By

DR CHARLES D'AVENANT, 1675.

_Dr Charles D'Avenant, the author of "Circe," was son of the Rare Sir William D'Avenant, whom he succeeded as manager of the Duke's company. He practised physic in Doctor's Commons, which he afterwards abandoned for politics. He became a member of Parliament, and inspector of the exports and imports, of which office he died possessed in_ 1714. _He wrote many tracts upon political subjects, especially those connected with the revenue. "Circe," his only drama, is an opera, to which Bannister composed the music. Besides the Prologue by our author, it was honoured by an Epilogue by the famous Rochester, and thus graced was received favourably. It contains some good writing, considering it was composed at the age of nineteen; a circumstance alluded to in the following Prologue. The original Prologue is from the 4to edition of "_Circe_," _London_, 1677. _It was afterwards much improved, or rather entirely re-written, by our author._

Were you but half so wise as you're severe, Our youthful poet should not need to fear; To his green years your censures you would suit, Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit. The sex, that best does pleasure understand, Will always chuse to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's aukward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right. Thus heartened well, and fleshed upon his prey, The youth may prove a man another day. For your own sakes, instruct him when he's out, You'll find him mend his work at every bout. When some young lusty thief is passing by, } How many of your tender kind will cry,-- } "A proper fellow! pity he should die! } He might be saved, and thank us for our pains, There's such a stock of love within his veins." These arguments the women may persuade, But move not you, the brothers of the trade, Who, scattering your infection through the pit, } With aching hearts and empty purses sit, } To take your dear five shillings worth of wit. } The praise you give him, in your kindest mood, Comes dribbling from you, just like drops of blood; And then you clap so civilly, for fear The loudness might offend your neighbour's ear, That we suspect your gloves are lined within, For silence sake, and cotton'd next the skin. From these usurpers we appeal to you, The only knowing, only judging few; You, who in private have this play allowed, Ought to maintain your suffrage to the crowd. The captive, once submitted to your bands, You should protect from death by vulgar hands.

PROLOGUE TO CIRCE,

AS CORRECTED BY DRYDEN.

Were you but half so wise as you're severe, Our youthful poet should not need to fear; To his green years your censures you would suit, Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit. The sex, that best does pleasure understand, Will always choose to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's aukward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right. Thus heartened well, and fleshed upon his prey, The youth may prove a man another day. Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write; But hopped about, and short excursions made } From bough to bough, as if they were afraid, } And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid. } Shakespeare's own muse her Pericles first bore; The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor: 'Tis miracle to see a first good play; All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day. A slender poet must have time to grow, And spread and burnish as his brothers do. Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is curst, But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first. Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays, Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise, That he may get more bulk before he dies; He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice. Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge, He may grow up to write, and you to judge.