The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

CALLED, THE CUSTOME OF THE COUNTREY.

So free this worke is (gentlemen) from offence,

That we are confident it needs no defence

From us, or from the poets, we dare looke
On any man that brings his table booke
To write down what again he may repeat
At some great table, to deserve his meat;
Let such come swel'd with malice to apply
What is mirth here, there for an injury.
Nor lord, nor lady we have tax'd, nor state,
Nor any private person, their poore hate
Will be starv'd here, for envy shall not find
One touch that may be wrested to her mind;
And yet despaire not gentlemen, the play
Is quick and witty, so the poets say.

And we beleeve them, the plot neat and new,
Fashioned by those that are approv'd by you;-
Only 'twill crave attention in the most,
Because one point unmask'd the whole is lost;
Heare first then, and judge after, and be free,
And as our cause is let our censure be.

THE EPILOGUE.

WHY there should be an epilogue to a play,
I know no cause, the old and usuall way
For which they were made, was to entreat the grace
Of such as were spectators in this place;
And time, 'tis to no purpose, for I know
What you resolve already to bestow
Will not be alter'd, whatsoe're I say
In the behalfe of us, and of the play,
Only to quit our doubts, if you thinke fit,
You may, or cry it up, or silence it.

ANOTHER PROLOGUE FOR THE SAME PLAY.

WE wish, if it were possible, you knew
What we would give for this night's look, if new,
It being our ambition to delight

Our kind spectators with what's good and right,
Yet so far known, and credit me, 'twas made,
By such as were held workmen in their trade;
At a time too, when they, as I divine,
Were truly merry, and dranke lusty wine,
The nectar of the Muses; some are here,
I dare presume, to whom it did appeare
A well-drawn piece, which gave a lawfull birth
To passionate scenes mixt with no vulgar mirth
But unto such to whom 'tis known by fame
From others, perhaps only by the name;

I am a suitor, that they would prepare

Sound pallats, and then judge their bill of fare.
It were injustice to discry this now,

For being lik'd before, you may allow

Your candour safe what's taught in the old schooles, All such as lived before you were not fooles.

Worth to their noble memory, whose name, Beyond all power of death live in their fame.

THE EPILOGUE.

THE monuments of vertue and desert
Appeare more goodly when the glosse of art.
Is eaten off by time, than when at first
They were set up, not censured at the worst;
We have done our best, for your contents to fit,
With new paines this old monument of wit.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,
CALLED, THE CAPTAINE.

To please you with this play we feare will be
(So does the author too) a mystery
Some what above our art, for all men's eyes,
Eares, faith and judgements are not of one size;
For to say truth and not to flatter ye,
This is nor comedy, nor tragedy,
Nor history, nor any thing that may
(Yet in a weeke) be made a perfect play:

Yet those that love to laugh, and those that think
Twelve pence goes further this way than in drinke,
Or damsels; if they marke the matter through,
May stumble on a foolish toy or two,

Will make them shew their teeth: pray, for my
That likely am your first man, do not take [sake,
A distaste before you feel it, for ye may
When this is hist to ashes have a play.
And here to out-bisse this he patient then,
(My honour done) you are welcome gentlemen.

prince as he

CAST Our caps and care away: this is beggers holiday, [and sing; At the crowning of our king thus we ever dance In the world look out and see, wher so happy a [do we; Where the nation live so free, and so merry as Be it peace, or be it war, here at liberty we are, And enjoy our ease and rest, to the field we are not prest: [gown, Nor are call'd into the town to be troubled with the Hang all offices we cry, and the magistrate too by; When the subsidies encreast, we are not a penny [straw,

ceast ;

Now will any goe to law with the begger for a All which happinesse he brags he doth owe unto his rags.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,

CALLED, THE COXCOMBE.

THIS Comedy long forgot, by some thought dead, By us preserv'd, once more doth raise her head;

And to your noble censures does present
Her outward forme, and inward ornainent.
Nor let this smell of arrogance, since 'tis known
The makers that confest it for their own,
Were this way skilfull, and without the crime
Of flatteries, I might say, did please the time;
The worke it selfe too, when it first came forth,
In the opinion of inen of worth,

Was well receiv'd and favour'd, though some rude
And harsh among the ignorant multitude,
That relish grosse food better than a dish
(That's cook'd with care, and serv'd in to the wish
Of curious pallats) wanting wit and strength
Truly to judge, condemon'd it for the length,
That fault's reform'd, and now 'tis to be tri'd
Before such judges, 'twill not be deny'd
A free and noble hearing nor feare I
But 'twill deserve to have free liberty,
And give you cause (and with content) to say,
Their care was good that did revive this play.

THE EPILOGUE.

'Tis ended, but my hopes and feare begin,
Nor can it be imputed as a sin
In me to wish it favour, if this night
To the judicious it hath given light,

I have my ends, and may such, for their grace
Vouchsafed to this, find theirs in every place,

THE PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY,
CALLED, THE FALSE ONE.

NEw titles warrant not a play for new,
The subject being old and 'tis as true;
Fresh and neat matter may with ease be fram'd
Out of their stories, that have oft been nam'd
With glory on the stage: what borrows he
From him that wrought old Priam's tragedy
That writes his love to Hecuba? sure to tell
Of Cæsar's amorous heats, and how he fell
In the capitall, can never be the same
To the judicious: nor will suoh blame
Those that penn'd this for barrennesse, when they
Young Cleopatra here and her great mind
Express'd to th' height, with us a maid and free,
And how be rated her virginity:

We treat not of what boldnesse she did dye,
Nor of her fatall love to Antony;
What we present and offer to your view
(Upon their faiths) the stage yet never knew ;
Let reason then first to your wils give laws,
And after judge of them, and of their cause.

THE EPILOGUE.

[find

I Now should wish another had my place,
But that I hope to come off, and with grace,
And but expresse some signe that you are pleas'd,
We of our doubts, they of their feares are eas'd;
I would beg further (gentlemen) and much say
In the favour of our selves, them, and the play,
Did I not rest assur'd? the most I see
Hate impudence, and cherish modesty,

FIRST SONG TO THE FALSE ONE, A TRAGEDY.

Look out, bright eyes, and blesse the aire,
Even in shadows you are faire:

Shut up, beauty is like fire

That breakes out clearer still and higher;
Though your body be contin'd,
And lost love a pris'ner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind,
Neither cheeke, nor chaine bath found.
Looke out nobly then, and dare,
Even the fetters that you weare.

THE SECOND SONG.

Isis, the goddesse of this land,
Bids thee (great Cæsar) understand
And marke our customes, and first know,
With greedy eyes, these watch the flow
Of plenteous Nilus, when he comes
With songs, with dances, timbrels, drums,
They entertaine him, cut his way,
And give his proud heads leave to play;
Nilus bimselfe shall rise and shew
His matchlesse wealth in overflow.

THE THIRD SONG.

COME let us help the reverend Nyle,
He's very old (alas the while),
Let us dig him easie waies,
And prepare a thousand plaies
To delight his streams, let's sing
A loud welcome to our spring;
This way let his curling heads
Fall into our new made beds;
This way let his wanton spawns
Frisk and glide it o're the lawns;
This way profit comes and gaine,
How he tumbles here amaine,
How his waters haste to fall
In our channel!, labour all
And let him in: let Nylus flow,
And perpetual plenty show;
With incense let us blesse the brim,
And as the wanton fishes swim,
Let us gums, and garlands fiug,
And loud our timbrels ring,
Come. (old father) come away,
Our labour is our holiday.

ISIS. Here comes the aged river now,
With garlands of great pea:le his brow
Begirt and rounded, in his flow

All things take life, and all things grow;
A thousand wealthy treasures still
To do him service at his will,
Follow his rising floud, and powre
Perpetuall blessings in our store.
Heare him, and next there will advance
His sacred heads to tread a dance
In honour of my royall guest,
Marke them too, and you have a feast.

THE FOURTH SONG.

MAKE roome, for my rich waters' fall,
And blesse my floud,

Nylus come flowing to you all
Encrease and good.

Now the plants and flowers shall spring,
And the merry ploughman sing.

In my hidden waves I bring
Bread, and wine, and every thing;

Let the damsels sing me in,

Sing aloud that I may rise:

Your holy feasts and boures begin,
And each man brings a sacrifice;
Now my wanton pearles 1 show
That to ladies' faire necks grow;
Now my gold

And treasures that can ne'er be told,
Shall blesse this land by my rich flow;
And after this to crown your eyes,
My hidden holy bed arise.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,
CALLED, THE CHANCES.

APTNESSE for mirth to all this instant night
Thalia hath prepar'd for your delight;
Her choice and curious vyands in each part,
Season'd with rarities of wit, as art.

Nor feare I to be tax'd for a vaine boast,
My promise will find credit with the most,
When they know ingenious Fletcher made it, he
Being in himselfe a perfect comedy;

And some sit here, I doubt not, dare averre,
Living, he made that house a theater
Which he pleas'd to frequent; and thus much we
Could not but play to his lond memory.

For our selves we do intreat that you would not
Expect strange turaes and windings in the plot,
Objects of state, and now and then a rhime
To gaule particular persons with the time;
Or that his towring Muse hath made her flight
Nearer your apprehension than your sight:
But if that sweet expression, quick conceit,
Familiar language fashion'd to the weight
Of such as speake it, have the power to raise
Your grace to us, with trophies to his praise,
We may professe, presuming on his skill,
If his Chances please not you, our fortune's ill.

THE EPILOGUE.

We have not held you long,
One brow in this selected company
Assuring a dislike our paines were eas'd,
Could we be confident that all rise pleas'd,
But such ambition soares too high, if we
Have satisfied the best, and they agree
In a faire censure, we have our reward,
And in them arm'd desire no surer guard.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,
CALLED, THE LOYALL SUBJECT.

We need not, noble gentlemen, to invite
Attention, pre-instruct you who did write
This worthy story, being confident

The mirth joyn'd with grave matter, and intent,
To yield the hearers profit with delight,
Will speake the maker, and to do him right
Would ask a genius like to his; the age
Mourning his losse, and our now widdowed stage
In vaine lamenting, I could adde so far,
Behind him the most moderne writers are ;
That when they would commend him their best

praise

Ruins the buildings which they strive to raise.

To his best memory so much a friend
Presumes to write secure, 'twill not offend
The living that are modest with the rest,
That may repine he cares not to contest:
This debt to Fletcher paid it is profest,
But us the actors we will do our best

To send such savouring friends, as hither come To grace the scene, pleas'd and contented home.

THE EPILOGUE.

THOUGH Something well assur'd, few here repent,
Three houres of pretious time or money spent
On our endeavours, yet not to relie
Too much upon our care and industry:
'Tis fit we should aske but a modest way
How you approve our action in the play;
If you vouchsafe to crown it with applause,
It is your bounty and gives us cause
Hereafter with a generall consent
To study, as becomes us, your content.

FIRST SONG TO THE PLAY,

CALLED, THE LOYAL SUBJECT.

BROOME, broome, the bonny broome,
Come buy my birchen broome,

I' th' wars we have no more roome,
Buy all my bonny broome.
For a kisse take two,
If those will not do,
For a little, little pleasure,
Take all my whole treasure;
If all these will not do't,
Take the broome man to boot;
Broome, broome, the bonny broome.

THE SECOND SONG.

THE wars are done and gone,

And souldiers now neglected pedlers are,
Come, maidens, come along,

For I can shew you handsome, handsome ware,
Powders for the head,

And drinkes for your bed

To make ye blith and bonny:

As well in the night we souldiers can fight,
And please a young wench as any.

THE THIRD SONG.

WILL ye buy any honesty? come away,
I sell it openly by day;

I bring no forced light, nor no candle
To cozen ye; come buy and handle.
This will shew the great man good,
The tradesman where he swears and lies,
Each lady of a noble bloud,

The city dame to rule her eyes:

Ye are rich men now, come buy, and then I'le make ye richer, honest men.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,

CALLED, THE LOVERS PROGRESS".

A STORY, and a known one, long since writ, Truth must take place, and by an able wit,

SONGS TO THE PLAY,

CALLED, THE MAID IN THE MILL.
THE FIRST SONG.

COME follow me, you country lasses,
And you shall see such sport as passes:
You shall dance, and I will sing,
Pedro he shall rub the string:
Each shall have a loose-bodied gown
Of greene; and laugh till you lye down.
Come follow me, come follow, &c.

THE SECOND SONG.

How long shall I pine for love?

How long shall I sue in vaine? How long, like the turtle dove,

Shall I heartily thus complaine? Shall the sailes of my love stand still? Shall the grists of my hopes be unground? Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,

Let the mill, let the mill go round.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,

CALLED, THE PASSIONATE MAD-MAN.

Ir's grown in fash'on of late in these daies
To come and beg a sufl'rance to our plaies;
Faith, gentlemen, our poct ever writ
Language so good, mixt with such sprightly wit;
He made the theatre so soveraigne
[veine,
With his rare scenes, he scorn'd this crouching
We stabb'd him with keene daggers when we pray'd
Him write a preface to a play well made;
He could not write these toyes, 'twas easier fær
To bring a fellon to appear at th' bar:
So much he hated basenesse, which this day
His scenes will best convince you of in's play.

THE EPILOGUE.

Our poet bid us say, for his own part,
He cannot lay too much forth of his art;
l'ut feares our over-acting passions may,
As not adorne, deface his labour'd play :
Yet still he is res'lute for what is writ
Of nicer valour, and assumes the wit;
But for the love sccanes which he ever meant,
Cupid in's petticoat should represent ;
He'l stand no shock of censure, the play's good,
He saies he knows it (if well understood)
But we (blind god) beg, if thou art divine,
Thou'lt shoot thy arrowes round, this play was
thine.

SONGS TO THE PLAY,

CALLED, THE NICE VALOUR: OR, THE PASSIONATE MAD MAN.

THE FIRST SONG.

Foulemouth'd detraction daring not deny
To give so much to Fletcher's memory :
If so, some may object, Why then do you
Present an old piece to us for a new?
Or wherefore will your profest writer be
(Not tax'd of theft before) a plagary?
To this he answers in his just defence,
And to maintaine to all our innocence,

Thus much, though he hath travel'd the same way,
Demanding, and receiving too the pay
For a new poem, you may find it due,
He having neither cheated us nor you;
He vows, and deeply, that he did not spare
The utmost of his strength, and his best care
In the reviving it; and though his powers
Could not, as he desir'd, in three short houres
Contract the subject, and much lesse expresse
The changes, and the various passages
That will be look'd for, you may heare this day
Some scenes that will coufirme it as a play,
He being ambitious that it should be known
What's good was Fletcher's, and what ill his own.

THE EPILOGUE.

STILL doubtfull and perplexed too, whether he
Hath done Fletcher right in the history;
The poet sits within, since he must know it,
He with respect desires that you would shew it
By some accustom'd signe; if from our action
Or his endeavours you meet satisfaction,
With ours he hath his ends, we hope the best,
To make that certainty, in you doth rest.

FIRST SONG TO THE LOVERS PROGRESSE.
ADIEU, fond love, farewel, ye wanton powers,
I am free againe;

Thou dull disease of bloud and idle houres,
Bewitching paine.

Fly to the fooles that sigh away their time,
My nobler love to Heaven clime,

And there behold beauty still young.

That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy;
Immortall sweetnesse by faire angels sung,
And honour'd by eternity and joy :
There lives my love, thither my hopes aspire,
Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.

THE SECOND SONG.

'Tis late and cold, stir up the fire,
Set close and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty med'cine 'gainst a cold.
Your beds of wanton down the best:
Where you shall tumble to your rest :
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead and cannot do;
Call for the best, the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret let them bring,
And drinke apace while breath you have,
You'l find but cold drinke in the grave;
Plover, partridge for your dinner,
And a capen for the sinner,

You shall find ready when you are up,
And your horse shall have his sup:
Welcome shall fly round,

And I shall smile though under ground.

Thou deity, swift winged love,
Sometimes below, sometimes above,
Little in shape, but great in power,
Thou that makest a heart thy tower,

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including the ..., כרך 6