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PROLOGUE
Spoken by Mr. MOUNTFORD.
I THINK, 1 or hope at least, the Coast is clear; | |
| That none but Men of Wit and Sense are here; | |
| That our Bear-Garden Friends are all away, | |
| Who bounce with Hands and Feet, and cry, Play, Play, | |
| Who, to save Coach-Hire, trudge along the Street, | 5 |
| Then print our matted Seats with dirty Feet; | |
| Who, while we speak, make Love to Orange-Wenches, | |
| And between Acts stand strutting on the Benches: | |
| Where got a Cock-horse, making vile Grimaces, | |
| They to the Boxes show their Booby Faces. | 10 |
| A Merry-Andrew such a Mob will serve, | |
| And treat ’em with such Wit as they deserve: | |
| Let ’em go people Ireland, where there’s need | |
| Of such new Planters, to repair the Breed; | |
| Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer, | 15 |
| But have a Care of some French Privateer; | |
| For, if they should become the Prize of Battle, | |
| They’ll take ’em, black and white, for Irish Cattle. | |
| Arise, true Judges, in your own Defence, | |
| Controul those Foplings, and declare for Sense: | 20 |
| For, should the Fools prevail, they stop not there, | |
| But make their next Descent upon the Fair. | |
| Then rise, ye Fair; for it concerns you most, | |
| That Fools no longer should your Favours boast: | |
| ’Tis time you should renounce ’em, for we find | 25 |
| They plead a senseless Claim to Woman-kind: | |
| Such Squires are only fit for Country-Towns, | |
| To stink of Ale and dust a Stand with Clowns; | |
| Who, to be chosen for the Land’s Protectors, | |
| Tope and get drunk before their wise Electors. | 30 |
| Let not Farce-Lovers your weak Choice upbraid, | |
| But turn ’em over to the Chamber-maid. | |
| Or, if they come to see our Tragick Scenes, | |
| Instruct them what a Spartan Heroe means: | |
| Teach ’em how manly Passions ought to move, | 35 |
| For such as cannot Think can never Love; | |
| And, since they needs will judge the Poet’s Art, | |
| Point ’em with Fescu’s to each shining part. | |
| Our Author hopes in you; but still in Pain, | |
| He fears your Charms will be employ’d in vain. | 40 |
| You can make Fools of Wits, we find each Hour; | |
| But to make Wits of Fools is past your Pow’r. | |
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EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.
This day, the Poet, bloodily inclin’d, | |
| Has made me die, full sore against my Mind! | |
| Some of you naughty Men, I fear, will cry, | 45 |
| Poor Rogue! would I might teach thee how to die! | |
| Thanks for your Love; but I sincerely say, | |
| I never mean to die your wicked way. | |
| Well, since it is decreed all Flesh must go, | |
| (And I am Flesh, at least, for aught you know,) | 50 |
| I first declare, I die with pious Mind, | |
| In perfect Charity with all Mankind. | |
| Next, for my Will:——I have in my Dispose | |
| Some certain Moveables would please you Beaux; | |
| As, first, my Youth; for, as I have been told, | 55 |
| Some of you, modish Sparks, are devilish old. | |
| My Chastity I need not leave among ye: | |
| For to suspect old Fops were much to wrong ye. | |
| You swear you’re Sinners; but for all your Haste, | |
| Your Misses shake their Heads, and find you chaste. | 60 |
| I give my Courage to those bold Commanders, | |
| That stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders. | |
| I leave my Truth (to make his Plot more clear) | |
| To Mr. Fuller, when he next shall swear. | |
| I give my Judgment, craving all your Mercies, | 65 |
| To those that leave good Plays, for damn’d dull Farces. | |
| My small Devotion let the Gallants share, | |
| That come to ogle us at Evening Pray’r. | |
| I give my Person——let me well consider, | |
| Faith e’en to him that is the fairest Bidder; | 70 |
| To some rich Hunks, if any be so bold | |
| To say those dreadful Words, To have and hold. | |
| But stay——to give, and be bequeathing still, | |
| When I’m so poor, is just like Wickham’s Will: | |
| Like that notorious Cheat, vast Sums I give, | 75 |
| Only that you may keep me while I live. | |
| Buy a good Bargain, Gallants, while you may; | |
| I’ll cost you but your Half-a-Crown a Day. | |
