EPILOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1673 by JOHN DRYDEN

No poor @3Dutch@1 Peasant, wing'd with all his Fear,
Flies with more haste, when the @3French@1 Arms draw near,
Than we with our Poetique Train come down,
For Refuge hither from th' infected Town;
Heaven for our Sins this Summer has thought fit
To visit us with all the Plagues of Wit.
A @3French@1 Troop first swept all things in its way;
But those hot @3Monsieurs@1 were too quick to stay;
Yet, to our Cost, in that short time, we find
They left their Itch of Novelty behind.
Th' @3Italian@1 Merry-Andrews took their place,
And quite debauch'd the Stage with lewd Grimace:
Instead of Wit and Humours, your Delight
Was there to see two Hobby-horses fight,
Stout @3Scaramoucha@1 with Rush Lance rode in,
And ran a Tilt at Centaure @3Arlequin.@1
For Love you heard how amorous Asses bray'd,
And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade.
Nature was out of Countenance, and each Day
Some new-born Monster shewn you for a Play.
But when all fail'd, to strike the Stage quite dumb,
Those wicked Engines, call'd Machines, are come.
Thunder and Lightning now for Wit are play'd.
And shortly Scenes in @3Lapland@1 will be lay'd:
Art Magique is for Poetry profest,
And Cats and Dogs, and each obscener Beast
To which @3AEgyptian@1 Dotards once did bow,
Upon our @3English@1 Stage are worshipp'd now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to Renown
@3Macbeth,@1 the @3Simon Magus@1 of the town.
@3Fletcher's@1 despis'd, your @3Johnson@1 out of Fashion,
And Wit the onely Drug in all the Nation.
In this low Ebb our Wares to you are shown,
By you those Staple Authours Worth is known;
For Wit's a Manufacture of your own.
When you, who only can, their scenes have prais'd,
We'll boldly back, and say their Price is rais'd.

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