Then how two wives their lords' destruction prove, Through hatred one, and one through too much love; That for her husband mix'd a poisonous draught, And this for lust an amorous philtre bought: The nimble juice soon seized his giddy head, Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.

How some with swords their sleeping lords have slain, And some have hammer'd nails into their brain, And some have drench'd them with a deadly potion: All this he read, and read with great devotion. 410

Long time I heard, and swell'd, and blush'd, and frown'd; But when no end of these vile tales I found, When still he read, and laugh'd, and read again, And half the night was thus consumed in vain, Provoked to vengeance, three large leaves I tore, And with one buffet fell'd him on the floor.

With that my husband in a fury rose, And down he settled me with hearty blows.

I groan'd, and lay extended on my side; 'Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth!' I cried, 420 'Yet I forgive thee--take my last embrace--'

He wept, kind soul! and stoop'd to kiss my face: I took him such a box as turn'd him blue, Then sigh'd, and cried, 'Adieu, my dear, adieu!'

But after many a hearty struggle past, I condescended to be pleased at last.

Soon as he said, 'My mistress and my wife!

Do what you list the term of all your life,'

I took to heart the merits of the cause, And stood content to rule by wholesome laws; 430 Received the reins of absolute command, With all the government of house and land, And empire o'er his tongue and o'er his hand.

As for the volume that reviled the dames, 'Twas torn to fragments, and condemn'd to flames.

Now, Heaven, on all my husbands gone bestow Pleasures above for tortures felt below: That rest they wish'd for, grant them in the grave, And bless those souls my conduct help'd to save!

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUES

A PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR MR DENNIS'S BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.

As when that hero, who, in each campaign, Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!

Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe: Was there a generous, a reflecting mind, But pitied Belisarius, old and blind?

Was there a chief but melted at the sight?

A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite?

Such, such emotions should in Britons rise, When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; 10 Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns; A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce, Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse: How changed from him who made the boxes groan, And shook the stage with thunders all his own!

Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope, Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!

If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn; 20 If there's a critic of distinguished rage; If there's a senior who contemns this age: Let him to night his just assistance lend, And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.

PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S 'CATO.'

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.

Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10 In pitying love, we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its woe.

Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.

Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 20 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state.

While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause?

Who sees him act, but envies every deed?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?

E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30 As her dead father's reverend image pass'd, The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast; The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome adored, And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approved, And show you have the virtue to be moved.

With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued: 40 Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation and Italian song.

Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage, Be justly warm'd with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear, As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

PROLOGUE TO THOMSON'S 'SOPHONISBA.'[59]

When Learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose; The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes.

With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow, And the first tears for her were taught to flow: Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspired; Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown, Britain, by juster title, makes her own. 10 When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write.

For this a British author bids again The heroine rise, to grace the British scene: Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame, She asks, What bosom has not felt the same?

Asks of the British youth--is silence there?

She dares to ask it of the British fair.

To-night our homespun author would be true, At once to nature, history, and you. 20 Well pleased to give our neighbours due applause, He owns their learning, but disdains their laws; Not to his patient touch, or happy flame, 'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.

If France excel him in one freeborn thought, The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature! informer of the poet's art, Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart, Thou art his guide; each passion, every line, Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. 30 Be thou his judge: in every candid breast Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.

Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard; Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives and writes again.

The adventurous lover is successful still, Who strives to please the fair against her will: Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.

He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. 10 You modern wits, should each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little would be left you, I'm afraid, If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.

From this deep fund our author largely draws, Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.

Though plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reasons--to be paid.

Believe him, he has known the world too long, And seen the death of much immortal song. 20 He says, poor poets lost, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.

Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.

Fame is at best an unperforming cheat; But 'tis substantial happiness to eat.

Let ease, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.

PROLOGUE TO 'THE THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE'

Authors are judged by strange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet sure the best are most severely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.

Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war.

Why on all authors, then, should critics fall?

Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all.

Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, 'Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.' 10 By running goods these graceless owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain; But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught.

They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.

How shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate?

It had been civil, in these ticklish times, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes; 20 Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end, But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend.

If any fool is by our satire bit, Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit.

Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes; We take no measure of your fops and beaux; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth Street.

Gallants, look here! this fool's cap[60] has an air, 30 Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.

Let no one fool engross it, or confine A common blessing: now 'tis yours, now mine.