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PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.
THE LAB’RING 1 Bee, when his sharp Sting is gone, | |
| Forgets his golden Work, and turns a Drone: | |
| Such is a Satyr, when you take away | |
| That Rage in which his Noble Vigour lay. | |
| What gain you, by not suffering him to teize ye? | 5 |
| He neither can offend you now, nor please ye. | |
| The Honey-Bag and Venome lay so near, | |
| That both, together, you resolv’d to tear; | |
| And lost your Pleasure, to secure your Fear. | |
| How can he show his Manhood, if you bind him | 10 |
| To box, like Boys, with one hand ty’d behind him? | |
| This is plain Levelling of Wit; in which | |
| The Poor has all th’ advantage, not the Rich. | |
| The Blockhead stands excus’d, for wanting Sense; | |
| And Wits turn Blockheads in their own defence. | 15 |
| Yet, though the Stages Traffick is undone, | |
| Still Julian’s interloping Trade goes on: | |
| Though Satyr on the Theatre you smother, | |
| Yet in Lampoons, you Libel one another. | |
| The first produces still, a second Jig; | 20 |
| You whip ’em out, like School-boys, till they gig: | |
| And, with the same Success, we 2 Readers guess, | |
| For ev’ry one still dwindles to a less; | |
| And much good Malice is so meanly drest, | |
| That we wou’d laugh, but cannot find the Jest. | 25 |
| If no Advice your Rhiming Rage can stay, | |
| Let not the Ladies suffer in the Fray. | |
| Their tender Sex is priviledg’d from War; | |
| ’Tis not like Knights, to draw upon the Fair. | |
| What Fame expect you from so mean a Prize? | 30 |
| We wear no murd’ring Weapons, but our Eyes. | |
| Our Sex, you know, was after yours design’d; | |
| The last Perfection of the Makers Mind; | |
| Heav’n drew out all the Gold for us, and left your Dross behind. | |
| Beauty, for Valours best Reward, He chose; | 35 |
| Peace, after War; and after Toil, Repose. | |
| Hence, ye Prophane, excluded from our sights; | |
| And, charm’d by Day, with Honour’s vain delights, | |
| Go, make your best of solitary Nights. | |
| Recant betimes, ’tis prudence to submit; | 40 |
| Our Sex is still your Overmatch in Wit: | |
| We never fail, with new, successful Arts, | |
| To make fine Fools of you, and all your Parts. | |
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EPILOGUE
Spoken by PHÆDRA, Mrs. MOUNTFORT.
I’m thinking (and it almost makes me mad) | |
| How sweet a time those Heathen Ladies had. | 45 |
| Idolatry was ev’n their Gods’ own trade: | |
| They Worshipt the fine Creatures they had made. | |
| Cupid was chief of all the Deities; | |
| And Love was all the fashion, in the Skies. | |
| When the sweet Nymph held up the Lilly hand, | 50 |
| Jove, was her humble Servant, at Command. | |
| The Treasury of Heav’n was ne’re so bare, | |
| But still there was a Pension for the Fair. | |
| In all his Reign, Adultry was no Sin; | |
| For Jove the good Example did begin. | 55 |
| Mark too, when he usurp’d the Husband’s name, | |
| How civilly he sav’d the Ladies fame. | |
| The secret Joys of Love he wisely hid; | |
| But you, Sirs, boast of more than e’er you did. | |
| You teize your Cuckolds; to their face torment ’em: | 60 |
| But Jove gave his, new Honours to content ’em, | |
| And, in the kind Remembrance of the Fair, | |
| On each exalted Son, bestowed a Star. | |
| For these good deeds, as by the date appears, | |
| His Godship flourish’d full Two thousand Years. | 65 |
| At last, when He and all his Priests grew old, | |
| The Ladies grew in their devotion cold; | |
| And that false Worship would no longer hold. | |
| Severity of Life did next begin; | |
| (And always does, when we no more can Sin.) | 70 |
| That Doctrine, too, so hard, in Practice, lyes, | |
| That the next Age may see another rise. | |
| Then, Pagan Gods may, once again, succeed; | |
| And Jove, or Mars, be ready, at our need, | |
| To get young Godlings; and, so, mend our breed. | 75 |
