[Footnote 337: This seems to be an allusion to the recent death of Mr Scroop; a man of fortune, who, about this time, was stabbed in the theatre at Dorset-Gardens by Sir Thomas Armstrong, afterwards the confidential friend of the Duke of Monmouth. Langbaine says, he witnessed this real tragedy, which happened during the representation of "Macbeth," as altered and revised by D'Avenant in 1674. Mr Scroop died immediately after his removal into a neighbouring house.]
[Footnote 338: Alluding to the recent establishment in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, then separated from the city by a large vacant space.]
[Footnote 339: "The three boys in buff," were, I believe, the three Bold Beauchamps in an old ranting play:
"The three bold Beauchamps shall revive again, And, with the London Prentice, conquer Spain." ]
[Footnote 340: Some part of the ornaments of D'Avenant's scenes probably presented the portraits of dramatic writers.]
_Hart, who had been a captain in the civil wars, belonged to the King's company. He was an excellent actor, and particularly celebrated in the character of Othello. He left the stage, according to Cibber, on the union of the companies in_ 1686. _But it appears from a paper published in a note on the article_ "_Betterton_" _in the_ Biographia, _that he retired in_ 1681, _upon receiving a pension from Dr D'Avenant_, _then manager of the Duke's company_, _who in this manner bought off both Hart and Kynaston_, _and greatly weakened the opposite set_.
Poets, your subjects, have their parts assigned, To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind; When tired with following nature, you think fit To seek repose in the cool shades of wit, And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey What rests, and what is conquered, of the way. Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife, You view the various turns of human life; Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go, And, undebauched, the vice of cities know. Your theories are here to practice brought, As in mechanic operations wrought; And man, the little world, before you set, As once the sphere of crystal[341] shewed the great. Blest sure are you above all mortal kind, If to your fortunes you can suit your mind; Content to see, and shun, those ills we show, And crimes on theatres alone to know. With joy we bring what our dead authors writ, And beg from you the value of their wit: That Shakespeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim, May be renewed from those who gave them fame. None of our living poets dare appear; For muses so severe are worshipped here, That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye, } And, as profane, from sacred places fly, } Rather than see the offended God, and die. } We bring no imperfections, but our own; Such faults as made are by the makers shown; And you have been so kind, that we may boast, The greatest judges still can pardon most. Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit, Debased even to the level of their wit; Disdaining that, which yet they know will take, Hating themselves what their applause must make. But when to praise from you they would aspire, Though they, like eagles, mount, your Jove is higher. So far your knowledge all their power transcends, As what should be, beyond what is, extends.
