The Goblins — John Suckling

Wit in a prologue poets justly mayStyle a new imposition on a play.When Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, rul'd the stage,There scarce were ten good palates in the age;More curious cooks than guests; for men would eat5Most heartily of any kind of meat.And then what strange variety! each playA feast for epicures, and that each day!But mark how oddly it is come about,And how unluckily it now falls out:10The palates are grown higher, number increas'd,And there wants that which should make up the feast;And yet y'are so unconscionable, you'd haveForsooth of late, that which they never gave;Banquets before, and after——15Now pox on him that first good prologue writ!He left a kind of rent-charge upon wit;Which if succeeding poets fail to pay,They forfeit all their worth; and that's their play:Y'have ladies' humours, and y'are grown to that,20You will not like the man, 'less that his boots and hatBe right; no play, unless the prologue beAnd ep'logue writ to curiosity.Well, gentles, 'tis the grievance of the place,And pray consider't, for here's just the case;25The richness of the ground is gone and spent,Men's brains grow barren, and you raise the rent.

Bring them, bring them, bring them in,See, if they have mortal sin:Pinch them as you dance about,10Pinch them, till the truth come out.

Some candles here!65And fill us t'other quart, and fill us,Rogue, drawer, t'other quart.Some small-beer.And for the blue,Give him a cup of sack, 'twill mend his hue.70

Welcome, welcome, mortal wight,To the mansion of the night.Good or bad, thy life discover;5Truly all thy deeds declare;For about thee spirits hover,That can tell, tell what they are.Pinch him, if he speak not true;Pinch him, pinch him black and blue.10

Some drink! what, boy, some drink!Fill it up, fill it up to the brink.30When the pots cry clink,And the pockets chink,Then 'tis a merry world.

To the best, to the best, have at her;And a pox take the woman-hater!—35The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman:Mahu, Mahu is his name.—

Around, around, around.Around, around, around.

A health to the nut-brown lass,With the hazel eyes: let it pass.She that has good eyes,85Has good thighs.Let it pass, let it pass.

As much to the lively grey;'Tis as good i' th' night as day:She that has good eyes,90Has good thighs.Drink away, drink away.

I pledge, I pledge: what ho! some wine!Here's to thine, and to thine!The colours are divine.95

But O the black, the black!Give me as much again, and let't be sack.She that has good eyes,Has good thighs,And, it may be, a better knack.[They knock100

O, what a day was here! Gently, my joys, distil,Lest you should break the vessel you should fill.290

And how, and how, in faith—a pretty plot;And smartly carried through too, was it not?And the devils, how? well; and the fighting?Well too;—— a fool, and't had been just old writing.O, what a monster-wit must that man have,5That could please all which now their twelvepence gave!High characters (cries one); and he would seeThings that ne'er were, nor are, nor ne'er will be.Romances, cries easy souls; and then they swearThe play's well writ, though scarce a good line's there.10The women—O, if Stephen should be kill'd,Or miss the lady, how the plot is spill'd!And into how many pieces a poor playIs taken still before the second day,Like a strange beauty newly come to court!15And, to say truth, good faith, 'tis all the sport.One will like all the ill things in a play,Another some o' th' good, but the wrong way;So that from one poor play there comes t'ariseAt several tables several comedies.20The ill is only here, that 't may fall outIn plays as faces; and who goes aboutTo take asunder, oft destroys (we know)What altogether made a pretty show.