PROLOGUE.

THE time has been when plays were not so plenty,
And a less number now would well content ye;
New plays did then like almanacs appear,
And one was thought sufficient for a year:
Though they are more like almanacs of late;
For in one year, I think, they're out of date.
Nor were they without reason join'd together;
For, just as one prognosticates the weather,
How plentiful the crops, or scarce the grain,
What peals of thunder, and what show'rs of rain;
So t'other can foretel, by certain rules,

What crowds of coxcombs, or what floods of fools.
In such like prophecies were poets skill'd,
Which now they find in their own tribe fulfill'd:
The dearth of wit they did so long presage,
Is fall'n on us, and almost starves the stage.
Were you not griev'd as often as you saw
Poor actors thrash such empty sheaves of straw?
Toiling and lab'ring, at their lungs' expense,
To start a jest, or force a little sense.
Hard fate for us! still harder in th' event;
Our authors sin, but we alone repent.

Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse,
"Twere some amends if they could reimburse:
But there's the devil, though their cause is lost,
There's no recov'ring damages or cost.

Good wits, forgive this liberty we take,
Since custom gives the losers leave to speak.
But if, provok'd, your dreadful wrath remains,
Take your revenge upon the coming scenes:
For that damn'd poet's spar'd who damns a brother,
As one thief 'scapes that executes another.
Thus far alone does to the wits relate;
But from the rest we hope a better fate.

To please and move has been our poet's theme,
Art may direct, but nature is his aim;
And nature miss'd, in vain he boasts his art,
For only nature can affect the heart.

Then freely judge the scenes that shall ensue,
But as with freedom, judge with candour too.
He would not lose through prejudice his cause,
Nor would obtain precariously applause.
Impartial censure he requests from all,
Prepar'd by just decrees to stand or fall.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

As originally acted at Lincoln's-inn Fields, 1697.

SCENE I. A Room of State.

The Curtain rising slowly to soft Music, discovers ALMERIA in Mourning, LEONORA waiting. ALMERIA rises and comes forward.

Alm. MUSIC has charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read that things inanimate have mov'd, And, as with living souls, have been inform'd, By magic numbers and persuasive sound. What then am I? Am I more senseless grown Than trees or flint? O, force of constant woe! "Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace; last night The silent tomb receiv'd the good old king; He and his sorrows now are safely lodg'd Within its cold, but hospitable bosom. Why am not I at peace?

Leon. Dear madam, cease,

Or moderate your grief; there is no cause

Alm. No cause! Peace, peace! there is eternal cause

And misery eternal will succeed.
Thou canst not tell-thou hast indeed no cause.
Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo,
And always did compassionate his fortune:
Have often wept, to see how cruelly

Your father kept in chains his fellow king:
And oft at night, when all have been retir'd,
Have stol'n from bed, and to his prison crept,
Where, while his gaoler slept, I through the grate
Have softly whisper'd, and inquir'd his health,
Sent in my sighs and pray'rs for his deliv'rance;
For sighs and pray'rs were all that I could offer.
Alm. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature,
That thus could melt to see a stranger's wrongs.
O, Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo,
How would thy heart have bled to see his suff'rings!
Thou hadst no cause but general compassion.

Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause,
My love of you begot my grief for him;
For I had heard that when the chance of war
Had bless'd Anselmo's arms with victory,
And the rich spoil of all the field, and you,
The glory of the whole, were made the prey
Of his success,

He did endear himself to your affection,
By all the worthy and indulgent ways

His most industrious goodness could invent;
Proposing, by a match between Alphonso
His son, the brave Valencian prince, and you,
To end the long dissension, and unite
The jarring crowns.

Alm. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court?
Or there, why was I us'd so tenderly?

Why not ill treated, like an enemy?

For so my father would have us'd his child.

O, Alphonso, Alphonso!

Devouring seas have wash'd thee from my sight,

No time shall rase thee from my memory;

No, I will live to be thy monument:

The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb;