Hiatus mi valde deflendus! From which, good Jupiter, defend us! He'd not be ferv'd fo like a beaft; And made up half a pope at least, For though without them both 'twas clear In the great name of Tom D'Urfy. They, They, tho' but standers-by, too mutter'd; That none had so much right to be Then Jove thus fpake: With care and pain } Were you all pleas'd, yet what, I pray, To foreign letters could I say? What if the Hebrew next fhou'd aim * A poet, who used to make yerfes ending with the laft fyllables of the names of thofe perfons he praised; which Voiture turn'd against him in a poem of the fame kind. And And all th' ambitious vowels vie, Then, well-belov'd and trusty letters! Et cat'ra therefore, we decree, * PROLOGUE Defign'd for Mr. D'URFY's last play. GRO ROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhaufted bard: Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives, and writes again. Th' advent'rous lover is fuccefsful ftill, Who ftrives to please the fair against her will: Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own defpite has ftrove to please ye. He PROLOGUE FOR MR. D'URFY's PLAY. 107 He fcorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, Eut ever writ, as none e'er writ before. You modern wits, fhou'd each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little wou'd be left you, I'm afraid, If all debts to Greece and Rome were your paid. From his deep fund our author largely draws, Nor finks his credit lower than it was. Tho' plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reafons- to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long, And feen the death of much immortal fong. He fays, poor poets loft, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone. Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comick Tom abounds in other treasure. PROLOGUE Α TO THE Three Hours after Marriage. UTHORS are judg'd by ftrange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet fure the beft are most severely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reafon men of fense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barb'rous civil war. Why on all authors then fhou'd criticks fall? Since fome have writ, and fhewn nowit at all. Condemna play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French "who made it." By running goods thefe gracelefs owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain: But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' fprightly ftrain, And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain. How |