Prologue to the King and Queen at the opening of their theatre. Spoken by Mr. Batterton ; written by Mr. Dryden.
Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
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PROLOGUE TO THE KING AND QUEEN, At the Opening of their THEATRE.
Since Faction ebbs, and Rogues grow out of Fashion,
Their penny-Scribes take care t' inform the Nation,
How well men thrive in this or that Plantation.
How Pensilvania's Air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Associators:
Both e'en too good for Madmen and for Traitors.
Truth is, our Land with Saints is so run o'er,
And every Age produces such a store,
That now there's need of two New-Englands more.
What's this, you'll say, to Us and our Vocation?
Onely thus much, that we have left our Station,
And made this Theatre our new Plantation.
The Factious Natives never could agree;
But aiming, as they call'd it, to be Free,
Those Play-house Whiggs •et up for Property.
Some say they no Obedience paid of late;
But wou'd new Fears and Jealousies create;
Till topsi-turvy they had turn'd the State.
Plain Sense, without the Tallent of Foretelling,
Might guess 'twou'd end in down-right knocks and quelling:
For seldome comes there better of Rebelling.
When Men will, needlesly, their Freedom barter
For Lawless Pow'r, sometimes they catch a Tartar:
(There's a damn'd word that rhimes to this call'd Charter.)
But, since the Victory with Us remains,
You shall be call'd to Twelve in all our Gains:
(If you'll not think us sawcy for our pains.)
Old Men shall have good old Plays to delight 'em:
And you fair Ladies and Gallants that slight 'em,
We'll treat with good new Plays; if our new Wits can writ'em.
We'll take no blundring Verse, no fustian Tumour,
No dribling Love, from this or that Presumer:
No dull fat Fool shamm'd on the Stage for humour.
For, faith, some of'em such vile stuff have made,
As none but Fools or Fairies ever Play'd;
But 't was, as Shopmen say, to force a Trade.
We've giv'n you Tragedies, all Sense defying:
And singing men, in wofull Metre dying;
This 'tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying.
All these disasters we well hope to weather;
We bring you none of our old Lumber hether:
Whigg Poets and Whigg Sheriffs may hang together.
