Volume 10 / Part 3 — PROLOGUE TO THE PROPHETESS. BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. REVIVED By DRYDEN. SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.
Reading edition
"The Prophetess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, even in its original state, required a good deal of machinery; for it contains stage directions for thunder-bolts brandished from on high, and for a chariot drawn through mid air by flying dragons; but it was now altered into an opera, with the addition of songs and scenical decorations, by Betterton, in 1690. Our author wrote the following prologue, to introduce it upon the stage in its altered state. The music was by Henry Purcell, and is said to have merited applause. Rich, whose attachment to scenery and decoration is ridiculed by Pope, revived this piece, and piqued himself particularly upon a set of dancing chairs, which he devised for the nonce.
The prologue gave offence to the court, and was prohibited by the Earl of Dorset, Lord Chamberlain, after the first day's representation. It contains, Cibber remarks, some familiar metaphorical sneers at the Revolution itself; and as the poetry is good, the offence was less pardonable. King William was at this time prosecuting his campaigns in Ireland; and the author not only ridicules the warfare in which he was engaged, and the English volunteers who attended him, but even the government of Queen Mary in his absence.
What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetess? A play, which, like a perspective set right, Presents our vast expences close to sight; But turn the tube, and there we sadly view Our distant gains, and those uncertain too; A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better days. When will our losses warn us to be wise? Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops. We raise new objects to provoke delight, But you grow sated ere the second sight. False men, even so you serve your mistresses; They rise three stories in their towering dress; And, after all, you love not long enough To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off. Never content with what you had before, But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er. Now honour calls you hence; and all your care Is to provide the horrid pomp of war. In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade, Your silver goes, that should support our trade. Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn, Till rich from vanquished rebels you return; And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw, His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh. Go, conquerors of your male and female foes; Men without hearts, and women without hose. Each bring his love a Bogland captive home; Such proper pages will long trains become; With copper collars, and with brawny backs, Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.[400] Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows, And furnish all their laurels for your brows; Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights; We want not poets fit to sing your flights. But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake Those doughty knights such dangers undertake, } When they with happy gales are gone away, } With your propitious presence grace our play, } And with a sigh their empty seats survey; } Then think,—On that bare bench my servant sat! I see him ogle still, and hear him chat; Selling facetious bargains, and propounding That witty recreation, called dum-founding.[401]— Their loss with patience we will try to bear, And would do more, to see you often here; That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes, Under a female regency may rise.