Be gods in senates, but be mortals here.

 As from a darken'd room some optic glass

Transmits the distant species as they pass

(The world's large landscape is from far descried

And men contracted on the paper glide),

Thus crowded Oxford represents mankind

And in these walls Great Britain seems confin'd.

Oxford is now the public theater,

And you both audience are and actors here. 

The gazing world on the new scene attend,

Admire the turns, and wish a prosp'rous end.

This place, the seat of peace, the quiet cell

Where arts remov'd from noisy business dwell,

Should calm your wills, unite the jarring parts,

And with a kind contagion seize your hearts:

O may its genius like soft music move

And tune you all to concord and to love! 

Our ark that has in tempests long been toss'd

Could never land on so secure a coast. 

From hence you may look back on civil rage 

And view the ruins of the former age.

Here a new world its glories may unfold

And here be sav'd the remnants of the old.

But while your days on public thoughts are bent,

Past ills to heal and future to prevent,

Some vacant hours allow to your delight:

Mirth is the pleasing business of the night,

The king's prerogative, the people's right.

Were all your hours to sullen cares confin'd,

The body would be jaded by the mind.

'Tis wisdom's part betwixt extremes to steer:

Be gods in senates, but be mortals here. 

John Dryden, 1681

THE EPILOGUE SPOKEN TO THE KING AT THE OPENING OF THE PLAYHOUSE AT OXFORD ON SATURDAY LAST, BEING MARCH THE NINETEENTH, 1681