PROLOGUE To the OPERA.  By Mr. Dryden. 
FUll twenty years and more, our labouring Stage  
Has lost, on this incorrigible age:  
Our Poets, the John Ketches of the Nation,  
Have seemed to lash ye, even to excoriation:  
But still no sign remains; which plainly notes,  
You bore like Hero's, or you bribed like Oats.  
What can we do, when mimicking a Fop,  
Like beating Nut-trees, makes a larger Crop?  
Faith we'll even spare our pains: and to content you,  
Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you.  
Satire was once your Physic, Wit your Food;  
One nourished not, and t'other drew no Blood.  
We now prescribe, like Doctors in despair,  
The Diet your weak appetites can bear.  
Since hearty Beef and Mutton will not do,  
Here's Julep dance, Ptisan of Song and show:  
Give you strong Sense, the Liquor is too heady;  
You're come to farce, that's Asaph's milk, already.  
Some hopeful Youths there are, of callow Wit,  
Who one Day may be Men, if Heaven think fit;  
Sound may serve such, ere they to Sense are grown;  
Like leading strings, till they can walk alone:  
But yet to keep our Friends in countenance, know,  
The Wise Italians first invented show;  
Thence, into France the Noble Pageant past;  
'Tis England's Credit to be cozened last.  
Freedom and Zeal have choosed you over and over;  
Pray give us leave to bubble you once more;  
You never were so cheaply fooled before.  
We bring you change, to humour your Disease;  
Change for the worse has ever used to please:  
Then 'tis the mode of France, without whose Rules,  
None must presume to set up here for Fools:  
In France, the oldest Man is always young,  
Sees Opera's daily, learns the Tunes so long,  
Till Foot, Hand, Head, keep time with every Song.  
Each sings his part, echoing from Pit and Box,  
With his hoarse Voice, half Harmony, half Pox.  
Le plus grand Roy du Monde, is always ringing;  
They show themselves good Subjects by their singing.  
On that condition, set up every Throat;  
You whigs may sing for you have changed your Note.  
Cits and Citesses, raise a joyful strain,  
'Tis a good Omen to begin a Reign:  
Voices may help your Charter to restoring;  
And get by singing, what you lost by roaring.   

EPILOGUE To the Opera.  By Mr. Dryden. 
AFter our Aesop's Fable shown to day,  
I come to give the Moral of the Play.  
Feigned Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace;  
But, the last heat, Plain Dealing won the Race:  
Plain Dealing for a Jewel has been known;  
But ne'er till now the Jewel of a Crown.  
When Heaven made Man, to show the work Divine,  
Truth was his Image, stamped upon the Coin:  
And, when a King is to a God refined,  
On all he says and does, he stamps his Mind:  
This proves a Soul without allay, and pure;  
Kings, like their Gold, should every touch endure.  
To dare in Fields is Valour; but how few  
Dare be so throughly Valiant to be true?  
The Name of Great, let other Kings affect:  
He's Great indeed, the Prince that is direct.  
His Subjects know him now, and trust him more,  
Than all their Kings, and all their Laws before.  
What safety could their public Acts afford?  
Those he can break; but cannot break his Word.  
So great a Trust to him alone was due;  
Well have they trusted whom so well they knew.  
The Saint, who walked on Waves, securely trod,  
While he believed the beckoning of his God;  
But, when his Faith no longer bore him out,  
Began to sink, as he began to doubt.  
Let us our native Character maintain,  
'Tis of our growth, to be sincerely plain.  
T' excel in Truth, we Loyally may strive;  
Set Privilege against Prerogative:  
He Plights his Faith; and we believe himjust;  
His Honour is to Promise, ours to Trust.  
Thus Britain's Basis on a Word is laid,  
As by a Word the World itself was made.  
FINIS.