PROLOGUE: SPOKEN BY LORD BUCKHURST by MATTHEW PRIOR

PISH, lord, I wish this prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak;
But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play!
No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown;
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends;
Our generous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleased, at least you're treated.
The candles and the clothes ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snored whilst Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confession we would sue
Praise undeserved; we know ourselves and you:
Resolved to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear nor beg applause;
For these are Westminster's and Sparta's laws.
Yet, if we see some judgment well inclined,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorset's spirit.

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