Chapter IX: Prologue

_Beauty like Wit, can only charm when new; Is there no Merit then in being true? Wit rather should an Estimation hold With Wine, which is still best for being old. Judgment in both, with vast Expence and Thought, You from their native Soil, from Paris brought: The Drops that from that sacred Sodom fall, You like industrious Spiders suck up all. Well might the French a Conquest here design, Were but their Swords as dangerous as their Wine. Their Education yet is worse than both; They make our Virgins Nuns, unman our Youth. We that don’t know ‘em, think ‘em Monsters too; And will, because we judge of them by you. You’ll say this once was so, but now you’re grown So wise t’invent new Follies of your own: Their slavish Imitations you disdain; A Pox of Fops that purchase Fame with Pain: You’re no such Fools as first to mount a Wall, Or for your King and Country venture all. With such like grinning Honour ‘twas perchance, Your dull Forefathers first did conquer France. Whilst they have sent us, in Revenge for these, Their Women, Wine, Religion, and Disease. Yet for Religion, it’s not much will down, In this ungirt, unblest, and mutinous Town. Nay, I dare swear, not one of you in seven, E’er had the Impudence to hope for Heaven. In this you’re modest-- But as to Wit, most aim before their time, And he that cannot spell, sets up for Rhyme: They’re Sparks who are of Noise and Nonsense full, At fifteen witty, and at twenty dull; That in the Pit can huff, and talk hard Words, And briskly draw Bamboo instead of Swords: But never yet Rencounter cou’d compare To our late vigorous Tartarian War: Cudgel the Weapon was, the Pit the Field; Fierce was the Hero, and too brave to yield. But stoutest Hearts must bow; and being well can’d, He crys, Hold, hold, you have the Victory gained. All laughing call-- Turn out the Rascal, the eternal Blockhead; --Zounds, crys Tartarian, I am out of Pocket: Half Crown my Play, Sixpence my Orange cast; Equip me that, do you the Conquest boast. For which to lie at ease, a Gathering’s made, And out they turn the Brother of the Blade. --This is the Fruit of Idleness and Ease: Heaven bless the King that keeps the Land in Peace, Or he’ll be sweetly served by such as these_.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

DACIANS.

_Queen of Dacia_. _Orsames_, her Son, kept from his Infancy in a Castle on a Lake, ignorant of his Quality, and of all the World besides; never having seen any human thing save only his old Tutor. _Cleomena_, his Sister, bred up in War, and design’d to reign instead of _Orsames_; the Oracle having foretold the bloody Cruelties should be committed during his short Reign, if ever suffered to wear the Crown. _Honorius_, General of the Army, and Uncle to _Orsames_ and _Cleomena_. _Olympia_, his Daughter, young and beautiful. _Ismenes_ and | Two Rival Princes in love with _Cleomena_. _Artabazes_, | _Geron_, the old Tutor to _Orsames_. _Pimante_, a Fop Courtier. _Arates_, a Courtier. _Semeris_, Woman to _Cleomena_. _Vallentio_, a Colonel of the Army. _Gorel_, a Citizen. Keeper of the Castle. A Druid.

SCYTHIANS.

_King of Scythia_. _Thersander_, his Son, under the Name of _Clemanthis_, when on the _Dacian_ side. _Amintas_, a young Nobleman, belov’d by _Thersander_, and Lover of _Urania_. _Lysander_, Page to _Thersander_. _Urania_, in love with _Amintas_. _Lyces_, a Shepherdess. Pages and Attendants, Courtiers (men and women), Officers, Guards, Soldiers, Huntsmen, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, Assassins, and all a Rabble of the Mobile.

SCENE, the Court of _Dacia_, between the two Armies just before the Town.