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PROLOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. Barry.
THey who must write (for writings a Disease)
Shou'd make it their whole study how to please:
And that's a thing our Author fain wou'd do;
But wiser Men, than he, must tell him how:
For you're so changeable, that every Moon,
Some upstart whimsie knocks the old ones down.
Sometimes bluff Heroes please by dint of Arms:
And sometimes tender Nonsense has its Charms:
Now Love, and Honour strut in buskin'd Verse:
Then, at one leap, you stumble into Farce.
Like true Fanaticks, never long content
With any setled Form of Government:
Eager in choice, as eager in forsaking;
You first blaspheme the Gods of your own making.
Let Poets henceforth lay their Rules aside;
And take some ruling Planet for their Guide:
No more frequent their fam'd Parnassus's tops;
Unless it be to place their Teliscopes:
For such as hope to merit your esteem,
Must quit their Horace, and erect a Scheme.
Thus they may find a way to please the Pit,
Provided they insure their Plays from Wit.
Our Author, this way doubtless of Success,
(For some Men have no Stars, as Lilly says)
Himself, and Play, upon the Boxes throws,
From perfect Beauty's, to imperfect Beaus.
To you, fair Sirs (for I must call you so,
Since Art, in spight of Nature, makes a Beau)
Who in side Box, in seeming Iudgment sit,
Like Barron-Tell-Clocks to attend the Pit;
In all humility he does submit.
Not that he needs to doubt you for his Play:
We know your Courage lies another way.
Nor will he Court you, like some servile Elves,
Who flatter you as much, as you your selves:
Let them proclaim the Conquest of your looks;
That bug-bear word shall never burn his Books.
You, Ladys, he adores, and owns your Charms,
More powerful, than the greatest Monarchs Arms.
Hopes the kind Heav'ns will all your Wishes grant,
Whether they be for Husband, or Gallant:
Nay, Bath, and Wells, at once, if both you want.
Not doubting your good Nature for a Man,
Who, to oblige you, does the best he can.