_Boab._ Let war and vengeance be to-morrow's care; But let us to the temple now repair. A thousand torches make the mosque more bright: This must be mine and Almahide's night. Hence, ye importunate affairs of state, You should not tyrannize on love, but wait. Had life no love, none would for business live; Yet still from love the largest part we give; And must be forced, in empire's weary toil, To live long wretched, to be pleased a while. [_Exeunt._ EPILOGUE. Success, which can no more than beauty last, Makes our sad poet mourn your favours past: For, since without desert he got a name, He fears to lose it now with greater shame. Fame, like a little mistress of the town, Is gained with ease, but then she's lost as soon: For, as those tawdry misses, soon or late, Jilt such as keep them at the highest rate; And oft the lacquey, or the brawny clown, Gets what is hid in the loose-bodied gown,-- So, fame is false to all that keep her long; And turns up to the fop that's brisk and young. Some wiser poet now would leave fame first; But elder wits are, like old lovers, cursed: Who, when the vigour of their youth is spent, Still grow more fond, as they grow impotent. This, some years hence, our poet's case may prove; But yet, he hopes, he's young enough to love. When forty comes, if e'er he live to see That wretched, fumbling age of poetry, 'Twill be high time to bid his muse adieu:-- Well may he please himself, but never you. Till then, he'll do as well as he began, And hopes you will not find him less a man. Think him not duller for this year's delay; He was prepared, the women were away; And men, without their parts, can hardly play. If they, through sickness, seldom did appear, Pity the virgins of each theatre: For, at both houses, 'twas a sickly year! And pity us, your servants, to whose cost, In one such sickness, nine whole months are lost. Their stay, he fears, has ruined what he writ: Long waiting both disables love and wit. They thought they gave him leisure to do well; But, when they forced him to attend, he fell! Yet, though he much has failed, he begs, to-day, You will excuse his unperforming play: Weakness sometimes great passion does express; He had pleased better, had he loved you less. * * * * * ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE: OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA BY THE _SPANIARDS._ A TRAGEDY. THE SECOND PART. _--Stimulos dedit aemula virtus._ LUCAN. PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND PART.