PROLOGUE, TO THE Duke of GUISE.  Written by Mr. Dryden: Spoken by Mr. Smith. 
OUR Play's a Parallel: The Holy League  
Begot our Covenant: Guisards got the Whig:  
Whate'er our hot-brained Sheriffs did advance,  
Was, like our Fashions, first produced in France:  
And, when worn out, well scourged, and banished there,  
Sent over, like their godly Beggars here.  
Could the same Trick, twice played, our Nation gull?  
It looks as if the Devil were grown dull;  
Or served us up, in scorn, his broken Meat,  
And thought we were not worth a better Cheat.  
The fulsome Covenant, one would think in reason,  
Had given us all our Bellys-full of Treason:  
And yet, the Name but changed, our nasty Nation  
Chaws its own Excrement, th'Association.  
'Tis true we have not learned their poisoning way,  
For that's a mode but newly come in play;  
Besides, your Drug's uncertain to prevail;  
But your true Protestant can never fail,  
With that compendious Instrument, a Flail.  
Go on; and by't, even though the Hook lies bare;  
Twice in one Age expel the lawful Heir:  
Once more decide Religion by the Sword;  
And purchase for us a new Tyrant Lord.  
Pray for your King; but yet your Purses spare;  
Make him not twopences richer by your Prayer.  
To show you love him much, chastise him more;  
And make him very Great, and very Poor.  
Push him to Wars, but still no Pence advance;  
Let him lose England to recover France.  
Cry Freedom up with Popular noisy Votes:  
And get enough to cut each others Throats,  
Lop all the Rights that fence your Monarch's Throne;  
For fear of too much Power, pray leave him none.  
A noise was made of Arbitrary Sway;  
But in Revenge, you whigs, have found a way,  
An Arbitrary Duty now to pay.  
Let his own Servants turn, to save their stake;  
Glean from his plenty, and his wants forsake.  
But let some Judas near his Person stay,  
To swallow the last Sop, and then betray.  
Make London independent of the Crown:  
A Realm apart; the Kingdom of the Town.  
Let Ignoramus Juries find no Traitors:  
And Ignoramus Poets scribble Satyrs.  
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan,  
Do, what in Coffeehouses you began;  
Pull down the Master, and Set up the Man.   

EPILOGUE.  Written by the same Author: Spoken by Mrs. Cook. 
MUCH Time and Trouble this poor Play has cost;  
And, faith, I doubted once the Cause was lost.  
Yet no one Man was meant; nor Great nor Small;  
Our Poets, like frank Gamesters, threw at all.  
They took no single Aim:—  
But, like bold Boys, true to their Prince and hearty,  
Huzza'd, and fired Broadsides at the whole Party.  
Duels are Crimes; but when the Cause is right,  
In Battle, every Man is bound to fight.  
For what should hinder Me to sell my Skin  
Dear as I could, if once my hand were in?  
Se defendendo never was a Sin.  
'Tis a fine World, my Masters, right or wrong,  
The whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.  
They must do all they can—  
But We, forsooth, must bear a Christian mind;  
And fight, like Boys, with one Hand tied behind;  
Nay, and when one Boy's down, 'twere wondrous wise,  
To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise.  
When Fortune favours, none but Fools will dally:  
Would any of you Sparks, if Nan or maly  
Tipped you th'inviting Wink, stand shall I, shall I?  
A Trimmer cried, (that heard me tell this Story)  
Fie, Mistress Cook! faith you're too rank a Tory!  
Wish not whigs hanged, but pity their hard Cases;  
You Women love to see Men make wry Faces.  
Pray, Sir, said I, don't think me such a Jew;  
I say no more, but give the devil his due.  
Lenitives, says he, suit best with our Condition.  
Jack Catch, says I, 's an excellent Physician.  
I love no Blood— Nor I, Sir, as I breath;  
But hanging is a fine dry kind of Death.  
We Trimmers are for holding all things even:  
Yes— just like him that hung 'twixt Hell and Heaven.  
Have we not had men's Lives enough already?  
Yes sure:— but you're for holding all things steady:  
Now since the Weight hangs all on one side, Brother,  
You Trimmers should, to poise it, hang on tother.  
Damned Neuters, in theri middle way of steering,  
Are neither Fish, nor Flesh, nor good Red-Herring:  
Not whigs, nor Tories they; nor this, nor that;  
Not Birds, nor Beasts; but just a kind of Bat:  
A Twilight Animal▪ true to neither Cause,  
With Tory Wings, but Whiggish Teeth and Claws.   

ANOTHER EPILOGUE Intended to have been Spoken to the PLAY, before it was forbidden, last Summer.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
TWO Houses joined, two Poets to a Play?  
You noisy whigs will sure be pleased to day;  
It looks so like two Shrieves the City way.  
But since our Discords and Divisions cease,  
You, Bilbo Gallants, learn to keep the Peace:  
Make here no Tilts: let our Poor Stage alone;  
Or if a decent Murder must be done,  
Pray take a Civil turn to Marybone.  
If not, I swear we'll pull up all our Benches;  
Not for your sakes, but for our Orange-Wenches:  
For you thrust wide sometimes; and many a Spark,  
That misses one, can hit the other Mark.  
This makes our Boxes full; for Men of Sense  
Pay their four Shillings in their own defence:  
That safe behind the Ladies they may stay;  
Peep over the Fan, and Judge the bloody Fray.  
But other Foes give Beauty worse alarms;  
The Posse Poetarum's up in Arms:  
No Woman's Fame their Libels has escaped;  
Their Ink runs Venom, and their Pens are Clapped.  
When Sighs and Prayers their Ladies cannot move,  
They Rail, write Treason, and turn whigs to love.  
Nay, and I fear they worse Designs advance,  
There's a damned Love-trick new brought over from France,  
We charm in vain, and dress, and keep a Pother,  
While those false Rogues are Ogling one another.  
All Sins besides, admit some expiation;  
But this against our Sex is plain Damnation.  
They join for Libels too, these Women-haters;  
And as they club for Love, they club for Satyrs:  
The best on't is they hurt not: for they wear  
Stings in their Tails; their only Venom's there.  
'Tis true, some Shot at first the Ladies hit,  
Which able Markesmen made and Men of Wit:  
But now the Fools give fire, whose Bounce is louder;  
And ye●, like mere Train bands, they shoot but Powder.  
Libels, like Plots, sweep all in their first Fury;  
Then dwindle like an Ignoramus Jury:  
Thus Age begins with Towzing and with Tumbling;  
But Grunts, and Groans, and ends at last in Fumbling.  
FINIS.   

Newly Printed, The Prologue and Epilogue to the King and Queen, at the Opening of their Theatre.  
Religio Laici, or a Lay-man's Faith. A Poem. Both Written by Mr. Dryden.   

LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-lane. 1683.