Lord Rochester is Dying: A Comedy
Prologue: Aphra Behn
The centuries fall away. We live to see
England merry after war’s murd’rous spree.
Foul Cromwell’s head rots on a spike. Hail Charles!
Your regal smile supplants a tyrant’s snarls.
Religious hatred drove bloody strife;
Heresy, so-called, could cost you your life.
Now toleration is starting to show,
A tender plant needing nurture to grow.
Theatres open that Cromwell shut down,
Pretty witty Nell Gwyn is toast of the town.
Nobs in the balcony, plebs in the pit,
Shout scathing abuse at plays without wit.
I’m Aphra Behn. Of origins obscure,
I register nobility’s allure.
They have their share of fops and dunderheads,
And hop am’rously twixt plebeian beds.
Such license corrupts, while benefits bring.
Lord Rochester is favoured by the king,
One day plays “roaring lad,” that clod of fashion.
Next writes, uncensored, with wit and passion.
He was my lover, teacher; still my friend.
My plays and poems tribute I extend.
His death will murder no small part of me,
The other part keep joyful memory.
Our play begins with some playful playing,
My play The Rover is in the making.
Its hero Willmore, Rochester inspired.
His mistress plays the part his passion fired.
