PROLOGUE TO THE COURT
'Tis strange, perchance you'll think, that she, that died
At Christmas, should at Easter be a bride:
But 'tis a privilege the poets have,
To take the long-since dead out of the grave.
Nor is this all; old heroes, asleep5
'Twixt marble coverlets, and six foot deep
In earth, they boldly wake, and make them do
All they did living here—sometimes more too.
They give fresh life, reverse and alter fate,
And (yet more bold) Almighty-like create,10
And out of nothing, only to deify
Reason and Reason's friend, Philosophy:
Fame, honour, valour, all that's great or good—
Or is at least 'mongst us so understood—
They give: heav'n's theirs; no handsome woman dies,15
But, if they please, is straight some star i' th' skies.
But O, how those poor men of metre do
Flatter themselves with that that is not true!
And, 'cause they can trim up a little prose,
And spoil it handsomely, vainly suppose20
They're omnipotent, can do all those things
That can be done only by Gods and kings!
Of this wild guilt he fain would be thought free,
That writ this play; and therefore (sir) by me
He humbly begs you would be pleas'd to know,25
Aglaura's but repriev'd this night; and, though
She now appears upon a poet's call,
She's not to live, unless you say she shall.
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