Page [unnumbered]
PROLOGUE.
Spoke by Jo. Hains.
IF any here dares cry My Prologue down,
Henceforth I'll not allow one Wit i'th' Town:
As Houses, haunted with Ill Spirits, are
All Noise and Lies, such is our Theatre:
Ye talk of Wits, the Devil of Wit is here.
Wherefore, to let you know,
What Wit is not, I think can't be amiss;
For no Man here, I'm sure, knows what it is.
First then,
Wit is no Scarf upon Fantastick Hips,
Nor an affected Cringe t'approach the Lips:
'Tis not I-Gad! O Lord! or, Let me Die!
Nor is it, Dam me, ye Son of a Whore, ye Lie.
'Tis not to tell how lewd ye were last Night,
What Watches, Wenches, Windows felt your Spight:
Nor is it an Abusive Epilogue,
Nor being Drunk, and cry, More Wine, ye Dog.
Tis not your Tradesman's Wit that makes him Great:
'Tis a compendious way to Live, and Cheat:
'Nor is it Wit that makes your Lawyer priz'd,
His dagled Gown, his Knavery in Disguise,
To pluck down Honest Men, that he may rise.
Nor is't pert Phillis's Wit that does prevail;
'Tis not her Tongue she lives by, 'tis her Tail.
'Tis not your Scholar, Traveller, nor Mathematician,
Poet, nor Player, and Faith 'tis no Physician;
Were I now Clapt, I were in a sweet Condition.
'Tis none of these, that singly Wit can be,
But all in one Man meeting 's Wit— that Me.