We fhew'd a princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæfar more than all his due;
Told her own faults: but I should much abhor
To choose a husband for my confeffor.
You fee what fate follow'd the faint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had prov'd,
Had fhe confefs'd fo much to him fhe lov'd.
True Prefbyterian wives the means would try;
But damn'd confeffing is flat Popery.
PROLOGUE to the WIDOW RANTER.
[By Mrs. BEH N, 1690.]
Heaven fave you, gallants, and this hopeful age;
Y'are welcome to the downfall of the stage: The fools have labour'd long in their vocation; And vice, the manufacture of the nation, O'erstocks the town fo much, and thrives fo well, That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not fell. In vain our wares on theatres are shown,
When each has a plantation of his own.
His caufe ne'er fails; for whatfoe'er he fpends,
There's ftill God's plenty for himself and friends.
Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools!
Mean time poor wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made fome French commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais'd at vaft expence ;
And yet, as soon as feen, they give offence.
Time was, when none would cry, That oaf was me;
But now you strive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no fooner are thrown down,
But there's a mufs of more than half the town.
Each one will challenge a child's part at least ;
A fign the family is well increas'd.
Of foreign cattle there's no longer need,
When we 're fupply'd fo faft with English breed.
Well! flourish, countrymen, drink, fwear, and roar;
Let every free-born fubject keep his whore,
And wandering in the wilderness about,
At end of forty years not wear her out.
But when you fee these pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a limb or single share :
For where the punk is common, he's a fot,
Who needs will father what the parish got.
PROLOGUE to ARVIRAGUS and PHILICIA | Revived:
[By LODOWICK CARLELL, Esq.]
Spoken by Mr. HART.
WITH fickly actors and an old house too,
We're match'd with glorious theatres and new,
And with our alehoufe fcenes, and cloaths bare worn, Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
If all thefe ills could not undo us quite,
A brifk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call you each day,
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or fee fome ferious piece, which we prefume
Is fallen from fome incomparable plume;
And therefore, Meffieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preferve your place.
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you why ye like them? they are French.
Therefore fome go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor fee, but fhew their breeding:
Each lady ftriving to out-laugh the reft;
To make it seem they understood the jeft.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English where to clap the play
Civil, egad! our hofpitable land
Bears all the charge, for them to understand :
Mean time we languish, and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own fakes, without a fatire,
You'd lefs good breeding, or had more good-nature.
PROLOGUE to the PROPHETESS.
By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
Revived by Mr. DRYDEN.
Spoken by Mr. BETTERTon.
HAT Noftradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a perspective set right,
Presents our vast expences clofe to fight;
But turn the tube, and there we fadly view
Our diftant gains; and those uncertain too:
A fweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our loffes warn us to be wife?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rife.
Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,
Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops.
We raise new objects to provoke delight;
But you grow fated, ere the fecond fight.
Falfe men, ev'n fo you ferve your miftreffes:
They rife three ftories in their towering dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging,.ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er.
Now honour calls you hence; and all your care
Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.
In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilboa blade,
Your filver goes, that should fupport our trade.
Go, unkind heroes, leave our ftage to mourn;
Till rich from vanquish'd rebels you return;
And the fat fpoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin-butter, and his ufquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hofe.
Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;
Such proper pages will long trains become;
With copper collars, and with brawny backs,
Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.
Then fhall the pious Mufes pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice fhall raife for your delights:
We want not poets fit to fing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whofe only fake
Thofe doughty knights fuch dangers undertake,
When they with happy gales are gone away,
With your propitious prefence grace our play;
And with a figh their empty feats furvey:
Then think, on that bare bench my servant fat;
I fee him ogle ftill, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, call'd dum-founding.
Their lofs with patience we will try to bear;
And would do more, to fee you often here:
That our dead stage, reviv'd by your fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rife.
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