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PROLOGUE. AS 1 some raw Squire, by tender Mother bred, | |
| Till one and Twenty keeps his Maidenhead; | |
| (Pleas’d with some Sport, which he alone does find, | |
| And thinks a Secret to all Humane kind,) | |
| Till mightily in Love, yet half afraid, | 5 |
| He first attempts the gentle Dairymaid: | |
| Succeeding there, and, led by the renown | |
| Of Whetstones Park, he comes at length to Town: | |
| Where enter’d by some School-fellow or Friend, | |
| He grows to break Glass-Windows in the end: | 10 |
| His Valour too, which with the Watch began, | |
| Proceeds to duell, and he kills his Man. | |
| By such Degrees, while Knowledge he did want, | |
| Our unfletch’d 2 Author writ a Wild Gallant. | |
| He thought him monstrous leud (I’ll lay my Life) | 15 |
| Because suspected with his Landlords Wife; | |
| But, since his Knowledge of the Town began, | |
| He thinks him now a very civil Man; | |
| And, much asham’d of what he was before, | |
| Has fairly play’d him at three Wenches more. | 20 |
| ’Tis some amends his Frailties to confess; | |
| Pray pardon him his want of Wickedness. | |
| He’s towardly, and will come on apace; | |
| His frank Confession shows he has some Grace. | |
| You balk’d him when he was a young Beginner, | 25 |
| And almost spoyl’d a very hopeful Sinner; | |
| But if once more you slight his weak indeavour, | |
| For ought I know, he may turn taile for ever. | |
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EPILOGUE Of all Dramatique Writing, Comick Wit, | |
| As ’tis the best, so ’tis most hard to hit. | 30 |
| For it lies all in level to the Eye, | |
| Where all may judge, and each Defect may spye. | |
| Humour is that which every Day we meet, | |
| And therefore known as every publick Street; | |
| In which, if e’r the Poet go astray, | 35 |
| You all can point, ’twas there he lost his Way, | |
| But what’s so common to make pleasant too, | |
| Is more than any Wit can always do. | |
| For ’tis, like Turkes with Hen and Rice to treat, | |
| To make Regalio’s out of common Meat. | 40 |
| But, in your Diet, you grow Salvages: | |
| Nothing but humane Flesh your Taste can please; | |
| And as their Feasts with slaughter’d Slaves began, | |
| So you, at each new Play, must have a Man. | |
| Hither you come, as to see Prizes fought; | 45 |
| If no Blood’s drawn, you cry, the Prize is naught. | |
| But Fooles grow wary now; and, when they see | |
| A Poet eyeing round the Company, | |
| Straight each Man for himself begins to doubt; | |
| They shrink like Seamen when a Press comes out. | 50 |
| Few of ’em will be found for publick Use, | |
| Except you charge an Oph upon each House, | |
| Like the Train-Bands, and every man ingage | |
| For a sufficient Fool to serve the Stage. | |
| And when with much adoe you get him there, | 55 |
| Where he in all his Glory should appear, | |
| Your Poets make him such rare Things to say, | |
| That he’s more Wit than any Man ith’ Play: | |
| But of so ill a mingle with the rest, | |
| As when a Parrat’s taught to break a Jest. | 60 |
| Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a Show, | |
| As tawdry Squires in country Churches do. | |
| Things well consider’d, ’tis so hard to make | |
| A Comedy, which should the knowing take, | |
| That our dull Poet, in despair to please, | 65 |
| Does humbly beg by me his writ of ease. | |
| ’Tis a Land-tax, which he’s too poor to pay; | |
| You therefore must some other Impost lay. | |
| Would you but change for serious Plot and Verse | |
| This motley garniture of Fool and Farce, | 70 |
| Nor scorn a Mode, because ’tis taught at home, | |
| Which does, like Vests, our Gravity become, | |
| Our Poet yields you should this Play refuse: | |
| As Tradesmen by the change of Fashions lose | |
| With some content their Fripperies of France, | 75 |
| In Hope it may their staple Trade advance. | |
