The massacre of Paris a tragedy : as it is acted at the Theatre Royal by their majesties servants / written by Nat. Lee ...

PROLOGUE.

VVIT long opprest, and fill'd at last with Rage, Thus in a sullen mood rebukes the Age. What loads of Fame do modern Hero's bear, For an inglorious, long, and lazy War? Who for some Skirmish, or a safe Retreat, (Not to be dragg'd to Battel) are call'd Great. But ob, what do ambitious States-men gain, Who into private Chests whole Nations drain? What summs of Gold they hoard, is daily known, To all Mens cost, and sometimes to their own. Your Lawyer too, that like an O Yes bauls, That drowns the Market-Higler in the Stalls, That seems begot, conceiv'd, and born in brawls; Yet thrives: He and his Crowd get what they please, Swarming all Term-time thro' the Strand like Bees, They buz at Westminster, and lye for Fees. The Godly too their ways of getting have; But none so much as your Phanatick Knave: Wisely the wealthiest Livings they refuse, Who by the fattest Bishopricks wou'd lose; Who with short Hair, large Ears, and small blue Band, True Rogues, their own, not God's Elect, command. Let Pigs then be prophane; but Broth's allow'd, Possets and Christian Caudles may be good, Meet helps to re-inforce a Brother's Blood: Therefore each Female Saint be does advise, With groans, and hums, and ha's, and gogling Eyes, To rub him down, and make the Spirit rise. While with his Zeal transported from the Ground He mounts, and sanctifies the Sisters round. On Poets only no kind Star e'er smil'd; Curst Fate has damn'd 'em every Mothers Child: Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage, To write no more to an ungrateful Age. Think what penurious Masters you have serv'd; Tasso ran mad, and noble Spencer starv'd: Turn then, who ere thou art that canst write well, Thy Ink to Gaul, and in Lampoons excel. Forswear all honestly, traduce the Great, Grow impudent, and rail against the State; Rursting with spleen, abroad thy Pasquils send, And chuse some Libel-spreader for thy friend The Wit and Want of Timon point thy Mind, And for thy Satyr-subject chuse Mankind.