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PROLOGUE.
WEll, Gallants of the Pit, first to be just
To the great Dead, the sleeping Fletcher's Dust,
His proud Bonduca, in this fighting Age,
That English Heroine wakes to tread our Stage,
That Bard—But let him sleep i' th' Laurel Bed,
We've bus'ness with the Living, not the Dead.
Between us and the other Theatre
There is proclaim'd, and still maintain'd a War,
And all, but knocking out of Brains, is fair.
We're blam'd for raising in one Night, what they
In thirty tedious days can scarce display;
But that to our Advantage sure, is spoke;
So Heusler by swift Marches, gain'd his Work:
And Cut off the Provision of the Turk.
And therefore, if the Truth you would declare;
Say Gallants, to your Smiles, who bids most fair;
Our Growing Spring, or Fading Autumn there?
Besides, though our weak Merit shincs less Bright,
Yet we'ave the Advantage, a Fairer Light,
Our Nobler Theatre's. Nay we are bringing
Machines, Scenes, Opera's, Musick, Dancing, Singing;
Translated from the Chiller, Bleaker Strand,
To your Sweet Covent-Garden's Warmer Land.
To us, Young Players, then let some Smiles fall:
Let not their dear Antiquities sweep all.
Antiquity on a Stage? Oh Fye! 'tis Idle:
Age in Good Wine is well, or in a Fiddle.
Ay then it has a little Musick there;
But in an Old, Decrepid, Wither'd Player;
It looks like a stale Maid at her last Prayer.
Yet if you think it better, we can play
Like whining Zanger, or stiff Mustapha:
Or else, Gad mend me Rustan, you shall see;
But who can make a Figure such as he?
Therefore divide your Favours the right way,
To th' Young your Love, to th' old your Reverence pay.