THE PROLOGUE TO Redowald, a Masque

Were it not, Sirs, impossible to find, A Subject suiting ev'ry Readers Mind, A Prologue or a Preface would be vain, Because we know that no one would complain; And yet I've seen a well wrote Piece go down, And please (tho' rare) the better half the Town; An half bred Prig, to shew superior Skill, That scarce cou'd read, or knew the use of Quill, Has sally'd forth with Envy in each Eye, And Spight of Fate, would Shame itself defy, And Critic like, to do the Thing he ought, Would find a Beauty in an errant Fault; That not enough, to prove himself a Fool, Would murder Beauties by the self same Rule. Our infant Author hopes his Piece may fall In better Hands, or else in none at all; Just from the Lap of Genius bends his Way To fam'd Panassion Fields, where Poets stray; But finds it cull'd and shorn, a barren Field, That's furnish'd Ages, now will hardly yield A single Shrub, but what we've seen before Be-clipt and turn'd, and twin'd into a Score. Such as they are he brings to public View, And if you find there's old ones with the New, Pray tell me, Sir, that famous Poet's Name, That living Bard that does not do the same. If near his Neighbour's Produce he intrudes, For Nature's self has her Similitudes; The self-same Thought might strike both you and me, And I the least stand charg'd of Piracy. You've here in Hand a little moral Piece, Nor Stole from France, nor Italy, nor Greece, A Child of Fancy nurtur'd by the Mind, If bad comes on't I know 'twas well design'd.