
With Irish Action flander'd English Wit.
You have beheld fuch barb'rons Mac's appear,
As merited a fecond Maffacre.

}

Such as like Cain were branded with difgrace, And had their Country ftampt upon their Face : When Stroulers durft prefume to pick your Purse, We humbly thought our broken Troop not worse, How ill foe'er our Action may deserve,

Oxford's a Place, where Wit can never ftarve,

Prologue to the University of Oxford.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

HO' Actors cannot much of Learning boast,

The cannot much

We love the Praises of a learned Pit,

As we remotely are ally'd to Wit.

We speak our Poets Wit, and Trade in Ore,
Like thofe who touch upon the Golden Shore:
Betwixt our Judges can diftinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our Poems take.
Mark if the Fools, or Men of Senfe, rejoice,
Whether th' Applause be only Sound or Voice.
When our Fop Gallants, or our City Folly
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:
We doubt that Scene which does their wonder raife,
And, for their Ignorance contemn their Praise.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
Shou'd not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofly, but this nicer Pit
Examines, fathoms all the Depths of Wit:
The ready Finger lays on every Blot,

Knows what fhou'd justly please, and what shou'd not. Nature her felf lyes open to your view,

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You judge by her what draught of her is true,
Where out-lines Falfe, and Colours feem too faint,
Where Bunglers dawb, and where true Poets Paint. ›
But by the facred Genius of this Place,
By every Mufe, by each Domestick Grace,
Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, prefumes not to excel.
Our Poets hither for Adoption come,
As Nations fu'd to be made free of Rome.
Not in the fuffragating Tribes to ftand,
But in your utmoft, laft, provincial Band.