To

ALBUMAZAR.

The old Play, to which this prologue was prefixed upon its revival, was originally acted in 1634, three or four years after the appearance of Jonson's "Alchemist;" to which, therefore, it could not possibly afford any hint. Dryden, observing the resemblance between the plays, took the plagiarism for granted, because the style of "Albumazar" is certainly the most antiquated. This appearance of antiquity is, however, only a consequence of the vein of pedantry which runs through the whole piece. It was written by ---- Tomkins, a scholar of Trinity College, and acted before King James VI. by the gentlemen of that house, 9th March, 1614. It is, upon the whole, a very excellent play; yet the author, whether consulting his own taste, or that of our British Solomon, before whom it was to be represented, has contrived to give it an air of such learned stiffness, that it much more resembles the translation of a play from Terence or Plautus, than an original English composition. By this pedantic affectation, the humour of the play is completely smothered; and although there are several very excellent comic situations in the action, yet neither the attempt to revive it in Dryden's time, nor those which followed in 1748 and 1773, met with any success.

As Dryden had imputed, very rashly, however, and groundlessly, the guilt of plagiarism to Jonson, he made this supposed crime the introduction to a similar slur on Shadwell, who at that time seems to have been possessed of the laurel; a circumstance which ascertains the date of the prologue to be posterior to the Revolution.

To say this comedy pleased long ago, Is not enough to make it pass you now. Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit, When few men censured, and when fewer writ. And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this, As the best model of his master-piece: Subtle was got by our Albumazar, That Alchymist by this Astrologer; Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose, He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes. But Ben made nobly his what he did mould; What was another's lead, becomes his gold: Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns, Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains. But this our age such authors does afford, As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word; Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all, And what's their plunder, their possession call; Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey, But rob by sun-shine, in the face of day: Nay, scarce the common ceremony use Of, "Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;" But knock the poet down, and, with a grace, Mount Pegasus before the owner's face. Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad, 'Tis time for all true men to leave that road. Yet it were modest, could it but be said, They strip the living, but these rob the dead; Dare with the mummies of the Muses play, And make love to them the Egyptian way; Or, as a rhiming author would have said, Join the dead living to the living dead. Such men in poetry may claim some part, They have the license, though they want the art; And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand; Poets, not of the head, but of the hand. They make the benefits of others studying, Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding, Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage; 'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i'the porridge. But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this; You are in fault for what they do amiss; For they their thefts still undiscovered think, And durst not steal, unless you please to wink. Perhaps, you may award by your decree, They should refund,--but that can never be; For, should you letters of reprisal seal, These men write that which no man else would steal.