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PROLOGUE.
BRight Beauties who in awfull Circle sit,
And you grave Synod of the dreadfull Pit,
A••d you the Ʋpper-tire of pop-gun wit.
P••ay ease me of my wonder if you may
I•• all this Crowd barely to see the play,
Or is't the Poets Execution day?
His breath is in your hands I will presume
But I advise you to deferr his doom:
Till you have got a better in his room.
And don't maliciously combine together,
As if in spight and spleen you were come hither,
For he has kept the Pen tho' lost the feather.
And on my Honour Ladies I avow,
This Play was writ in Charity to you,
For such a dearth of Wit whoever know?
Sure 'tis a Judgment on this Sinfull Nation
For the abuse of so great Dispensation,
And therefore I resolv'd to change Vocation.
For want of Petty-coat I've put on buff▪
To try what may be got by lying rough:
How think you Sirs, is it not well enough?
Of Bully Critichs I a Troup wou'd lead;
But one reply'd, thank you there's no such need,
••at Groom-Porters Sir can safer bleed.
Another who the name of danger loaths,
••••w'd he would go, and swore me Forty Oaths,
Bu•• that his Horses were in body-cloaths.