ON

MR DRYDEN’S PLAY,

THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA.

The applause I gave among the foolish crowd
Was not distinguished, though I clapped aloud: 
Or, if it had, my judgment had been hid: 
I clapped for company, as others did. 
Thence may be told the fortune of your play;
Its goodness must be tried another way. 
Let’s judge it then, and, if we’ve any skill,
Commend what’s good, though we commend it ill. 
There will be praise enough; yet not so much,
As if the world had never any such: 
Ben Johnson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Shakespeare, are,
As well as you, to have a poet’s share. 
You, who write after, have, besides, this curse,
You must write better, or you else write worse. 
To equal only what was writ before,
Seems stolen, or borrowed from the former store. 
Though blind as Homer all the ancients be,
’Tis on their shoulders, like the lame, we see. 
Then not to flatter th’ age, nor flatter you,
(Praises, though less, are greater when they’re true,)
You’re equal to the best, out-done by you;
Who had out-done themselves, had they lived now.

VAUGHAN[1].

Footnote: 
1.  John, Lord Vaughan, eldest surviving son of Richard, Earl of
   Carbery.

PROLOGUE

TO THE FIRST PART,

SPOKEN BY

MRS ELLEN GWYN,

IN A BROAD-BRIMMED HAT, AND WAIST-BELT.[1]

This jest was first of the other house’s making,
And, five times tried, has never failed of taking;
For ’twere a shame a poet should be killed
Under the shelter of so broad a shield. 
This is that hat, whose very sight did win ye
To laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye. 
As then, for Nokes, so now I hope you’ll be
So dull, to laugh once more for love of me. 
I’ll write a play, says one, for I have got
A broad-brimmed hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot. 
Says the other, I have one more large than that. 
Thus they out-write each other—­with a hat! 
The brims still grew with every play they writ;
And grew so large, they covered all the wit. 
Hat was the play; ’twas language, wit, and tale: 
Like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale. 
What dulness do these mongrel wits confess,
When all their hope is acting of a dress! 
Thus, two the best comedians of the age
Must be worn out, with being blocks o’ the stage;
Like a young girl, who better things has known,
Beneath their poet’s impotence they groan. 
See now what charity it was to save! 
They thought you liked, what only you forgave;
And brought you more dull sense, dull sense much worse
Than brisk gay nonsense, and the heavier curse. 
They bring old iron, and glass upon the stage,
To barter with the Indians of our age. 
Still they write on, and like great authors show;