So shipwreck’d passengers escape to land,
  So look they, when on the bare beach they stand,
  Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o’er,
  Expecting famine on a desert shore. 
  From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
  Whence even the natives, forced by hunger, fled. 
  Our stage does human chance present to view,
  But ne’er before was seen so sadly true: 
  You are changed too, and your pretence to see
  Is but a nobler name for charity. 10
  Your own provisions furnish out our feasts,
  While you the founders make yourselves the guests. 
  Of all mankind beside fate had some care,
  But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,
  ’Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair. 
  You cherish’d it, and now its fall you mourn,
  Which blind unmanner’d zealots make their scorn,
  Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
  Which spared not temples in its furious rage. 
  But as our new-built city rises higher, 20
  So from old theatres may new aspire,
  Since fate contrives magnificence by fire. 
  Our great metropolis does far surpass
  Whate’er is now, and equals all that was: 
  Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
  And, like a king, should in a palace dwell. 
  But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
  Talk high, and entertain you in a shed: 
  Your presence here, for which we humbly sue,
  Will grace old theatres, and build up new. 30

* * * * *

X.

EPILOGUE TO THE SECOND PART OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA.

  They who have best succeeded on the stage,
  Have still conform’d their genius to their age. 
  Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show,
  When men were dull, and conversation low. 
  Then comedy was faultless, but ’twas coarse: 
  Cobb’s tankard was a jest, and Otter’s horse. 
  And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
  Except, by chance, in some one labour’d scene,
  Which must atone for an ill-written play. 
  They rose, but at their height could seldom stay. 10
  Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
  And they have kept it since, by being dead. 
  But, were they now to write, when critics weigh
  Each line, and every word, throughout a play,
  None of them, no not Jonson in his height,
  Could pass, without allowing grains for weight. 
  Think it not envy, that these truths are told: 
  Our poet’s not malicious, though he’s bold. 
  ’Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown,
  But, by their errors, to excuse his own. 20
  If love and honour now are higher raised,
  ’Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.