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PROLOGUE. POETS, 1 like Lawful Monarchs, rul’d the Stage, | |
| Till Criticks, like Damn’d Whiggs, debauch’d our Age. | |
| Mark how they jump; Criticks wou’d regulate | |
| Our Theatres, and Whiggs reform our State; | |
| Both pretend love, and both (Plague rot ’em) hate. | 5 |
| The Critick humbly seems Advice to bring, | |
| The fawning Whigg Petitions to the King; | |
| But ones Advice into a Satyr slides, | |
| T’ other’s Petition a Remonstrance hides. | |
| These will no Taxes give, and those no Pence; | 10 |
| Criticks wou’d starve the Poet, Whiggs the Prince. | |
| The critick all our Troops of friends discards; | |
| Just so the Whigg wou’d fain pull down the Guards. | |
| Guards are illegal that drive foes away, | |
| As watchful Shepherds that fright beasts of prey. | 15 |
| Kings who Disband such needless Aids as these | |
| Are safe—as long as e’re their Subjects please; | |
| And that would be till next Queen Besses night, | |
| Which thus grave penny Chroniclers indite. | |
| Sir Edmond-berry first, in woful wise | 20 |
| Leads up the show, and Milks their Maudlin Eyes. | |
| There’s not a Butcher’s Wife but Dribs her part, | |
| And pities the poor Pageant from her heart; | |
| Who, to provoke Revenge, rides round the Fire, | |
| And with a civil congee does retire: | 25 |
| But guiltless blood to ground must never fall: | |
| There’s Antichrist behind, to pay for all. | |
| The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears, | |
| A lewd Old Gentleman of seventy years; | |
| Whose Age in vain our Mercy wou’d implore, | 30 |
| For few take Pity on an Old-cast Whore. | |
| The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part; | |
| Sits cheek by jowl in black to chear his heart, | |
| Like Thief and Parson in a Tiburn-Cart. | |
| The word is given, and with a loud Huzzaw | 35 |
| The Miter’d Moppet 2 from his Chair they draw: | |
| On the slain Corps contending Nations fall: | |
| Alas, what’s one poor Pope among ’em all! | |
| He burns; now all true hearts your Triumphs ring, | |
| And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King. | 40 |
| A needful Cry in midst of such Alarms, | |
| When Forty thousand Men are up in Arms. | |
| But after he’s once sav’d, to make amends, | |
| In each succeeding Health they Damn his Friends: | |
| So God begins, but still the Devil ends. | 45 |
| What if some one inspir’d with Zeal shou’d call, | |
| Come, let’s go cry, God save him at White-hall? | |
| His best Friends wou’d not like this overcare, | |
| Or think him e’re the safer for that pray’r. | |
| Five praying Saints are by an Act allow’d, | 50 |
| But not the whole Church-Militant in crowd; | |
| Yet, should Heav’n all the true Petitions drain | |
| Of Presbyterians who wou’d Kings maintain, | |
| Of Forty thousand five wou’d scare remain. | |
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EPILOGUE A Virgin Poet was serv’d up to day, | 55 |
| Who till this Hour ne’re cackl’d for a Play. | |
| He’s neither yet a Whigg nor Tory-Boy, | |
| But, like a Girl, whom several wou’d enjoy, | |
| Begs leave to make the best of his own natural Toy. | |
| Were I to play my callow Author’s game, | 60 |
| The King’s House wou’d instruct me by the Name: | |
| There’s Loyalty to one; I wish no more; | |
| A Commonwealth sounds like a common Whore. | |
| Let Husband or Gallant be what they will, | |
| One part of Woman is true Tory still. | 65 |
| If any factious spirit should rebell, | |
| Our Sex with ease can every rising quell. | |
| Then, as you hope we shou’d your failings hide, | |
| An honest Jury for our play provide. | |
| Whiggs at their Poets never take offence; | 70 |
| They save dull Culpritts who have Murtherd Sense. | |
| Though Nonsense is a nauseous heavy Mass, | |
| The Vehicle called faction makes it pass; | |
| Faction in Play’s the Commonwealths man’s bribe, | |
| The leaden Farthing of the Canting Tribe: | 75 |
| Though void in payment Laws and Statutes make it, | |
| The Neighbourhood, that knows the Man, will take it. | |
| ’Tis Faction buys the Votes of half the Pit; | |
| Theirs is the Pension-Parliament of wit. | |
| In City-Clubs their venom let ’em vent; | 80 |
| For there ’tis safe, in its own Element. | |
| Here, where their Madness can have no pretence, | |
| Let ’em forget themselves an hour in 3 sense. | |
| In one poor Isle, why should two Factions be? | |
| Small diff’rence in your Vices I can see: | 85 |
| In Drink and Drabs both Sides too well agree. | |
| Wou’d there were more Preferments in the Land; | |
| If Places fell, the Party could not stand. | |
| Of this damn’d Grievance ev’ry Whigg complains; | |
| They grunt like Hogs till they have got their Grains. | 90 |
| Mean time you see what Trade our Plots advance: | |
| We send each Year good Money into France; | |
| And they that know that Merchandise we need, | |
| Send o’re true Protestants to mend our breed. | |
