[Footnote 50:  Son of Sir William Davenant, and author of several political pieces, much esteemed.]

* * * * *

XVI.

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE LADY HEN.  MAR.  WENTWORTH, WHEN “CALISTO"[51] WAS ACTED AT COURT.

  As Jupiter I made my court in vain;
  I’ll now assume my native shape again. 
  I’m weary to be so unkindly used,
  And would not be a god to be refused. 
  State grows uneasy when it hinders love;
  A glorious burden, which the wise remove. 
  Now, as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
  The force of any lightning but the eye. 
  Beauty and youth more than a god command;
  No Jove could e’er the force of these withstand. 10
  ’Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
  Beauty sometimes is justly absolute. 
  Our sullen Catos, whatsoe’er they say,
  Even while they frown, and dictate laws, obey. 
  You, mighty sir,[52] our bonds more easy make,
  And gracefully, what all must suffer, take: 
  Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
  For ’tis not to be wise to be severe. 
  True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
  And soften business with the charms of wit. 20
  These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
  And from the midst of fighting nations brought. 
  You only hear it thunder from afar,
  And sit in peace the arbiter of war: 
  Peace, the loathed manna, which hot brains despise. 
  You knew its worth, and made it early prize: 
  And in its happy leisure sit and see
  The promises of more felicity: 
  Two glorious nymphs,[53] of your own godlike line,
  Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine:  30
  Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,
  To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 51:  ‘Calisto:’  a Masque, written by Crowne, Dryden’s rival and Rochester’s protege; this Epilogue was through Rochester’s influence rejected.]

[Footnote 52:  This part of the Epilogue is addressed to the King.]

* * * * *

XVII.

PROLOGUE TO “AURENGZEBE.”

  Our author, by experience, finds it true,
  ’Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
  And out of no feign’d modesty, this day
  Damns his laborious trifle of a play;
  Not that it’s worse than what before he writ,
  But he has now another taste of wit;
  And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
  Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme. 
  Passion’s too fierce to be in fetters