Translation of the Prologue to the Andrian

hen first to write the Poet bent His Mind, This only Task He thought Himself assign'd, Such Fables, as might please the Town to write— But He perceives the Thing is alter'd quite. For writing Prologues He mispends in vain His Labour, not the Subject to explain, But th' old sour Poet's Railing to confute. Now mind, pray, what the Fault is They impute. Menander the Perinthian composed, And Andrian the Plots in both proposed Were not so different, but one, who knew Whichever well, must know the other too. He owns from the Perinthian He transferred Whatever with His Andrian fairly squared, And used it as His own. This They dispraise, Contending that such Mixture spoils both Plays. They are so knowing, that They nothing know, Who, while on Him They foul Reproaches throw, Nævius, Plautus, Ennius accuse, Authors, whose Track our Poet but pursues, More fond to emulate Their Negligence, Than of these Men the grov'ling Diligence. I warn Them to be quiet, and forbear To slander, lest Their own Misdeeds They hear. Attend with Favour, and with Patience try, That what remains of Hope You may descry. Whether His Plays, hereafter made quite new, Will be seen out, or driven off by You.