AMYNTAS. If all the fates combine,
And all the furies join,
I'll force my way to Phyllis, and break through the charm.
[Here they break from their keepers, run to each other, and embrace.]
PHYLLIS. Shall I marry the man I love?
And fhall I conclude my pains?
Now blefs'd be the powers above,
I feel the blood bound in my veins;
With a lively leap it began to move,
And the vapors leave my brains.
AMYNTAS. Body join'd to body, and heart join'd to heart,
To make fure of the cure,
Go call the man in black, to mumble o'er his part.
PHYLLIS. But fsuppose he should stay
AMYNTAS. At worst if he delay,
"Tis a work must be done,
We'll borrow but a day,
And the better, the fooner begun.
Cho. of both. At worst if he delay, &c.
[They run out together hand in hand.]
PROLOGUE, Spoken the first day of the King's House acting after the Fire.
O fhipwreck'd paffengers escape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er, Expecting famine on a defart fhore.
From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence ev'n the natives, forc'd by hunger, fled.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen fo fadly true:
You are chang'd too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provisions furnish out our feafts,
While you the founders make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind befide fate had some care,
But for poor wit no portion did prepare,
'Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair.
You cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn,
Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their fcorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spar'd not temples in its furious rage.
Q2 2
But as our new-built city rifes higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far surpass
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And, like a king, fhould in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:
Your prefence here, for which we humbly sue,
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
PROLOGUE fpoken at the Opening of the New Houfe, March 26, 1674.
A Plain-built houfe, after so long a stay,
Will fend you half unfatisfy'd away;
When, fall'n from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is defign'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like, Nero's palace, fhining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the chear.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain fuit, fince we can make but one,
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty fums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our fmall ftock to humble roofs retire
Pity our lofs, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live :
Unable to fupport their vaft expence,
Who build and treat with fuch magnificence;
That, like th' ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excefs,
While they impose their splendor on the less.
But only fools, and they of vaft eftate,
Th' extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat,
Yet if fome pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainnefs may be justly proud :
Our royal mafter will'd it should be fo;
Whate'er he's pleas'd to own, can need no fhow:
That facred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes baseft metals pafs.
'Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,
To build a playhouse while you throw down plays;
While fcenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And for the pencil you the pen difdain:
While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whofe alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you fubmit ;
You're now grown vaffals to them in your wit,
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance,
The mighty merits of their men of France,
Keep time, cry Bon, and humour the cadence.
Well, please yourselves; but fure 'tis understood,
That French machines have ne'er done England good.
I would not prophefy our houfe's fate:
But while vain fhows and scenes you over-rate,
'Tis to be fear'd.
That as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Machines and tempefts will deftroy the new.
EPILOGUE on the fame occafion.
HOUGH what our Prologue said was fadly true,
Yet, gentlemen, our homely house is new,
A charm that feldom fails with, wicked, you.
A country lip may have the velvet touch;
Though fhe's no lady, you may think her such :
A ftrong imagination may do much.
But you, loud firs, who through your curls look big,
Critics in plume and white vallancy wig,
Who lolling on our foremost benches fit,
And ftill charge firft, the true forlorn of wit;
Whofe favours, like the fun, warm where you roll,
Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor foul;
So may your hats your foretops never press,
Untouch'd your ribbons, facred be your dress;
So may you flowly to old age advance,
And have th' excufe of youth for ignorance:
So may fop-corner full of noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive train;
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