PROLOGUE FOR MR. D'URFY'S PLAY. 107 He fcorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But 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 your debts to Greece and Rome were 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 reasons to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long,

And feen the death of much immortal fong. He says, 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.
Fame is at best an unperforming cheat;
But 'tis fubftantial happiness to eat.
Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.

* PROLOGUE

A

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 best are most severely fated ; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reafon men of fenfe 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 these graceless 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

PROLOGUE TO THE THREE HOURS, etc. 109

How fhall our author hopea gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not tranflate! It had been civil in these ticklish times To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes.

Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end;

But fpare old England, left you hurt a friend. any fool is by our fatire bit,

If

Let him hifs loud, to fhew you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as falefmen clothes; We take no meafure of your fops and beaus; But here all fizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in MonmouthStreet..

Gallants! look here; this fool's cap has

an air

Goodly and fmart, with ears of Iffachar.
Let no one fool engross it, or confine,
A common bleffing! now 'tis yours, now

mine.

But poets in all ages had the care
To keep this cap, for fuch as will, to wear.
Our author has it now, (for every wit
Of course refign'd it to the next that writ ;)
And thus upon the stage'tis fairly + thrown;
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.

Shews a cap with ears. + Flings down the cap, and exit.
*SANDY S's

OR, A

Proper New BALLAD

ΟΝ ΤΗΕ

New OVID's METAMORPHOSES,

As it was intended to be tranflated by Persons of Quality.

YE lords and commons, men of wit

And pleasure about town,

you

Read this, e're tranflate one bit
Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think verses sterling,

your

Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And fcribble in a berlin:

For not the desk with filver nails,
Nor bureau of expence,
Nor ftandish well japan'd, avails
To writing of good fenfe.

Hear how a ghoft in dead of night,
With faucer eyes of fire,

In woful wife did fore affright
A wit and courtly 'fquire.

Rare

Rare imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth!

Like puppy tame, that uses

To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the mufes.

Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was fo civil;
And fell his foul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glitt❜ring ftuds about;
Within the fame did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the sprite fo thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out
All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd moft duly,
This 'fquire he dropp'd his pen full foon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' fprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forfooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgel feek, or Carey.