PROLOGUE. SINCE 1 Faction ebbs, and Rogues grow out of Fashion, | |
| Their penny-Scribes take care t’ inform the Nation | |
| How well men thrive in this or that Plantation: | |
| How Pennsylvania’s Air agrees with Quakers, | |
| And Carolina’s with Associators: | 5 |
| Both e’en too good for Madmen and for Traitors. | |
| Truth is, our Land with Saints is so run o’er, | |
| And every Age produces such a store, | |
| That now there’s need of two New-Englands more. | |
| What’s this, you’ll say, to Us and our Vocation? | 10 |
| Only thus much, that we have left our Station, | |
| And made this Theatre our new Plantation. | |
| The Factious Natives never cou’d agree; | |
| But aiming, as they call’d it, to be Free, | |
| Those Play-house Whiggs set up for Property. | 15 |
| Some say they no Obedience paid of late, | |
| But would new Fears and Jealousies create, | |
| ’Till topsy-turvy they had turned the State. | |
| Plain Sense, without the Talent of Fore-telling | |
| Might guess ’twould end in down-right knocks and quelling; | 20 |
| For seldom comes there better of Rebelling. | |
| When Men will, needlessly, their Freedom barter | |
| For lawless Pow’r, sometimes they catch a Tartar; | |
| (There’s a damned word that rhimes to this, call’d Charter.) | |
| But since the Victory with Us remains, | 25 |
| You shall be call’d to Twelve in all our gains, | |
| (If you’ll not think Us sawcy for our Pains.) | |
| Old men shall have good old Plays to delight ’em: | |
| And you, fair Ladies and Galants, that slight ’em, | |
| We’ll treat with good new Plays, if our new Wits can write ’em. | 30 |
| We’ll take no blundering Verse, no fustian Tumour, | |
| No dribling Love from this or that Presumer, | |
| No dull fat Fooll shamm’d on the Stage for humour. | |
| For, faith, some of ’em such vile stuff have made, | |
| As none but Fools or Fairies ever Play’d; | 35 |
| But ’twas, as Shop-men say, to force a Trade. | |
| We’ve giv’n you Tragedies all sense defying; | |
| And singing men in woeful Metre dying; | |
| This ’tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying. | |
| All these disasters we well hope to weather; | 40 |
| We bring you none of our old Lumber hether; | |
| Whigg Poets and Whigg Sheriffs may hang together. | |
| |
EPILOGUE New Ministers, when first they get in place, | |
| Must have a care to please; and that’s our Case: | |
| Some Laws for public Welfare we design, | 45 |
| If you, the Power supream, will please to join. | |
| There are a sort of Pratlers in the Pit, | |
| Who either have, or who pretend to Wit; | |
| These noisy Sirs so loud their Parts rehearse, | |
| That oft the Play is silenc’d by the Farce: | 50 |
| Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun, | |
| Each to be thought my Lady’s eldest Son. | |
| But stay; methinks some Vizard Mask I see | |
| Cast out her Lure from the mid Gallery: | |
| About her all the fluttering Sparks are rang’d; | 55 |
| The Noise continues, though the Scene is chang’d: | |
| Now growling, sputt’ring, wauling, such a clutter, | |
| ’Tis just like Puss defendant in a Gutter; | |
| Fine Love, no doubt; but ere two days are o’er ye, | |
| The Surgeon will be told a woful story. | 60 |
| Let Vizard Mask her naked Face expose, | |
| On pain of being thought to want a Nose: | |
| Then for your laqueys, and your Train beside, | |
| (By whate’er Name or Title dignify’d,) | |
| They roar so loud, you’d think behind the Stairs | 65 |
| Tom Dove, and all the Brotherhood of Bears: | |
| They’re grown a Nuisance, beyond all Disasters; | |
| We’ve none so great but their unpaying Masters. | |
| We beg you, Sirs, to beg your Men that they | |
| Would please to give you leave to hear the Play. | 70 |
| Next, in the Play-house, spare your precious Lives; | |
| Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives | |
| Think on your Souls; but by your lugging forth, | |
| It seems you know how little they are worth. | |
| If none of these will move the warlike Mind, | 75 |
| Think on the helpless Whore you leave behind. | |
| We beg you, last, our Scene-room to forbear | |
| And leave our Goods and Chattels to our Care. | |
| Alas, our Women are but washy Toys, | |
| And wholly taken up in Stage Employs: | 80 |
| Poor willing Tits they are: but yet I doubt | |
| This double Duty soon will wear them out. | |
| Then you are watch’d besides with jealous Care: | |
| What if my Lady’s Page should find you there? | |
| My Lady knows t’ a tittle what there’s in ye; | 85 |
| No passing your gilt Shilling for a Guinea. | |
| Thus, Gentlemen, we have summ’d up in short | |
| Our Grievances, from Country, Town, and Court: | |
| Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure; | |
| But first Vote Money, then redress at leasure. | 90 |
