Classic Poem

OR, TRUTH FOUND TOO LATE

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE
GHOST OF SHAKESPEARE

See , my lov'd Britons, see your Shakespeare rise,
An awful ghost confess'd to human eyes!
Unnam'd, methinks, distinguish'd I had been
From other shades, by this eternal green,
About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,
And with a touch their wither'd bays revive.
Untaught, unpractic'd, in a barbarous age,
I found not, but created first the stage;
And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store,
'T was that my own abundance gave me more.
On foreign trade I needed not rely,
Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.
In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold
Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold,
That he who meant to alter, found 'em such,
He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch.
Now, where are the successors to my name?
What bring they to fill out a poet's fame?
Weak, short-liv'd issues of a feeble age;
Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage!
For humor farce, for love they rhyme dispense,
That tolls the knell for their departed sense.
Dulness might thrive in any trade but this:
'T would recommend to some fat benefice.
Dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace,
Might meet with reverence in its proper place.
The fulsome clench, that nauseates the town,
Would from a judge or alderman go down,
Such virtue is there in a robe and gown!
And that insipid stuff which here you hate,
Might somewhere else be call'd a grave debate;
Dulness is decent in the Church and State.
But I forget that still 't is understood
Bad plays are best decried by showing good.
Sit silent then, that my pleas'd soul may see
A judging audience once, and worthy me;
My faithful scene from true records shall tell
How Trojan valor did the Greek excel;
Your great forefathers shall their fame regain,
And Homer's angry ghost repine in vain.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY THERSITES

T HESE cruel critics put me into passion,
For in their low'ring looks I read damnation:
Ye expect a satire, and I seldom fail;
When I'm first beaten, 't is my part to rail.
You British fools, of the old Trojan stock,
That stand so thick one cannot miss the flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit,
When women's cullies come to judge of wit.
As we strow ratsbane when we vermin fear,
'T were worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here;
And, after all our judging fops were serv'd,
Dull poets too should have a dose reserv'd;
Such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming,
Write on, and ne'er are satisfied with damning:
Next, those, to whom the stage does not belong,
Such whose vocation only is to song;
At most to prologue, when, for want of time,
Poets take in for journeywork in rhyme.
But I want curses for those mighty shoals
Of scribbling Chloris's and Phyllis' fools:
Those oafs should be restrain'd, during their lives.
From pen and ink, as madmen are from knives.
I could rail on, but 't were a task as vain
As preaching truth at Rome, or wit in Spain:
Yet to huff out our play was worth my trying;
John Lilburne scap'd his judges by defying:
If guilty, yet I'm sure o' th' Church's blessing,
By suffering for the plot, without confessing.