Th' are i' the right, for I dare boldly say, The English stage ne'er had so new a play; The dress, the author, and the scenes are new. This ye have seen before ye'll say; 'tis true; But tell me, gentlemen, who ever saw A deep intrigue confin'd to five hours' law? Such as for close contrivance yields to none: A modest man may praise what's not his own. 'Tis true, the dress is his, which he submits To those who are, and those who would be wits; Ne'er spare him, gentlemen; for to speak truth, He has a per'lous cens'rer been in's youth; And now grown bald with age, doating on praise, He thinks to get a periwig of bays. Teach him what 'tis, in this discerning age, To bring his heavy genius on the stage; Where you have seen such nimble wits appear, That pass'd so soon, one scarce could say th'were here. Yet, after our discoveries of late Of their designs, who would subvert the state, You'll wonder much, if it should prove his lot To take all England with a Spanish plot; But if, through his ill conduct or hard fate, This foreign plot (like that of eighty-eight) Should suffer shipwreck in your narrow seas, You'll give your modern poet his writ of ease; For, by th' example of the King of Spain, He resolves ne'er to trouble you again. THE PROLOGUE AT COURT. HE ADDRESSES HIMSELF TO THE PIT. [Sidenote: This refers to the author's purpose of retirement, at that time when his Majesty recommended this plot to him.] As to a dying lamp one drop of oil Gives a new blaze, and makes it live awhile; So th' author, seeing his decaying light, And therefore thinking to retire from sight, Was hindered by a ray from the upper sphere, Just at that time he thought to disappear. He chanced to hear his Majesty once say, He lik'd this plot; he stay'd, and writ the play: So should obsequious subjects catch the minds Of princes, as your seamen do the winds. If this attempt then shows more zeal than light, 'T may teach you to obey, though not to write. [Sidenote: He looking up, and seeing the King, starts. He kneels. He rises.] Ah! he is there himself. Pardon my sight, My eyes were dazzled with excess of light; Even so the sun, who all things else displays, Is hid from us i' the glory of his rays. Will you vouchsafe your presence? You, that were given To be our Atlas, and support our heaven? Will you, dread sir, your precious moments lose To grace the first endeavours of our muse? This with your character most aptly suits, Even heaven itself is pleas'd with the first-fruits. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.