Ben Jonson - The New Inn. Epilogue. lyrics

EPILOGUE Plays in themselves have neither Hopes nor Fears; Their Fate is only in their Hearers Ears: If you expect more than you had to night, The Maker is sick, and sad. But do him right; He meant to please you: for he sent things fit, In all the Numbers both the Sense and Wit; If they ha' not miscarried! if they have, All that his faint and faltring Tongue doth crave, Is, that you not impute it to his brain, That's yet unhurt, although set round with pain, It cannot long hold out. All strength must yield. Yet Judgement would the last be i' the field, With a true Poet. He could have hal'd in The Drunkards, and the noises of the Inn, In his last Act; if he had thought it fit To vent you Vapours in the place of Wit: But better 'twas that they should sleep, or spue, Than in the Scene to offend or him or you. This he did think; and this do you forgive: When e're the Carca** dies, this Art will live. And had he liv'd the care of King and Queen, His Art in something more yet had been seen; But Mayors and Sheriffs may yearly fill the Stage: A King's, or Poet's birth do ask an age. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another Epilogue there was, made for the Play, in the Poet's Defence, but the Play liv'd not, in Opinion, to have it spoken. A Jovial Host, and Lord of the New Inn, Clep't the light Heart, with all that past therein, Hath been the Subject of our Play to night, To give the King and Queen, and Court delight. But then we mean the Court above the Stairs, And past the Guard; Men that have more of Ears Then Eyes to judge us: Such as will not hiss Because the Chambermaid was named Cis. We think it would have serv'd our Scene as true, If, as it is, at first we'd call'd her Pru, For any Mystery we there have found, Or magick in the Letters or the sound. She only meant was for a Girl a wit, To whom her Lady did a Province fit: Which she would have discharg'd, and done as well, Had she been christned Joyce, Grace, Doll or Nell. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Just Indignation the Author took at the vulgar Censure of his Play, by some malicious Spectators, begat this following Ode to himself. Come leave the loathed Stage, And the more loathsome Age; Where Pride and impudence (in Faction knit) Usurp the Chair of Wit! Indicting and arraigning every day Something they call a Play. Let their fastidious, vain Commision of the Brain Run on and Rage, sweat, censure and condemn: They were not made for thee, less thou for them. Say that thou pour'st them Wheat, And they will Acorns Eat: 'Twere simple Fury still thy self to wast On such as have no tast. To offer them a surfeit of pure Bread, Whose Appetites are dead! No, give them Grains their Fills, Husks, Draff to drink and swill. If they love Lees, and leave the lusty Wine, Envy them not their Palat's with the Swine. No doubt so mouldy Tale, Like Pericles, and stale As the Sheriffs Crusts, and nasty as his Fish- Scraps, out every Dish Thrown forth, and rak'd into the common Tub, May keep up the Play-Club: There Sweepings do as well As the best order'd Meal. For who the Relish of these Guests will fit, Needs set them but the Alms-basket of Wit. And much good do't you then: Brave Plush, and Velvet-men, Can feed on Ort: and safe in your Stage-cloths, Dare quit upon your Oaths, The Stagers and the Stage-wrights too (your Peers) Of larding your large Ears With their foul comick Socks; Wrought upon twenty Blocks: Which if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch't enough, The Gamesters share your Gilt, and you their Stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take the Alcaick Lute; Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's Lyre; Warm thee by Pindare's Fire: And though thy Nerves be shrunk, and Blood be cold, Ere Years have made thee old; Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their deafeat: As curious Fools, and envious of thy Strain, May blushing swear no Palsie's in thy Brain. But when they hear thee sing The Glories of thy King, His Zeal to God, his just awe o'er Men: They may blood-shaken then, Feel such a Flesh-quake to possess their Powers As they shall cry like ours. In sound of Peace or Wars, No Harp ere hit the Stars, In tuning forth the Acts of his sweet Reign: And raising Charles his Chariot, 'bove his Waine.