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Enter Mr. BRIGHT. Gentlemen, 1 we must beg your pardon; here’s no Prologue to be had to day; our New Play is like to come on, without a Frontispiece; as bald as one of you young Beaux without your Perriwig. I left our young Poet sniveling and sobbing behind the Scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceiv’d him.
Enter Mr. BOWEN. Hold your prating to the Audience: Here’s honest Mr. Williams just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. He swears he is inspir’d with Claret, and will come on, and that Extempore too, either with a Prologue of his own, or something like one: O here he comes to his Tryal, at all Adventures; for my part, I wish him a good Deliverance.[Exeunt Mr. BRIGHT and Mr. BOWEN.
Enter Mr. WILLIAMS. SAVE ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopefull way. | |
| I shou’d speak something, in Rhyme, now, for the Play: | |
| But the duce take me, if I know what to say! | |
| I’le stick to my Friend the Authour, that I can tell ye, | |
| To the last drop of Claret in my belly. | 5 |
| So far I’me sure ’tis Rhyme—that needs no granting: | |
| And, if my verses feet stumble—you see my own are wanting. | |
| Our young Poet has brought a piece of work, | |
| In which though much of Art there does not lurk, | |
| It may hold out three days—And that’s as long as Cork. | 10 |
| But, for this Play—(which, till I have done, we show not.) | |
| What may be its fortune—By the Lord—I know not. | |
| This I dare swear, no malice here is writ; | |
| ’Tis Innocent of all things—ev’n of Wit. | |
| He’s no high Flyer—he makes no sky Rockets, | 15 |
| His Squibbs are only levell’d at your Pockets; | |
| And if his Crackers light among your pelf, | |
| You are blown-up; if not, then he’s blown-up himself. | |
| By this time, I’m something recover’d of my fluster’d madness: | |
| And, now, a word or two in sober sadness. | 20 |
| Ours is a Common Play: and you pay down | |
| A common Harlots price—just half a Crown. | |
| You’l say, I play the Pimp on my Friends score; | |
| But since ’tis for a Friend, your gibes give o’re, | |
| For many a Mother has done that before. | 25 |
| How’s this? you cry: 2 an Actor write?—we know it; | |
| But Shakespear was an Actor, and a Poet | |
| Has not great Johnson’s learning often fail’d, | |
| But Shakespear’s greater Genius still prevail’d? | |
| Have not some writing Actors, in this Age | 30 |
| Deserv’d and found Success upon the Stage? | |
| To tell the truth, when our old Wits are tir’d. | |
| Not one of us but means to be inspir’d. | |
| Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; | |
| Peace and the Butt is all our bus’ness here; | 35 |
| So much for that;—and the Devil take small beer. | |
