Feign'd friendship, or, The mad reformer as it was acted at the theatre in Little Lincolns-Inn-Fields.

PROLOGUE.

OF old, in England's Golden Age of Wit, When Godlike Ben, and Lofty Shakespear Writ; Hard was the Poets Task, and great their Toil, Who strove to Cultivate the Muses Soil. Our Poesie not then expos'd to Scorn, In perfect Strength, and in Due Time was Born. Nine Months, at least, the Teeming Parents went, And labour'd hard, nor was their Time mispent; Who in each Manly Page, without Controal Could gall the inmost Thoughts, and pierce the Guilty Soul. Now if Concern in any Face appears, 'Tis at the Poet's Folly, not your Fears; Nor does the Audience Blush thro' Conscious Shame, But at the Sawey Author's Fulsom Flame. Each Wretch, whose Drunken Days and Bawdy Nights Have doom'd deservedly to Starve or Write. Complains he's Poor, and under that Pretence. Trumps up his Inbred Impudence for Sense. Once in a Month a Still-born Brat we see, And the Crais'd Issue speaks its Pedigreee; For Births of Poetry like Births of Men. In their Diseases shew their Parents Sin. 'Tis thus the Muse becomes each Buffoon's Choice, And Pegasus a Hobby-horse for Boys; Whilst Tavern Jests fill up each Smutty Line, And Rakes belch out in Print the Fumes of Wine. Then if you seem displeas'd at what they say, They damn your Judgment, while you damn their Play. But to your Censure, who as Judges sit, Our Author does with Modesty submit, Nay is the first t' Arraign what he has Writ.

So far from Huffing, that he will not Plead, And owns himself in the Law's strictness, Dead. Swears not the drolling of a Mungril Fool, Not Irish-English farce is half so dull. Not Witlings troubled with Romantick Whims Can tire you more, who to enhance their Crimes, And not content to Write, must act their Rhimes. Yet when he ought in Justice to Despair, He flies for aid and refuge to the Fair; To you a due Respect his Muse has paid, And tho' she's Dull, she's still a Modest Jade.