the old bachelor-第1部分

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The　Old　Bachelor

by　William　Congreve




Quem　tulit　ad　scenam　ventoso　Gloria　curru；　Exanimat　lentus　spectator；　sedulus　inflat：　Sic　leve；　sic　parvum　est；　animum　quod　laudis　avarum　Subruit；　and　reficit。

HORAT。　　Epist。　I。　lib。　ii。



To　the　Right　Honourable　Charles；　Lord　Clifford　of　Lanesborough；　etc。


My　Lord；It　is　with　a　great　deal　of　pleasure　that　I　lay　hold　on　this　first　occasion　which　the　accidents　of　my　life　have　given　me　of　writing　to　your　lordship：　　for　since　at　the　same　time　I　write　to　all　the　world；　it　will　be　a　means　of　publishing　（what　I　would　have　everybody　know）　the　respect　and　duty　which　I　owe　and　pay　to　you。　　I　have　so　much　inclination　to　be　yours　that　I　need　no　other　engagement。　　But　the　particular　ties　by　which　I　am　bound　to　your　lordship　and　family　have　put　it　out　of　my　power　to　make　you　any　compliment；　since　all　offers　of　myself　will　amount　to　no　more　than　an　honest　acknowledgment；　and　only　shew　a　willingness　in　me　to　be　grateful。

I　am　very　near　wishing　that　it　were　not　so　much　my　interest　to　be　your　lordship's　servant；　that　it　might　be　more　my　merit；　not　that　I　would　avoid　being　obliged　to　you；　but　I　would　have　my　own　choice　to　run　me　into　the　debt：　　that　I　might　have　it　to　boast；　I　had　distinguished　a　man　to　whom　I　would　be　glad　to　be　obliged；　even　without　the　hopes　of　having　it　in　my　power　ever　to　make　him　a　return。

It　is　impossible　for　me　to　come　near　your　lordship　in　any　kind　and　not　to　receive　some　favour；　and　while　in　appearance　I　am　only　making　an　acknowledgment　（with　the　usual　underhand　dealing　of　the　world）　I　am　at　the　same　time　insinuating　my　own　interest。　　I　cannot　give　your　lordship　your　due；　without　tacking　a　bill　of　my　own　privileges。　　'Tis　true；　if　a　man　never　committed　a　folly；　he　would　never　stand　in　need　of　a　protection。　　But　then　power　would　have　nothing　to　do；　and　good　nature　no　occasion　to　show　itself；　and　where　those　qualities　are；　'tis　pity　they　should　want　objects　to　shine　upon。　　I　must　confess　this　is　no　reason　why　a　man　should　do　an　idle　thing；　nor　indeed　any　good　excuse　for　it　when　done；　yet　it　reconciles　the　uses　of　such　authority　and　goodness　to　the　necessities　of　our　follies；　and　is　a　sort　of　poetical　logic；　which　at　this　time　I　would　make　use　of；　to　argue　your　lordship　into　a　protection　of　this　play。　　It　is　the　first　offence　I　have　committed　in　this　kind；　or　indeed；　in　any　kind　of　poetry；　though　not　the　first　made　public；　and　therefore　I　hope　will　the　more　easily　be　pardoned。　　But　had　it　been　acted；　when　it　was　first　written；　more　might　have　been　said　in　its　behalf：　　ignorance　of　the　town　and　stage　would　then　have　been　excuses　in　a　young　writer；　which　now　almost　four　years'　experience　will　scarce　allow　of。　　Yet　I　must　declare　myself　sensible　of　the　good　nature　of　the　town；　in　receiving　this　play　so　kindly；　with　all　its　faults；　which　I　must　own　were；　for　the　most　part；　very　industriously　covered　by　the　care　of　the　players；　for　I　think　scarce　a　character　but　received　all　the　advantage　it　would　admit　of　from　the　justness　of　the　action。

As　for　the　critics；　my　lord；　I　have　nothing　to　say　to；　or　against；　any　of　them　of　any　kind：　　from　those　who　make　just　exceptions；　to　those　who　find　fault　in　the　wrong　place。　　I　will　only　make　this　general　answer　in　behalf　of　my　play　（an　answer　which　Epictetus　advises　every　man　to　make　for　himself　to　his　censurers）；　viz。：　'That　if　they　who　find　some　faults　in　it；　were　as　intimate　with　it　as　I　am；　they　would　find　a　great　many　more。'　　This　is　a　confession；　which　I　needed　not　to　have　made；　but　however；　I　can　draw　this　use　from　it　to　my　own　advantage：　　that　I　think　there　are　no　faults　in　it　but　what　I　do　know；　which；　as　I　take　it；　is　the　first　step　to　an　amendment。

Thus　I　may　live　in　hopes　（sometime　or　other）　of　making　the　town　amends；　but　you；　my　lord；　I　never　can；　though　I　am　ever　your　lordship's　most　obedient　and　most　humble　servant；

WILL。　CONGREVE。



To　Mr。　Congreve。



When　virtue　in　pursuit　of　fame　appears；　And　forward　shoots　the　growth　beyond　the　years。　We　timely　court　the　rising　hero's　cause；　And　on　his　side　the　poet　wisely　draws；　Bespeaking　him　hereafter　by　applause。　The　days　will　come；　when　we　shall　all　receive　Returning　interest　from　what　now　we　give；　Instructed　and　supported　by　that　praise　And　reputation　which　we　strive　to　raise。　Nature　so　coy；　so　hardly　to　be　wooed；　Flies；　like　a　mistress；　but　to　be　pursued。　O　Congreve！　boldly　follow　on　the　chase：　She　looks　behind　and　wants　thy　strong　embrace：　She　yields；　she　yields；　surrenders　all　her　charms；　Do　you　but　force　her　gently　to　your　arms：　Such　nerves；　such　graces；　in　your　lines　appear；　As　you　were　made　to　be　her　ravisher。　Dryden　has　long　extended　his　command；　By　right　divine；　quite　through　the　muses'　land；　Absolute　lord；　and　holding　now　from　none；　But　great　Apollo；　his　undoubted　crown。　That　empire　settled；　and　grown　old　in　power　Can　wish　for　nothing　but　a　successor：　Not　to　enlarge　his　limits；　but　maintain　Those　provinces；　which　he　alone　could　gain。　His　eldest　Wycherly；　in　wise　retreat；　Thought　it　not　worth　his　quiet　to　be　great。　Loose；　wand'ring　Etherege；　in　wild　pleasures　tost；　And　foreign　int'rests；　to　his　hopes　long　lost：　Poor　Lee　and　Otway　dead！　　Congreve　appears；　The　darling；　and　last　comfort　of　his　years。　May'st　thou　live　long　in　thy　great　master's　smiles；　And　growing　under　him；　adorn　these　isles。　But　whenwhen　part　of　him　（be　that　but　late）　His　body　yielding　must　submit　to　fate；　Leaving　his　deathless　works　and　thee　behind　（The　natural　successor　of　his　mind）；　Then　may'st　thou　finish　what　he　has　begun：　Heir　to　his　merit；　be　in　fame　his　son。　What　thou　hast　done；　shews　all　is　in　thy　pow'r；　And　to　write　better；　only　must　write　more。　'Tis　something　to　be　willing　to　commend；　But　my　best　praise　is；　that　I　am　your　friend；

THO。　SOUTHERNE。



To　Mr。　Congreve。



The　danger's　great　in　these　censorious　days；　When　critics　are　so　rife　to　venture　praise：　When　the　infectious　and　ill…natured　brood　Behold；　and　damn　the　work；　because　'tis　good；　And　with　a　proud；　ungenerous　spirit；　try　To　pass　an　ostracism　on　poetry。　But　you；　my　friend；　your　worth　does　safely　bear　Above　their　spleen；　you　have　no　cause　for　fear；　Like　a　well…mettled　hawk；　you　took　your　flight　Quite　out　of　reach；　and　almost　out　of　sight。　As　the　strong　sun；　in　a　fair　summer's　day；　You　rise；　and　drive　the　mists　and　clouds　away；　The　owls　and　bats；　and　all　the　birds　of　prey。　Each　line　of　yours；　like　polished　steel's　so　hard；　In　beauty　safe；　it　wants　no　other　guard。　Nature　herself's　beholden　to　your　dress；　Which　though　still　like；　much　fairer　you　express。　Some　vainly　striving　honour　to　obtain；　Leave　to　their　heirs　the　traffic　of　their　brain：　Like　China　under　ground；　the　ripening　ware；　In　a　long　time；　perhaps　grows　worth　our　care。　But　you　now　reap　the　fame；　so　well　you've　sown；　The　planter　tastes　his　fruit　to　ripeness　grown。　As　a　fair　orange…tree　at　once　is　seen　Big　with　what's　ripe；　yet　springing　still　with　green；　So　at　one　time；　my　worthy　friend　appears；　With　all　the　sap　of　youth；　and　weight　of　years。　Accept　my　pious　love；　as　forward　zeal；　Which　though　it　ruins　me　I　can't　conceal：　Exposed　to　censure　for　my　weak　applause；　I'm　pleased　to　suffer　in　so　just　a　cause；　And　though　my　offering　may　unworthy　prove；　Take；　as　a　friend；　the　wishes　of　my　love。

J。　MARSH。



To　Mr。　Congreve；　on　his　play　called　The　Old　Bachelor。



Wit；　like　true　gold；　refined　from　all　allay；　Immortal　is；　and　never　can　decay：　'Tis　in　all　times　and　languages　the　same；　Nor　can　an　ill　translation　quench　the　flame：　For；　though　the　form　and　fashion　don't　remain；　The　intrinsic　value　still　it　will　retain。　Then　let　each　studied　scene　be　writ　with　art；　And　judgment　sweat　to　form　the　laboured　part。　Each　character　be　just；　and　nature　seem：　Without　th'　ingredient；　wit；　'tis　all　but　phlegm：　For　that's　the　soul；　which　all　the　mass　must　move；　And　wake　our　passions　into　grief　or　love。　But　you；　too　bounteous；　sow　your　wit　so　thick；　We　are　surprised；　and　know　not　where　to　pick；　And　while　with　clapping　we　are　just　to　you；　Ourselves　we　injure；　and　lose　something　new。　What　mayn't　we　then；　great　youth；　of　thee　presage；　Whose　art　and　wit　so　much　transcend　thy　age？　How　wilt　thou　shine　at　thy　meridian　height；　Who；　at　thy　rising；　giv'st　so　vast　a　light？　When　Dryden　dying　shall　the　world　deceive；　Whom　we　immortal；　as　his　works；　believe；　Thou　shalt　succeed；　the　glory　of　the　stage；　Adorn　and　entertain　the　coming　age。

BEVIL。　HIGGONS。



PROLOGUE　INTENDED　FOR　THE　OLD　BACHELOR。　Written　by　the　Lord　Falkland。



Most　authors　on　the　stage　at　first　appear　Like　widows'　bridegrooms；　full　of　doubt　and　fear：　They　judge；　from　the　experience　of　the　dame；　How　hard　a　task　it　is　to　quench　her　flame；　And　who　falls　short　of　furnishing　a　course　Up　to　his　brawny　predecessor's　force；　With　utmost　rage　from　her　embraces　thrown；　Remains　convicted　as　an　empty　drone。　Thus　often；　to　his　shame；　a　pert　beginner　Proves　in　the　end　a　miserable　sinner。　As　for　our　youngster；　I　am　apt　to　doubt　him；　With　all　the　vigour　of　his　youth　about　him；　But　he；　more　sanguine；　trusts　in　one　and　twenty；　And　impudently　hopes　he　shall　content　you：　For　though　his　bachelor　be　worn　and　cold；　He　thinks　the　young　may　club　to　help　the　old；　And　what　alone　can　be　achieved　by　neither；　Is　often　brought　about　by　both　together。　The　briskest　of　you　all　have　felt　alarms；　Finding　the　fair　one　prostitute　her　charms　With　broken　sighs；　in　her　old　fumbler's　arms：　But　for　our　spark；　he　swears　he'll　ne'er　be　jealous　Of　any　rivals；　but　young　lusty　fellows。　Faith；　let　him　try　his　chance；　and　if　the　slave；　After　his　bragging；　prove　a　washy　knave；　May　he　be　banished　to　some　lonely　den　And　never　more　have　leave　to　dip　his　pen。　But　if　he　be　the　champion　he　pretends；　Both　sexes　sure　will　join　to　be　his　friends；　For　all　agree；　where　all　can　have　their　ends。　And　you　must　own　him　for　a　man　of　might；　If　he　holds　out　to　please　you　the　third　night。



PROLOGUE。　Spoken　by　Mrs。　Bracegirdle。



How　this　vile　world　is　changed！　　In　former　days　Prologues　were　serious　speeches　before　plays；　Grave；　solemn　things；　as　graces　are　to　feasts；　Where　poets　begged　a　blessing　from　their　guests。　But　now　no　more　like　suppliants　we　come；　A　play　makes　war；　and　prologue　is　the　drum。　Armed　with　keen　satire　and　with　pointed　wit；　We　threaten　you　who　do