PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY LORD BUCKHURST,

IN WESTMINSTER SCHOOL, AT A REPRESENTATION OF MR. DRYDEN'S CLEOMENES, AT CHRISTMAS, MDCXCV.

PISH, lord, I wish this prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown:
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends:

Our generous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you're treated.
The candles and the clothes ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snor'd whilst Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confession we would sue

Praise undeserv'd; we know ourselves and you:
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, nor beg applause,
For these are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet, if we see some judgment well inclin'd,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorset's spirit.

THE SECRETARY.

WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, MDCXCVI.

WHILE with labour assíduous due pleasure, I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right:
No memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.
This night and the next shall be hers, and be mine,
To good or ill-fortune the third we resign:
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state.
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode;

Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. But why should I stories of Athens rehearse, Where people knew love, and were partial to verse; Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose, In Holland half drowned in interest and prose? By Greece and past ages what need I be tried, When the Hague and the present are both on my side?

And is it enough for the joys of the day,

To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say? When good Vandergoes, and his provident Vrow, As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow, That, search all the province, you ll find no man dar is

So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is.

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.

I SENT for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescrib'd his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But, when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cur'd yesterday of my disease,

I died last night of my physician.

UPON THIS PASSAGE IN THE SCALIGERIANA.

"Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel Vin ils boivent pourveu que ce soit Vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent pourveu que ce soit Latin."

WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stumm'd wine;
They never taste who always drink;
They always talk, who never think.

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY,

FIVE YEARS OLD, MDCCIV. THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She

may receive and own my flame,

For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends;
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

.

'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.