Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN EVENING'S LOVE, OR THE MOCK ASTROLOGER: EPILOGUE, by JOHN DRYDEN



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN EVENING'S LOVE, OR THE MOCK ASTROLOGER: EPILOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: My part being small, I have had time to-day
Last Line: And please you to a height, or not at all.
Subject(s): Plays & Playwrights ; Poetry & Poets; Writing & Writers; Dramatists


My Part being small, I have had time to day
To mark your various censures of our Play.
First, looking for a Judgement or a Wit,
Like Jews, I saw 'em scatter'd through the Pit;
And where a lot of Smilers lent an Ear
To one that talk'd, I knew the Foe was there.
The Club of jests went round; he, who had none,
Borrow'd o' th' next, and told it for his own.
Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,
In whisp'ring that he stole th'Astrologer;
And said, betwixt a French and English Plot,
He eased his halfe-tir'd Muse, on Pace and Trot.
Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o'er, and warm
In the French stoop, and the pull-back o' th' Arm:
Morbleu dit il, and cocks, I am a Rogue,
But he has quitespoil'd the fein'd Astrologue.
'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir
With a Son of a Whore, Farce that's regular,
A Rule, where nothing must decorum shock!
Dam'me, 'ts as dull as Dining by the Clock.
An Evening! why the Devil should we be vext,
Whether he gets the Wench this night or next?
When I heard this, I to the Poet went,
Told him the House was full of Discontent,
And ask'd him what excuse he could invent.
He neither swore nor storm'd, as Poets do,
But, most unlike an Author, vow'd 'twas true;
Yet said, he used the French like Enemies,
And did not steal their Plots, but made 'em Prize.
But should he all the pains and charges count
Of taking 'em, the Bill so high wou'd mount,
That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come,
He should have had 'em much more cheap at home.
He still must write, and, Banquier-like, each Day
Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay.
When through his hands such sums must yearly run,
You cannot think the Stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there's no mercy for a guilty Muse;
For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall,
And please you to a height, or not at all.





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