any take his plainness in ill part,
He’s glad on’t from the bottom of his heart;
Poets in honour of the truth should write,
With the same spirit brave men for it fight:
And though against him causeless hatreds rise,
And daily where he goes of late, he spies
The scowls of sullen and revengeful eyes;
‘Tis what he knows with much contempt to bear,
And serves a cause too good to let him fear:
He fears no poison from an incensed drab,
No ruffian’s five-foot sword, nor rascal’s stab;
Nor any other snares of mischief laid,
Not a Rose-alley cudgel-ambuscade,
From any private cause where malice reigns,
Or general pique all blockheads have to brains:
Nothing shall daunt his pen when Truth does call.
No, not the picture mangler at Guildhall.
The rebel tribe, of which that vermin’s one,
Have now set forward and their course begun;
And while that Prince’s figure they deface,
As they before had massacred his name,
Durst their base fears but look him in the face,
They’d use his Person as they’ve used his fame;
A face, in which such lineaments they read
Of that great Martyr’s, whose rich blood they shed.
That their rebellious hate they still retain,
And in his Son would murther Him again:
With indignation then, let each brave heart,
Rouse and unite to take his injured part;
Till royal love and goodness call him home,
And songs of triumph meet him as he come;
Till Heaven his honour and our peace restore,
And villains never wrong his virtue more.

APPENDIX

PROLOGUE

To His Royal Highness

Upon his first appearance at the Duke’s Theatre

since his Return from Scotland

Written by Mr. Dryden.

Spoken by Mr. Smith.

In those cold Regions which no Summers chear,
When brooding darkness covers half the year,
To hollow Caves the shivering Natives go;
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of Snow:
But when the tedious Twilight wears away,
And stars grow paler at th’ approach of Day,
The longing Crowds to frozen Mountains run,
Happy who first can see the glimmering Sun!
The surly Salvage Offspring disappear;
And curse the bright Successour of the year.
Yet, though rough Bears in Covert seek defence,
White Foxes stay, with seeming Innocence:
That crafty kind with daylight can dispense.
Still we are throng’d so full with Reynard’s race,
That Loyal Subjects scarce can find a place:
Thus modest Truth is cast behind the Crowd:
Truth speaks too Low; Hypocrisie too Loud.
Let ’em be first, to flatter in success;
Duty can stay; but Guilt has need to press.
Once, when true Zeal the Sons of God did call,
To make their solemn show at Heaven’s White-hall,
The fawning Devil appear’d among the rest,
And made as good a Courtier as the best.
The friends of Job, who rail’d at him before,
Came Cap in hand when he had three time more.
Yet late Repentance may, perhaps, be true;
Kings can forgive if Rebels can but sue:
A Tyrant’s Pow’r in rigour is exprest:
The Father yearns in the true Prince’s Breast.
We grant an Ore’grown Whig no grace can mend;
But most are Babes, that know not they offend.
The Crowd, to restless motion still enclin’d,
Are Clouds, that rack according to the Wind.
Driv’n by their Chiefs, they storms of Hailstones pour:
Then mourn, and soften to a silent showre.
O welcome to this much offending Land
The Prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus Angels on Glad Messages appear:
Their first salute commands us not to fear:
Thus Heav’n, that cou’d constrain us to obey,
(With rev’rence if we might presume to say,)
Seems to relax the rights of Sov’reign sway;
Permits to Man the choice of Good and Ill;
And makes us Happy by our own Free-will.

The Epilogue

Written by Mr. Otway to his Play call’d Venice Preserv’d, or, A Plot Discover’d; spoken upon his Royal Highness the Duke of York’s coming to the Theatre, Friday, April 21, 1682