O that your brows my laurel had sustained, Well had I been deposed if you had reigned! The father had descended for the son, For only you are lineal to the throne. Thus when the state one Edward did depose, A greater Edward in his room arose. But now, not I, but poetry is cursed; For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the First. But let 'em not mistake my patron's part, Nor call his charity their own desert. Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen (Though with some short parenthesis between) High on the throne of wit; and seated there, Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear. Thy first attempt an early promise made; That early promise this has more than paid. So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, That your least praise is to be regular. Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, But genius must be born, and never can be taught. This is your portion, this your native store, Heav'n, that but once was prodigal before, To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more. Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at heav'n's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence. But you, whom every muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue; But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express: You merit more; nor could my love do less. JOHN DRYDEN. PROLOGUE Spoken by MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. Moors have this way (as story tells) to know Whether their brats are truly got or no; Into the sea the new-born babe is thrown, There, as instinct directs, to swim or drown. A barbarous device, to try if spouse Has kept religiously her nuptial vows. Such are the trials poets make of plays, Only they trust to more inconstant seas; So does our author, this his child commit To the tempestuous mercy of the pit, To know if it be truly born of wit. Critics avaunt, for you are fish of prey, And feed, like sharks, upon an infant play. Be ev'ry monster of the deep away; Let's have a fair trial and a clear sea. Let nature work, and do not damn too soon, For life will struggle long e'er it sink down: And will at least rise thrice before it drown. Let us consider, had it been our fate, Thus hardly to be proved legitimate: I will not say, we'd all in danger been, Were each to suffer for his mother's sin: But by my troth I cannot avoid thinking, How nearly some good men might have 'scaped sinking. But, heav'n be praised, this custom is confined Alone to th' offspring of the muses kind: Our Christian cuckolds are more bent to pity; I know not one Moor-husband in the city. I' th' good man's arms the chopping bastard thrives, For he thinks all his own that is his wives'.