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PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. SMITH.
OUR 1 Play’s a Parallel: The Holy League | |
| Begot our Cov’nant; Guisards got the Whigg: | |
| Whate’er our hot-brain’d Sheriffs did advance | |
| Was like our Fashions, first produc’d in France; | |
| And, when worn out, well scourg’d, and banish’d there, | 5 |
| Sent over, like their godly Beggars, here. | |
| Cou’d the same Trick, twice play’d, our Nation gull? | |
| It looks as if the Devil were grown dull; | |
| Or serv’d us up in Scorn his broken Meat, | |
| And thought we were not worth a better Cheat. | 10 |
| The fulsome Cov’nant, one wou’d think in Reason, | |
| Had given us all our Bellys-full of Treason; | |
| And yet, the Name but chang’d, our nasty Nation | |
| Chaws its own Excrement, th’ Association. | |
| ’Tis true, we have not learn’d their pois’ning way, | 15 |
| For that’s a mode but newly come in play; | |
| Besides, Your Drug’s uncertain to prevail, | |
| But your True Protestant can never fail | |
| With that compendious Instrument, a Flail. | |
| Go on, and bite, ev’n though the Hook lies bare, | 20 |
| Twice in one Age expel the lawful Heir, | |
| Once more decide Religion by the Sword; | |
| And purchase for us a new Tyrant Lord. | |
| Pray for your King, but yet your Purses spare; | |
| Make Him not Two-Pence richer by your Prayer. | 25 |
| To show you love Him much, chastise Him more, | |
| And make Him very Great, and very Poor. | |
| Push Him to Wars, but still no Pence advance; | |
| Let Him lose England, to recover France. | |
| Cry Freedom up with Popular noisie Votes, | 30 |
| And get enough to cut each other’s Throats, | |
| Lop all the Rights that fence your Monarch’s Throne; | |
| For fear of too much Pow’r, pray leave Him none. | |
| A noise was made of Arbitrary Sway; | |
| But in Revenge, you Whiggs have found a way, | 35 |
| An Arbitrary Duty now to pay. | |
| Let His own Servants turn, to save their stake, | |
| Glean from His Plenty, and His Wants forsake; | |
| But let some Judas near His Person stay, | |
| To swallow the last Sop, and then betray. | 40 |
| Make London independant of the Crown; | |
| A Realm a part; the Kingdom of the Town. | |
| Let Ignoramus juries find no Traytors, | |
| And Ignoramus Poets scribble Satyrs. | |
| And, that your meaning none may fail to scan, | 45 |
| Do what in Coffee-houses you began; | |
| Pull down the Master, and Set up the Man. | |
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EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. COOKE.
Much Time and Trouble this poor Play has cost; | |
| And faith, I doubted once the Cause was lost. | |
| Yet no one Man was meant, nor Great nor Small; | 50 |
| Our Poets, like frank Gamesters, threw at All. | |
| They took no single Aim:—— | |
| But, like bold Boys, true to their Prince and hearty, | |
| Huzza’d, and fired Broad-sides at the whole Party. | |
| Duels are Crimes; but, when the Cause is right, | 55 |
| In Battel every Man is bound to fight. | |
| For what should hinder Me to sell my Skin, | |
| Dear as I cou’d, if once my Hand were in? | |
| Se defendendo never was a Sin. | |
| ’Tis a fine World, my Masters, right or wrong, | 60 |
| The Whiggs must talk, and Tories hold their Tongue. | |
| They must do all they can—— | |
| But We, Forsooth, must bear a Christian mind, | |
| And fight, like Boys, with one Hand ty’d behind; | |
| Nay, and when one Boy’s down, ’twere wond’rous wise | 65 |
| To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise. | |
| When Fortune favours, none but Fools will dally; | |
| Would any of you Sparks, if Nan or Mally | |
| Tipp’d you th’ inviting Wink, stand, shall I, shall I? | |
| A Trimmer cry’d (that heard me tell this Story), | 70 |
| Fie, Mistress Cooke! Faith, you’re too rank a Tory! | |
| Wish not Whiggs hang’d, but pity their hard Cases; | |
| You Women love to see Men make wry Faces.— | |
| Pray, Sir, said I, don’t think me such a Jew; | |
| I say no more, but give the Dev’l his due.— | 75 |
| Lenitives, says he, best suit with out Condition. | |
| Jack Ketch, says I, ’s an excellent Physician. | |
| I love no Bloud.—Nor I, Sir, as I breath; | |
| But hanging is a fine dry kind of Death. | |
| We Trimmers are for holding all things even.— | 80 |
| Yes—just like him that hung ’twixt Hell and Heaven.— | |
| Have we not had Men’s Lives enow already?’— | |
| Yes sure:—but you’re for holding all things steddy. | |
| Now since the Weight hangs all on one side, Brother, | |
| You Trimmers shou’d, to poize it, hang on t’ other. | 85 |
| Damn’d Neuters, in their middle way of steering, | |
| Are neither Fish nor Flesh nor good Red-Herring: | |
| Not Whiggs, nor Tories they: nor this, nor that; | |
| Not Birds, nor Beasts; but just a kind of Bat: | |
| A Twilight Animal; true to neither Cause, | 90 |
| With Tory Wings, but Whiggish Teeth and Claws. | |
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