PROLOGUE.

How hard the fate is of the scribbling drudge,
Who writes to all when yet so few can judge!
Wit, like religion, once divine was thought,
And the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught,
Now each fanatic fool presumes t' explain
The text, and does the sacred writ profane:
For while your wits each other's fall pursue,
The fops usurp the pow'r belongs to you.
You think you're challeng'd in each new play bill,
And here you come for trial of your skill;
Where, fencer like, you one another hurt,
While with your wounds you make the rabble sport.
Others there are that have the brutal will
To murder a poor play, but want the skill.
They love to fight, but seldom have the wit
To spy the place where they may thrust and hit;
And therefore, like some bully of the town,
Ne'er stand to draw, but knock the poet down.
With these, like hogs in gardens, it succeeds,
They root up all, and know not flow'rs from weeds.
As for you, sparks, that hither come each day,
To act your own, and not to mind our play,
Rehearse your usual follies to the pit,

And with loud nonsense drown the stage's wit;
Talk of your clothes, your last debauches tell,
And witty bargains to each other sell;
Glout on the silly she, who, for your sake,
Can vanity and noise for love mistake;
Till the coquette sung in the next lampoon
Is by her jealous friends sent out of town.
For in this duelling, intriguing age,
The love you make is like the war you wage,
You're still prevented e'er you come t' engage.
But 'tis not to such trifling foes as you,
The mighty Alexander deigns to sue;

Ye Persians of the pit he does despise,
But to the man of sense for aid he flies;
On their experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds, if they but prove his friends:
For as he once a little handful chose,

The num'rous armies of the world t' oppose,
So back'd by you, who understand the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools.

Attendants, Slaves, Guards, &c.

SCENE-BABYLON.

Cly.

WHAT, are you madmen? this a time for quar

Put up, I say-or, by the gods that form'd me,
He who refuses makes a foe of Clytus.

Lys. I have his sword.

Cly. But must not have his life.

Lys. Must not? old Clytus!

Cly. Hair-brain'd boy, you must not.

[rel?

Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war, Thou far-fam'd guard of Alexander's life :

Curse on this weak, unexecuting arm!

Lend it, old Clytus, to redeem my fame;

Lysimachus is brave, and else will scorn me.

Lys. There, take thy sword; and since thou'rt bent on death,

Know 'tis thy glory that thou dy'st by me.

Cly. Stay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion, hold; I bar you both; my body interpos'd,

Now let me see which of you dares to strike.
By Jove, you've stirr'd the old man!-that rash arm
That first advances, moves against the gods

And our great king, whose deputy I stand.

Lys. Some prop'rer time must terminate our quarrel. Heph. And cure the bleeding wounds my honour

bears.

Cly. Some prop'rer time! 'tis false-no_hour is No time should see a brave man do amiss.

[proper;

Say what's the noble cause of all this madness?
What vast ambition blows the dang'rous fire?
Why a vain, smiling, whining, coz'ning woman.
By all my triumphs! in the heat of youth,

When towns were sack'd, and beauties prostrate lay,
When my blood boil'd, and nature work'd me high,
Clytus ne'er bow'd his body to such shame;

I knew 'em, and despis'd their cobweb arts.
The whole sex is not worth a soldier's thought.

Lys. Our cause of quarrel may to thee seem light; But know a less has set the world in arms.

Cly. Yes, Troy, they tell us, by a woman fell; Curse on the sex, they are the bane of virtue! Death! I'd rather this right arm were lost, Than that the king should hear of your imprudenceWhat! on a day thus set apart for triumph! Lys. We were indeed to blame.

Cly. The memorable day!

When our hot master, whose impatient soul
Outrides the sun, and sighs for other worlds
To spread his conquests, and diffuse his glory;
Now bids the trumpet for awhile be silent,
And plays with monarchs, whom he us'd to drive;
Shall we by broils awake him into rage,

And rouse the lion, that has ceas'd to roar?

Lys. Clytus, thou'rt right-put up thy sword, Hephestion:

Had passion not eclips'd the light of reason,
Untold we might this consequence have seen.

Heph. Why has not reason pow'r to conquer love? Why are we thus enslav'd?