PROLOGUE TO THE REVIV'D ALCHEMIST.

THE Alchemist; Fire, breeding Gold, our Theme:

Here must no Melancholie be, nor Flegm.
Young Ben, not Old, writ this, when in his Prime,
Solid in Judgment, and in Wit sublime.
The Sisters, who at Thespian Springs their Blood
Cool with fresh Streams, All, in a Merry Mood,
Their wat'ry Cups, and Pittances declin'd,
At Bread-street's Mer-maid with our Poët din'd:
Where, what they Drank, or who plaid most the Rig,
Fame modestly conceals: but He grew big
Of this pris'd Issue; when a Jovial Maid,
His Brows besprinkling with Canarie, said.

Pregnant by Us, produce no Mortal Birth;
Thy active Soul, quitting the sordid Earth,
Shall mongst Heav'ns glitt'ring Hieroglyphicks trade,
And Pegasus, our winged Sumpter, jade,
Who from Parnassus never brought to Greece,
Nor Romane Stage, so rare a Master-piece.

This Story, true or false, may well be spar'd;
The Actors are in question, not the Bard:
How they shall humour their oft-varied Parts,
To get your Money, Company, and Hearts,
Since all Tradition, and like Helps are lost.

Reading our Bill new pasted on the Post,
Grave Stagers both, one, to the other said,
The ALCHEMIST? What! are the Fellows mad?
Who shall Doll Common Act? Their tender Tibs
Have neither Lungs, nor Confidence, nor Ribs.

Who Face, and Subtle? Parts, all Air, and Fire:
They, whom the Authour did Himself inspire,
Taught, Line by Line, each Tittle, Accent, Word,
Ne're reach'd His Height; all after, more absurd,
Shadows of fainter Shadows, wheresoe're
A Fox he pencil'd, copied out a Bear.

Encouragement for young Beginners small:
Yet howsoe're we'll venture; have at All.
Bold Ignorance (they say) falls seldome short
In Camp, the Countrey, City, or the Court.

Arm'd with the Influence of your fair Aspects,
Our Selves we'll conquer, and our own Defects.
A thousand Eyes dart raies into our Hearts,
Would make Stones speak, and Stocks play well their Parts:
Some few Malignant Beams we need not fear,
Where shines such Glory in so bright a Sphere.