Classic Poem

OR, LOVE IN A NUNNERY

PROLOGUE

Prologues , like bells to churches, toll you in
With chiming verse, till the dull plays begin:
With this sad difference, tho', of pit and pew,
You damn the poet, but the priest damns you.
But priests can treat you at your own expense,
And gravely call you fools, without offense.
Poets, poor devils, have ne'er your folly shown,
But, to their cost, you prov'd it was their own;
For, when a fop's presented on the stage,
Straight all the coxcombs in the town ingage:
For his deliverance and revenge they join,
And grunt, like hogs, about their captive swine.
Your poets daily split upon this shelf:
You must have fools, yet none will have himself;
Or, if in kindness you that leave would give,
No man could write you at that rate you live;
For some of you grow fops with so much haste,
Riot in nonsense, and commit such waste,
'T would ruin poets should they spend so fast.
He who made this, observ'd what farces hit,
And durst not disoblige you now with wit.
But, gentlemen, you overdo the mode;
You must have fools out of the common road.
Th' unnatural strain'd buffoon is only taking;
No fop can please you now of God's own making.
Pardon our poet, if he speaks his mind;
You come to plays with your own follies lin'd:
Small fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain;
Your own oil'd coats keep out all common rain.
You must have Mamamouchi, such a fop
As would appear a monster in a shop:
He'll fill your pit and boxes to the brim,
Where, ramm'd in crowds, you see yourselves in him.
Sure there's some spell our poet never knew,
In hullababilah da , and chu, chu, chu .
But marabarah sahem most did touch you;
That is: " O how we love the Mamamouchi! "
Grimace and habit sent you pleas'd away:
You damn'd the poet, and cried up the play.
This thought had made our author more uneasy,
But that he hopes I'm fool enough to please ye.
But here's my grief: tho' nature, join'd with art,
Have cut me out to act a fooling part,
Yet, to your praise, the few wits here will say,
'Twas imitating you taught Haynes to play.

EPILOGUE

S OME have expected from our bills to-day,
To find a satire in our poet's play.
The zealous rout from Coleman Street did run,
To see the story of the Friar and Nun;
Or tales, yet more ridiculous to hear,
Vouch'd by their vicar of ten pounds a year:
Of nuns who did against temptation pray,
And discipline laid on the pleasant way;
Or that, to please the malice of the town,
Our poet should in some close cell have shown
Some sister, playing at content alone.
This they did hope; the other side did fear;
And both you see alike are cozen'd here.
Some thought the title of our play to blame:
They lik'd the thing, but yet abhorr'd the name;
Like modest punks, who all you ask afford,
But, for the world, they would not name that word.
Yet, if you'll credit what I heard him say,
Our poet meant no scandal in his play;
His nuns are good, which on the stage are shown,
And, sure, behind our scenes you'll look for none.

SONG

I

L ONG betwixt love and fear Phyllis, tormented,
Shunn'd her own wish, yet at last she consented:
But, loth that day should her blushes discover,
" Come, gentle night, " she said,
" Come quickly to my aid,
And a poor shamefac'd maid
Hide from her lover.

II

" Now cold as ice I am, now hot as fire,
I dare not tell myself my own desire;
But let day fly away, and let night haste her:
Grant, ye kind powers above,
Slow hours to parting love,
But when to bliss we move,
Bid 'em fly faster.

III

" How sweet it is to love, when I discover
That fire which burns my heart, warming my lover!
'Tis pity love so true should be mistaken:
But, if this night he be
False or unkind to me,
Let me die, ere I see
That I'm forsaken."