Classic Poem

PROLOGUE

Fools , which each man meets in his dish each day,
Are yet the great regalios of a play;
In which to poets you but just appear,
To prize that highest which cost them so dear.
Fops in the town more easily will pass;
One story makes a statutable ass:
But such in plays must be much thicker sown,
Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.
Observing poets all their walks invade,
As men watch woodcocks gliding thro' a glade;
And when they have enough for comedy,
They stow their several bodies in a pie:
The poet's but the cook to fashion it,
For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit.
To bid you welcome would your bounty wrong;
None welcome those who bring their cheer along.

EPILOGUE

A S country vicars, when the sermon's done,
Run huddling to the benediction;
Well knowing, tho' the better sort may stay,
The vulgar rout will run unblest away:
So we, when once our play is done, make haste
With a short epilogue to close your taste.
In thus withdrawing we seem mannerly,
But when the curtain's down we peep and see
A jury of the wits who still stay late,
And in their club decree the poor play's fate:
Their verdict back is to the boxes brought;
Thence all the town pronounces it their thought.
Thus, gallants, we like Lilly can foresee;
But if you ask us what our doom will be,
We by to-morrow will our fortune cast,
As he tells all things when the year is past.

SONGS

I

I

M AKE ready, fair lady, to-night,
And stand at the door below;
For I will be there
To receive you with care,
And to your true love you shall go.
II

THE LADY'S ANSWER

And when the stars twinkle so bright,
Then down to the door will I creep;
To my love will I fly,
Ere the jealous can spy,
And leave my old daddy asleep.

II

I

B LIND love, to this hour,
Had never, like me, a slave under his power.
Then blest be the dart
That he threw at my heart,
For nothing can prove
A joy so great as to be wounded with love.

II

My days and my nights
Are fill'd to the purpose with sorrows and frights:
From my heart still I sigh,
And my eyes are ne'er dry;
So that, Cupid be prais'd,
I am to the top of love's happiness rais'd.

III

My soul's all on fire,
So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire:
Such a pretty soft pain
That it tickles each vein;
'Tis the dream of a smart,
Which makes me breathe short when it beats at my heart.

IV

Sometimes in a pet,
When I am despis'd, I my freedom would get;
But straight a sweet smile
Does my anger beguile,
And my heart does recall;
Then the more I do struggle, the lower I fall.

V

Heaven does not impart
Such a grace as to love unto ev'ry one's heart;
For many may wish
To be wounded, and miss:
Then blest be love's fire,
And more blest her eyes that first taught me desire.