At length his sovereign frowns-the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
Now drops at once the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glittering plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.

Speak thou whose thoughts at humble peace repine,
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine?
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content,
The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent?
For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate,
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight?
Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulfs below?

THE TRUE OBJECTS OF DESIRE

[From The Vanity of Human Wishes.]

Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find?

Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?

Must no dislike, alarm, no wishes rise,

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?

Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain

Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,

But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.

Safe in his power whose eyes discern afar

The secret ambush of a specious prayer;

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat :

These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These goods He grants who grants the power to gain;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,

And makes the happiness she does not find.

PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE

DRURY LANE THEATRE.

1747.

When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First reared the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose:
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds and then imagined new :
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toiled after him in vain :
His powerful strokes presiding Truth impressed
And unresisted Passion stormed the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method and invent by rule;
His studious patience and laborious art,

By regular approach assailed the heart:

Cold approbation gave the lingering bays,

For those who durst not censure scarce could praise. A mortal born, he met the general doom,

But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wished for Jonson's art or Shakespeare's flame;

Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.

Vice always found a sympathetic friend;

They pleased their age and did not aim to mend. Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise, And proudly hoped to pimp in future days.

Their cause was general, their supports were strong, Their slaves were willing and their reign was long, Till Shame regained the post that Sense betrayed, And Virtue called Oblivion to her aid.

Then crushed by rules, and weakened as refined, For years the power of Tragedy declined: From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till Declamation roared, whilst Passion slept. Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remained though Nature fled. But forced at length her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit; Exulting Folly hailed the joyful day, And Pantomime and Song confirmed her sway.

But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the Stage? Perhaps if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys yet remain in store; Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride: Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune plac'd, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With ev'ry meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live. Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die ;

'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence
Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense;

To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show,
For useful mirth and salutary woe;

Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,

And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF A WORD TO THE WISE.

This night presents a play which public rage,
Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage,
From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye
The man whom fate has laid where all must lie
To wit reviving from its author's dust

Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just.
For no renewed hostilities invade
Th' oblivious grave's inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please,
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful sense,
Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays,
Approve it only 'tis too late to praise.
If want of skill or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss-the poet cannot hear.

By all like him must praise and blame be found
At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound.
Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night,
When liberal pity dignified delight;

When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame,
And mirth was bounty with an humbler name.

JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY.

[JOHN WESLEY, founder of 'the people called Methodists,' was the second son of Samuel Wesley, Rector of Epworth. He was born June 17, 1703. Educated at the Charterhouse and Oxford, he was elected Fellow of Lincoln College in 1726, and there with some brief intervals remained till 1735, when having been ordained by Potter, then Bishop of Oxford, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, he laid the first foundations of the society which, from the rigid and almost ascetic rules adopted by its members, was called Methodists.'

In 1735 he went to Georgia, at the inducement of General Oglethorpe, governor of that colony, to preach to the Indians. This mission, for personal reasons, was a comparative failure. He returned to England in 1738, and there found that his former friend and disciple, George Whitefield, had embarked on the course of itinerant preaching, in which John Wesley, though with considerable difference of character and opinions, joined him -and this from henceforth became the purpose of his life. A career of incessant activity, in which preaching, writing, and organising played almost equal parts, occupied the remainder of his long career, which closed on March 2, 1791. He had, as Matthew Arnold expresses it, ' a genius for godliness,' and he united with it a breadth of sympathy and a soundness of judgment which, although occasionally betrayed into eccentricity, gave him a conspicuous place amongst the teachers of the eighteenth century. His life is best told, in a literary point of view, by Southey, and with the utmost detail of admiring yet truthful partisanship, by Dr. Tyerman.

CHARLES WESLEY, John's younger brother, was born Oct. 18, 1708. He was educated at Westminster School, and Christ Church, Oxford, and shared his brother's career in Oxford and in Georgia. He was more of a scholar and poet than of a preacher, and his connexion with the Church of England was exposed to a less severe strain than that of John. He died in 1788.]

It was a fine conception which prompted John Wesley to the arduous task of creating for his followers not merely an ecclesiastical