Prologue to The Tempest

John Dryden, Prologue to The Tempest, or The Enchanted Island

As when a tree's cut down, he secret root

Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot,

So, from old Shakespeare's honoured dust, this day

Springs up and buds a new reviving play.

Shakespeare who (taught by none) did first impart

To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.

He monarch-like gave those his subjects law,

And is that nature which they paint and draw.

Fletcher reached that which on his heights did grow,

Whilst Jonson crept and gathered all below.

This did his love, and this his mirth digest:

One imitates him most, the other best.

If they have since outwrit all other men,

'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's pen.

The storm which vanished on the neighbouring shore

Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to roar.

That innocence and beauty which did smile

In Fletcher, grew on this Enchanted Isle.

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be,

Within that circle none durst walk but he.

I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now

That liberty to vulgar wits allow

Which works by magic supernatural things:

But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a King's

Those legends from old priesthood were received

And he then writ as people then believed.

But if for Shakespeare we your grace implore,

We for our theatre shall want it more:

Who by our dearth of youths are forced t'employ

One of our women to present a boy.

And that's a transformation, you will say,

Exceeding all the magic in the play.

Let none expect in the last act to find

Her sex transformed from man to womankind.

Whate'er she was before the play began,

All you shall see of her is perfect man.

Or if your fancy will be farther led

To find her woman, it must be abed.