Love for Love
by William Congreve
LOVE FOR LOVE--A COMEDY
Nudus agris, nudus nummis paternis,
Insanire parat certa ratione modoque.
- HOR.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX,
LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY'S HOUSEHOLD,
AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, ETC.
My Lord,--A young poet is
liable to the same
vanity and indiscretion
with a young lover; and the great man who smiles upon one, and the
fine woman who looks kindly upon t'other, are both of 'em in danger
of having the favour published with the first opportunity.
But there may be a different
motive, which will a little distinguish
the offenders. For though one should have a
vanity in ruining
another's
reputation, yet the other may only have an
ambition to
advance his own. And I beg leave, my lord, that I may plead the
latter, both as the cause and excuse of this dedication.
Whoever is king is also the father of his country; and as nobody can
dispute your
lordship's
monarchy in
poetry, so all that are
concerned ought to
acknowledge your
universalpatronage. And it is
only presuming on the
privilege of a loyal subject that I have
ventured to make this, my address of thanks, to your
lordship, which
at the same time includes a prayer for your protection.
I am not
ignorant of the common form of
poetical dedications, which
are generally made up of panegyrics, where the authors
endeavour to
distinguish their patrons, by the shining
characters they give them,
above other men. But that, my lord, is not my business at this
time, nor is your
lordship NOW to be
distinguished. I am contented
with the honour I do myself in this
epistle without the
vanity of
attempting to add to or explain your Lordships
character.
I
confess it is not without some struggling that I
behave myself in
this case as I ought: for it is very hard to be pleased with a
subject, and yet
forbear it. But I choose rather to follow Pliny's
precept, than his example, when, in his panegyric to the Emperor
Trajan, he says:-
Nec minus considerabo quid aures ejus pati possint, quam quid
virtutibus debeatur.
I hope I may be excused the pedantry of a
quotation when it is so
justly
applied. Here are some lines in the print (and which your
lordship read before this play was acted) that were omitted on the
stage; and particularly one whole scene in the third act, which not
only helps the design forward with less precipitation, but also
heightens the
ridiculouscharacter of Foresight, which indeed seems
to be maimed without it. But I found myself in great danger of a
long play, and was glad to help it where I could. Though
notwithstanding my care and the kind
reception it had from the town,
I could
heartily wish it yet shorter: but the number of different
characters represented in it would have been too much
crowded in
less room.
This
reflection" target="_blank" title="n.反射;映象;想法">
reflection on prolixity (a fault for which
scarce any one
beauty will atone) warns me not to be
tedious now, and
detain your
lordship any longer with the trifles of, my lord, your
lordship's
most
obedient and most
humble servant,
WILLIAM CONGREVE.
PROLOGUE. Spoken, at the
opening of the new house, by Mr Betterton.
The husbandman in vain renews his toil
To
cultivate each year a hungry soil;
And
fondly hopes for rich and
generous fruit,
When what should feed the tree devours the root;
Th' unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth,
Unless transplanted to more kindly earth.
So the poor husbands of the stage, who found
Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground,
This last and only
remedy have proved,
And hope new fruit from ancient stocks removed.
Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid,
Well plant a soil which you so rich have made.
As Nature gave the world to man's first age,
So from your
bounty, we receive this stage;
The freedom man was born to, you've restored,
And to our world such plenty you afford,
It seems like Eden,
fruitful of its own accord.
But since in Paradise frail flesh gave way,
And when but two were made, both went astray;
Forbear your wonder, and the fault forgive,
If in our larger family we grieve
One falling Adam and one tempted Eve.
We who remain would
gratefully repay
What our
endeavours can, and bring this day
The first-fruit
offering of a
virgin play.
We hope there's something that may please each taste,
And though of
homely fare we make the feast,
Yet you will find
variety at least.
There's
humour, which for
cheerful friends we got,
And for the thinking party there's a plot.
We've something, too, to
gratify ill-nature,
(If there be any here), and that is
satire.
Though
satirescarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild
Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled.
As asses thistles, poets
mumble wit,
And dare not bite for fear of being bit:
They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,
And are afraid to use their own edge-tools.
Since the Plain-Dealer's scenes of manly rage,
Not one has dared to lash this crying age.
This time, the poet owns the bold essay,
Yet hopes there's no ill-manners in his play;
And he declares, by me, he has designed
Affront to none, but
frankly speaks his mind.
And should th' ensuing scenes not chance to hit,
He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ
Before your late
encouragement of wit.
EPILOGUE. Spoken, at the
opening of the new house, by Mrs
Bracegirdle.
Sure Providence at first designed this place
To be the player's
refuge in distress;
For still in every storm they all run hither,
As to a shed that shields 'em from the weather.
But thinking of this change which last befel us,
It's like what I have heard our poets tell us:
For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading,
To help their love, sometimes they show their
reading;
And,
wanting ready cash to pay for hearts,
They top their
learning on us, and their parts.
Once of philosophers they told us stories,
Whom, as I think, they called--Py--Pythagories,
I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em,
And we, who know no better, must believe 'em.
Now to these men, say they, such souls were given,
That after death ne'er went to hell nor heaven,
But lived, I know not how, in beasts; and then
When many years were past, in men again.
Methinks, we players
resemble such a soul,
That does from bodies, we from houses stroll.
Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was,
May now be
damned to
animate an ass,
Or in this very house, for ought we know,
Is doing
painfulpenance in some beau;