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If his Ambition may those Hopes pursue,
Who with Religion loves your Arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer Name shall be,
Than his own Mother University.

Thebes did his green, unknowing Youth ingage,
He chufes Athens in his riper Age.

The PROLOGUE at Oxford, 1680.

By Mr. DRYDEN,

Hefpis, the firft Profeffor of our Art,

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To prove this true, if Larin be no Trespass,
Dicitur & Plauftris, vexisse Poemata Thefpis.
But Afchylus, fays Horace in fome Page,
Was the firft Mountebank that trod the Stage: H
Yet Athens never knew your learned Sport, a
Of toffing Foets in a Tennis-Court;
But 'tis the Talent of our English Nation,
Still to be plotting fome new Reformation:
And few Years hence, if Anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter fhall here erect his Throne.
Knock out a Tub with Freaching once a Day,
And every Prayer be longer than a Play.
Then all you Heathen Wits fhall go to pot,
For disbelieving of a Popish-plot :
Your Poets fhall be us'd like Infidels,

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And worft the Author of the Oxford Bells

Nor fhould we fcape the Sentence, to depart,
Ev'n in our firft Original, a Cart.

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No Zealous Brother there wou'd want a Stone, M
To maul us Cardinals, and pelt Pope Joan:
Religion, Learning, Wit, wou'd be supprest,
Rags of the Whore, and Trappings of the Beast:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief Supporters of the Triple Crown;

And Ariftotle's for destruction ripe,
Some fay he call'd the Soul an Organ-pipe,
Which by fome little help of Derivation,
Shall then be prov'd a Pipe of Inspiration.

The Prologue to ALBUMAZAR. Written by Mr. Dryden.

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O fay this Comedy pleas'd long ago,

Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, Gentlemen, your Ancestors had wit;
When few Men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Johnson (of those few the best) chose this
As the beft Model of his Mafter-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,

That Alchymift by this Aftrologer;

Here he was fafhion'd, and we may fuppofe,
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the Cloaths,
But Ben made nobly his, what he did Mould,
What was another's Lead, becomes his Gold:
Like an unrighteous Conqueror he Reigns,
Yet Rules that well, which he unjustly Gains.'
But this our Age fuch Authors does afford,
As make whole Plays, and yet scarce write one word f
Who in this Anarchy of Wit, rob all;

And what's their Plunder, their Poffeffion call.
Who, like bold Padders, fcorn by Night to prey,
But rob by Sun-fhine, in the Face of Day.
Nay fcarce the common Ceremony use,
Of Stand Sir, and deliver up your Mufe;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,
Mount Pegafus before the Owner's Face.
Faith, if you have fuch Country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true Men to leave that Road,
Yet it were modeft, could it but be faid
They trip the Living, but these rob the Dead;

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Dare with the Mummies of the Mufes play,
And make Love to them the Ægyptian way :
Or as a Rhiming Author would have faid,
Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead,
Such Men in Poetry may claim fome Part,
They have the Licenfe, tho' they want the Art.
And might, where Theft was prais'd, for Laureats
Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand.
They make the Benefits of others ftudying,
Much like the Meals of Politick Jack-Pudding,
Whose diff to challenge, no Man has the Courage,
'Tis all his own when once h'has fpit i'th' Porridge,
But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this,
You are in fault for what they do amifs.
For they their Thefts ftill undiscover'd think,
And durft not fteal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your Decree,
They thou'd refund, but that can never be.
For fhould you Letters of Reprifal seal,
Thefe Men write that which no Man elfe would fteal.

Prologue to A VIRAGUS Reviv'd:

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Spoken by Mr. HART.

Written by Mr. DRYDEN.

ITH fickly A&tors and an old House too,
We're match'd with glorious Theatres and

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new, And with our Ale-houfe Scenes, and Cloaths bare Can neither raife old Plays, nor new adorn. If all thefe Ills could not undo us quite, A brisk French Troop is grown your dear delight. Who with broad bloody Bills call you each day, To laugh and break your Buttons at their Play,

Or fee fome serious Piece, which we presume
Is fall'n from fome incomparable Plume;
And therefore, Meffieurs, if you'll do us Grace,
Send Lacquies early to preserve your Place.
We dare not on your Privilege intrench,
Or ask you why you like 'em! they are French.
Therefore fome go with Courtefie exceeding,
Neither to hear nor fee, but show their Breeding,
Each Lady ftriving to out-laugh the reft;
To make it seem they understood the Jeft:
Their Countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English where to clap the Play:
Civil Igad: Our Hofpitable Land,

Bears all the Charge for them to understand:
Mean time we languifh, and neglected lye,
Like Wives, while you keep better Company;
And with for our own fakes, without a Satyr,
You'd lefs good Breeding,or had more good Nature,

Prologue fpoken the first Day of the King's Houfe Acting after the Fire. Writ by Mr. DRYDEN.

Shipwreck, ebare Beach they ftand

O fhipwreckt Paffengers escape to Land,

Dropping and cold, and their firft fear fcarce o'er,
Expecting Famine on a Defart Shore.

From that hard Climate we muft wait for Bread,
Whence ev'n the Natives, forc'd by hunger, fled,
Our Stage does human Chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen fo fadly true.
You are chang'd too, and your Pretence to fee,
Is but a Nobler Name for Charity.

Your own Provifions furnish out our Feafts,

While you the Founders make your felves the Guests,

Of all Mankind befide Fate had fome Care,
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare.

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'Tis left a Rent-Charge to the Brave and Fair.
You cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn,
Which blind unmanner'd Zealots make their scorn,
Who think that Fire a Judgment on the Stage,
Which spar'd not Temples in its furious Rage.
But as our new built City rifes higher,
So from old Theatres may new afpire,
Since Fate contrives Magnificence by Fire.
Our Great Metropolis does far furpafs
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:
Our Wit as far does Foreign Wit excel,
And, like a King, fhou'd in a Palace dwell.
But we with Golden Hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:
Your Prefence here (for which we humbly fue)
Will grace Old Theatres, and build up New.

PROLOGUE for the Women, when they Acted at the old Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields.

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Written by Mr. DRYDEN.

Ere none of you, Gallants, e'er driven fo hard, As when the poor kind Soul was under guard, And could not do't at home, in fome, By-street To take a Lodging, and in private meet ? Such is our Cafe, we can't appoint our Houfe, The Lovers old and wonted Rendezvouz: But hither to this trufty Nook remove, The worse the Lodging is, the more the Love. For much good Paftime, many a dear fweet hug Is ftol'n in Garrets on the humble Rugg

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