Prologue to the University of Oxford

hat kings henceforth shall reign, what states be free Is fix'd at length by Anna's just decree; Whose brows the Muse's sacred wreath shall fit Is left to you the arbiters of wit. With beating hearts the rival poets wait Till you Athenians shall decide their fate, Secure when to these learned seats they come Of equal judgment and impartial doom. Poor is the player's fame, whose whole renown Is but the praise of a capricious town, While with mock majesty and fancy'd pow'r He struts in robes, the monarch of an hour! Oft' wide of nature must he act a part, Make love in tropes, in bombast break his heart, In turn and simile resign his breath, And rhyme and quibble in the pangs of death. We blush when plays like these receive applause, And laugh in secret at the tears we cause, With honest scorn our own success disdain, A worthless honour and inglorious gain. No trifling scenes at Oxford shall appear; Well what we blush to act may you to hear. To you our fam'd our standard plays we bring, The work of poets whom you taught to sing; Tho' crown'd with fame they dare not think it due, Nor take the laurel till bestow'd by you. Great Cato's self, the glory of the stage! Who charms, corrects, exalts, and fires, the age, Begs here he may be try'd by Roman laws; To you, O Fathers! he submits his cause: He rests not in the people's gen'ral voice Till you the senate have confirm'd his choice. Fine is the secret, delicate the art, To wind the passions and command the heart! For fancy'd ills to force our tears to flow, And make the gen'rous soul in love with wo, To raise the shades of heroes to our view, Rebuild fall'n empires and old time renew, How hard the task! how rare the godlike rage! None should presume to dictate for the stage But such as boast a great extensive mind, Enrich'd by Nature and by Art refin'd, Who from the ancient stores their knowledge bring, And tasted early of the Muse's spring. May none pretend upon her throne to sit But such as sprung from you are born to wit: Chosen by the mob their lawless claim we slight; Your's is the old hereditary right.