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PROLOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
HOW this vile World is chang'd! In former days,
Prologues, were serious Speeches, before Plays;
Grave solemn Things, as Graces are to Feasts;
Where, Poets beg'd a Blessing, from their Guests.
But now, no more like Suppliants, we come;
A Play makes War, and Prologue is the Drum:
Arm'd with keen Satyr, and with pointed Wit,
We threaten you who do for Iudges sit,
To save our Plays, or else we'll damn your Pit.
But for your Comfort, it falls out to day,
We've a young Author and his first born Play;
So, standing only on his good Behaviour,
He's very civil, and entreats your Favour.
Not but the Man has Malice, would he show it,
But on my Conscience he's a bashful Poet;
You think that strange—no matter, he'll out grow it.
Well, I'm his Advocate—by me he prays you,
(I don't know whether I shall speak to please you)
He prays—O bless me! what shall I do now!
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how!
And 'twas the prettiest Prologue, as he wrote it!
Well, the Deuce take me, if I hau'e forgot it.
O Lord, for Heavens sake excuse the Play,
Because, you know, if it be damn'd to day,
I shall be hang'd for wanting what to say.
How my sake then—but I'm in such Confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your Resolution.
Runs off.