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PROLOGUE. WHEN 1 first our Poet set himself to write, | |
Like a young Bridegroom on his Wedding-night, | |
He laid about him, and did so bestir him, | |
His Muse could never lye in quiet for him: | |
But now his Honey-moon is gone and past, | 5 |
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last, | |
And he is bound, as civil Husbands do, | |
To strain himself, in complaisance to you: | |
To write in pain, and counterfeit a Bliss, | |
Like the faint smackings 2 of an after-Kiss. | 10 |
But you, like Wives ill pleasd, supply his want; | |
Each Writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant: | |
And though, perhaps, twas done as well before, | |
Yet still theres something in a new Amour. | |
Your several Poets work with several Tools, | 15 |
One gets you Wits, another gets you Fools: | |
This pleases you with some by-stroke of Wit, | |
This finds some cranny that was never hit. | |
But should these janty Lovers daily come | |
To do your Work, like your good Man at home, | 20 |
Their fine small-timberd Wits would soon decay; | |
These are Gallants but for a Holiday. | |
Others you had, who oftner have appeard, | |
Whom for meer impotence you have cashierd: | |
Such as at first came on with Pomp and Glory, | 25 |
But, over-straining, soon fell flat before ye. | |
Their useless weight with patience long was borne, | |
But at the last you threw em off with scorn. | |
As for the Poet of this present night, | |
Though now he claims in you an Husbands right, | 30 |
He will not hinder you of fresh delight. | |
He, like a Seaman, seldom will appear, | |
And means to trouble home but thrice a year; | |
That only time from your Gallants hell borrow; | |
Be kind to day, and Cuckold him to morrow. | 35 |
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EPILOGUE My Part being small, I have had time to day | |
To mark your various censures of our Play. | |
First, looking for a Judgement or a Wit, | |
Like Jews, I saw em scatterd through the Pit; | |
And where a lot of Smilers lent an Ear | 40 |
To one that talkd, I knew the Foe was there. | |
The Club of jests went round; he, who had none, | |
Borrowd o th next, and told it for his own. | |
Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir, | |
In whispring that he stole th Astrologer; | 45 |
And said, betwixt a French and English Plot, | |
He eased his halfe-tird Muse, on Pace and Trot. | |
Up starts a Mounsieur, new come oer, and warm | |
In the French stoop, and the pull-back o th Arm: | |
Morbleu dit il, and cocks, I am a Rogue, | 50 |
But he has quite spoild the feind Astrologue. | |
Pox, says another, heres so great a stir | |
With a Son of a Whore, Farce thats regular, | |
A Rule, where nothing must decorum shock! | |
Damme, tis as dull as Dining by the Clock. | 55 |
An Evening! why the Devil should we be vext, | |
Whether he gets the Wench this night or next? | |
When I heard this, I to the Poet went, | |
Told him the House was full of Discontent, | |
And askd him what excuse he could invent. | 60 |
He neither swore nor stormd, as Poets do, | |
But, most unlike an Author, vowd twas true; | |
Yet said, he used the French like Enemies, | |
And did not steal their Plots, but made em Prize. | |
But should he all the pains and charges count | 65 |
Of taking em, the Bill so high woud mount, | |
That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come, | |
He should have had em much more cheap at home. | |
He still must write, and, Banquier-like, each Day | |
Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay. | 70 |
When through his hands such sums must yearly run, | |
You cannot think the Stock is all his own. | |
His haste his other errors might excuse, | |
But theres no mercy for a guilty Muse; | |
For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall, | 75 |
And please you to a height, or not at all. | |