Ben Jonson - The Staple of News - Prologue lyrics

T H E I N D u C T I O N. The P R O L O G U E enters. After him, Gossip Mirth, Gossip Tattle, Gossip Expectation, and Gossip Censure, Four Gentlewomen, Lady-like attired. For your own sake, not ours — Mirth. Come Gossip, be not asham'd. The Play is the Staple of News, and you are the Mistris andLady of Tattle; let's ha' your Opinion of it. Do you hear, Gentleman? what are you? Gentleman-Usher to the Play? Pray you help us to some Stools here. Prologue. VVhere? o' the Stage, Ladies? Mirth. Yes, o' the Stage; we are Persons of Quality, I a**ure you, and VVomen of Fashion; and come to see, and to be seen. My Gossip Tattle here, and Gossip Expectation, and my Gossip Censure, and I am Mirth, the Daughter ofChristmas, and Spirit of Shrovetide. They say, It's mer- ry when Gossips meet; I hope your Play will be a merry one. Prologue. Or you will make it such, Ladies. Bring a Form here. But what will the Noblemen think, or the grave VVits here, to see you seated on the Bench thus? Mirth. VVhy, what should they think? but that they had Mothers, as we had; and those Mothers had Gossips (if their Children were christned) as we are; and such as had a long- ing to see Plays, and sit upon them, as we do, and arraign both them and their Poets. Prologue. O! Is that your purpose? VVhy, Mrs. Mirth, and Madam Tattle, enjoy your Delights freely. Tattle. Look your News be new and fresh, Mr. Pro- logue, and untainted; I shall find them else, if they be stale, or fly-blown, quickly. Prologue. VVe ask no Favour from you; only we would entreat of Madam Expectation —— Expectation. VVhat, Mr. Prologue? Prologue. That your Ladiship would expect no more than you understand. Expectation. Sir, I can expect enough! Prologue. I fear, to much, Lady, and teach others to do the like. Expectation. I can do that too, if I have cause. Prologue. Cry you mercy, you never did wrong, but with just cause. VVhat's this, Lady? Mirth. Curiosity, my Lady Censure. Prologue. O, Curiosity! You come to see who wears the new Sute to day; whose Clothes are best penn'd, whatever the part be; which Actor has the best Leg and Foot; whatKing plays without Cuffs, and his Queen without Gloves; who rides Post in Stockings, and dances in Boots. Censure. Yes, and which amorous Prince makes love in drink, or does over-act prodigiously in beaten Sattin, and, having got the trick on't, will be monstrous still, in despite of Counsel. Book-holder. Mend you Lights, Gentlemen. Master Prologue, begin. [The Tire-men enter to mend the Lights. Tattle. Ay me! Expectation. VVho's that? Prologue. Nay, start not, Ladies; these carry no Fire- works to fright you, but a Torch i' their Hands, to give Light to the Business. The truth is, there are a Set of Gamesters within, in travel of a thing call'd a Play, and would fain be deliver'd of it: and they have entreated me to be their Man-Midwife, the Prologue; for they are like to have a hard Labour on't. Tattle. Then the Poet has abus'd himself, like an Ass as he is. Mirth. No, his Actors will abuse him enough, or I am deceiv'd. Yonder he is within (I was i' the Tiring-house a while to see the Actors drest) rolling himself up and down like a Tun, i' the midst of 'em, and spurges, never did Vessel of Wort or Wine work so! His Sweating put me in mind of a good Shroving Dish (and I believe would be taken up for a Service of State somewhere, an't were known) a stew'dPoet! He doth sit like an unbrac'd Drum, with one of his Heads beaten out; for that you must note, a Poet hath two Heads, as a Drum has; one for making, the other repeating; and his repeating Head is all to pieces; they may gather it up i' the Tiring-house; for he hath torn the Book in a Poetical Fury, and put himself to silence in dead Sack, which, were there no other Vexation, were sufficient to make him the most miserable Emblem of Patience. Censure. The Prologue, peace. The P R O L O G U E for the S T A G E. For your own sakes, not his, he bad me say, Would you were come to hear, not see a Play. Though we, his Actors, must provide for those Who are our Guests here, in the way of Shows, The Maker hath not so; he'ld have you wise, Much rather by your Ears, than by your Eyes; And prays, you'll not prejudge his Play for ill, Because you mark it not, and sit not still; But have a Longing to salute, or talk With such a Female, and from her to walk With your Discourse, to what is done, and where, How, and by whom, in all the Town, but here. Alas! what is it to his Scene, to know How many Coaches in Hide-park did show Last Spring, what Fare to day at Medley's was, If Dunstan or the Phœnix best Wine has? They are things ---- But yet the Stage might stand as well, If it did neither hear these things, nor tell. Great noble Wits, be good unto your selves, And make a difference 'twixt Poetick Elves, And Poets: All that dabble in the Ink, And defile Quills, are not those few, can think, Conceive, express, and steer the Souls of Men, As with a Rudder, round thus, with their Pen. He must be one that can instruct your Youth, And keep your Acme in the state of Truth, Must enterprise this Work; mark but his Ways, What Flight he makes, how new: And then he says, If that not like you, that he sends to night, 'Tis you have left to judge, not he to write. The P R O L O G U E for the C O U R T. A Work not smelling of the Lamp, to night, But fitted for your Majesty's Disport, And writ to the Meridian of Your Court, We bring; and hope it may produce Delight: The rather, being offered as a Rite, To Scholars, that can judge, and fair report The Sense they hear, above the vulgar sort Of Nut-crackers, that only come for sight. Wherein, although our Title, Sir, be News; We yet adventure here to tell You none; But shew You Common Follies, and so known, That though they are not Truths, th' innocent Muse Hath made so like, as Phant'sie could them state, Or Poetry, without Scandal, imitate.