It is as easy as a proclamation, As if the play were penn'd for the whole nation. None of those thund'ring lines, which used to crack Our breaths, and set your wits upon the rack. Who can admire this piece, or think it good? There's not one line but may be understood.
As innocent as if't had pass'd the test Of a full synod: not one bawdy jest! Nor any of those words of double sense, Which make the ladies, to show their innocence, Look so demure, whilst by a simp'ring smile The gallant shows he understands the style. But here you have a piece so subtly writ, Men must have wit themselves to find the wit. Faith, that's too much; therefore by my consent, We'll damn the play.
+Henrique.+ Think'st thou, impertinent, That these, who know the pangs of bringing forth [_Pointing to the Pit._ A living scene, should e'er destroy this birth? You ne'er can want such writers, who aspire To please the judges of that upper tier. The knowing are his peers, and for the rest Of the illiterate crowd (though finely dress'd), The author hopes he never gave them cause To think he'd waste his time for their applause. You then (most equal judges) freely give Your votes, whether this play should die or live.
We've pass'd the lords and commons, and are come At length, dread sir, to hear your final doom. 'Tis true your vassals, sir, may vote the laws. Their sanction comes from your divine applause. This shining circle then will all sit mute 'Till one pronounce from you _Le Roi le veut_.[72]
[72] These are the words still used by ancient usage whenever the royal assent is given to any bill that has passed through both Houses of Parliament.--_Collier._
Our poet, gentlemen, thought to steal away, Hoping those wretched rhymes, i' th' end o' th' play, Might serve for epilogue; for truly he Takes epilogues for arrant bribery. H' observes your poet in our modern plays, Humbly showeth, and then as humbly prays; So that it can't be said, what they have writ Was without fear, though often without wit. He trusts (as ye say papists do) to merit; Leaves you (like quakers) to be mov'd by th' spirit. But since that epilogues are so much in vogue, Take this as prologue to the epilogue.
Some, as soon as th' enter, we wish 'em gone, Taking their visit as a visitation: Yet when they go, there are certain grimaces (Which in plain English, is but making faces) That we, for manners' sake, to all allow. The poet's parting; don't rise, but smile and bow; And's back being turn'd, ye may take the liberty To turn him, and all h' has writ to raillery. Now, as I shall be sav'd, were I as you, I'd make no bones on't--why, 'tis but his due. A fop! in this brave, licentious age, To bring his musty morals on the stage? Rhyme us to reason, and our lives redress In metre, as Druids did the savages? Affront the freeborn vices of the nation? And bring dull virtue into reputation? Virtue! would any man of common sense Pretend to't? why, virtue now is impudence; And such another modest play would blast Our new stage, and put your palates out of taste. We told him, Sir, 'tis whisper'd in the pit This may be common sense, but 'tis not wit; That has a flaming spirit, and stirs the blood That's bawdry, said he, if rightly understood; Which our late poets make their chiefest tasks, As if they writ only to th' vizard-masks. Nor that poetic rage, which hectors heaven, Your writer's style, like's temper, 's grown more even; And he's afraid to shock their tender ears. Whose God, say they, 's the fiction of their fears; Your moral's to no purpose. He replied, Some men talk'd idly just before they died, And yet we heard them with respect. 'Twas all he said. Well, we may count him now as good as dead; And since ghosts have left walking, if you please, We'll let our virtuous poet rest in peace.