Therefore I will only say in English
what the famous Virgil does in Latin: I make Verses and others have
the Fame. THE ROVER. PART II. PROLOGUE, Spoken by Mr. Smith. IN vain
we labour to reform the Stage, Poets have caught too the Disease o'
th' Age, That Pest, of not being quiet when they're well, That
restless Fever, in the Brethren, Zeal; In publick Spirits call'd, Good
o'th' Commonweal. Some for this Faction cry, others for that, The
pious Mobile for they know not what: So tho by different ways the
Fever seize, In all 'tis one and the same mad Disease. Our Author tool
as all new Zealots do, Full of Conceit and Contradiction too, 'Cause
the first Project took, is now so vain, T' attempt to play the old
Game o'er again: The Scene is only chang'd; for who wou'd lay A Plot,
so hopeful, just the same dull way? Poets, like Statesmen, with a
little change, Pass off old Politicks for new and strange; Tho the few
Men of Sense decry't aloud, The Cheat will pass with the unthinking
Croud: The Rabble 'tis we court, those powerful things, Whose Voices
can impose even Laws on Kings. A Pox of Sense and Reason, or dull
Rules, Give us an Audience that declares for Fools; Our Play will
stand fair: we've Monsters too, Which far exceed your City Pope for
Show. Almighty Rabble, 'tis to you this Day Our humble Author
dedicates the Play, From those who in our lofty Tire sit, Down to the
dull Stage-Cullies of the Pit, Who have much Money, and but little
Wit: Whose useful Purses, and whose empty Skulls To private Int'rest
make ye Publick Tools; To work on Projects which the wiser frame, And
of fine Men of Business get the Name.
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