silent graces in the action, than he who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the situation of places, and the nature of the soil. The purity of phrase, the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts, which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a play may take. For, if either the story move us, or the actor help the lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time is the surest judge of truth. I am not vain enough to think that I have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover; neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this nature. There are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to any judicious man, that with half the pains I could have raised a play from either of them; for this time I satisfied my humour, which was to tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of variety. The truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued melancholy scenes; and I dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies, except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn without the fiddles. But how difficult a task this is, will soon be tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage. Neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a

tragedy end happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. The dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will require the art and judgment of a writer, and cost him many a pang in the performance.

And now, my lord, I must confess, that what I have written, looks more like a Preface, than a Dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my design, that I might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of fulsome panegyrics. It is difficult to write justly on any thing, but almost impossible in praise. I shall therefore waive so nice a subject; and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a protestant patron, as I do myself an honour, so I do your noble family a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our religion and liberties. And if the promises of your youth, your education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true Englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of

Your lordship's

Most obedient, faithful servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

PROLOGUE.

Now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit;
For he, who pleases, never fails of wit:
Honour is yours;

And you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it;
The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet;
But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;
You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow :
You cry the same sense up, and down again,
Just like brass-money once a year in Spain:
Take you in the mood, whate'er base metal come,
You.coin as fast as groats at Birmingham:
Though 'tis no more like sense, in ancient plays,
Than Rome's religion like St Peter's days.
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did range,
But e'en your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of our age

Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage;
Unless each vice in short-hand they indict,

Even as notch'd prentices whole sermons write.*
The heavy Hollanders no vices know,

But what they used a hundred years ago;

Like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow.
They cheat, but still from cheating sires they come;
They drink, but they were christen'd first in mum.
Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep,
And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.

The French and we still change; but here's the curse,
They change for better, and we change for worse;
They take up our old trade of conquering,
And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing:
Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,
And they, for change, will try our English air;

*It was anciently a part of the apprentice's duty, not only to carry the family Bible to church, but to take notes of the sermon for the edification of his master or mistress.

As children, when they throw one toy away,
Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play:
So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,
Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking.
Scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit,
Now we set up for tilting in the pit,

Where 'tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made,
To hire night murderers, and make death a trade.*
When murder's out, what vice can we advance ?
Unless the new-found poisoning trick of France.
And, when their art of rats-bane we have got,
By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our Plot.

Alluding apparently to the assassination of Thomas Thynne, Esq. in PallMall, by the hired bravoes of Count Coningsmark.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

TORRISMOND, Son of SANCHO, the deposed King, believing himself Son of RAYMOND.

BERTRAN, a Prince of the blood.

ALPHONSO, a general Officer, Brother to RAY