London drollery, or, The wits academy being a select collection of the newest songs, lampoons, and airs alamode : with several other most ingenious peices [sic] of railery, never before published / by W.H.

The Prologue to the Widdow.

NOw that the Season of the War is past, We well had hop'd to see you here at last, But you this Winter find out other ways To kill your selves, and to destroy our Plays, You meet in Masquerade to pass your time Without the help of Reason or of Rime, You talk, and cheat each other in disguise, And draw ten blanks of Beauty for one prize Were Visor of, and all were bound to come, And shew your homely Faces in the Room, Each one would cry to see the rest appear, Now what the Dev'l do these damn'd faces here. Then he who seem'd a Lord in that dumb show, Prove some young Spark of Pater-Noster-Row. And she who in disguise appear'd so pretty, Turns up her Masque and shews the Orange Betty.

Thus tir'd with want of pleasure home we creep, And all next day, you lie a Bed and sleep, Mean time our empty Seats, your absence mourn, We sigh (but Poets think of you with scorn) For Courting still your selves, you seem to say, That you Heaven Love, you have more wit then they, And that one Sceen o'th' Couch, is worth a Play.