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PROLOGUE. WHEN 1 first our Poet set himself to write, | |
| Like a young Bridegroom on his Wedding-night, | |
| He laid about him, and did so bestir him, | |
| His Muse could never lye in quiet for him: | |
| But now his Honey-moon is gone and past, | 5 |
| Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last, | |
| And he is bound, as civil Husbands do, | |
| To strain himself, in complaisance to you: | |
| To write in pain, and counterfeit a Bliss, | |
| Like the faint smackings 2 of an after-Kiss. | 10 |
| But you, like Wives ill pleas’d, supply his want; | |
| Each Writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant: | |
| And though, perhaps, ’twas done as well before, | |
| Yet still there’s something in a new Amour. | |
| Your several Poets work with several Tools, | 15 |
| One gets you Wits, another gets you Fools: | |
| This pleases you with some by-stroke of Wit, | |
| This finds some cranny that was never hit. | |
| But should these janty Lovers daily come | |
| To do your Work, like your good Man at home, | 20 |
| Their fine small-timber’d Wits would soon decay; | |
| These are Gallants but for a Holiday. | |
| Others you had, who oftner have appear’d, | |
| Whom for meer impotence you have cashier’d: | |
| Such as at first came on with Pomp and Glory, | 25 |
| But, over-straining, soon fell flat before ye. | |
| Their useless weight with patience long was borne, | |
| But at the last you threw ’em off with scorn. | |
| As for the Poet of this present night, | |
| Though now he claims in you an Husbands right, | 30 |
| He will not hinder you of fresh delight. | |
| He, like a Seaman, seldom will appear, | |
| And means to trouble home but thrice a year; | |
| That only time from your Gallants he’ll borrow; | |
| Be kind to day, and Cuckold him to morrow. | 35 |
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EPILOGUE My Part being small, I have had time to day | |
| To mark your various censures of our Play. | |
| First, looking for a Judgement or a Wit, | |
| Like Jews, I saw ’em scatter’d through the Pit; | |
| And where a lot of Smilers lent an Ear | 40 |
| To one that talk’d, I knew the Foe was there. | |
| The Club of jests went round; he, who had none, | |
| Borrow’d o’ th’ next, and told it for his own. | |
| Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir, | |
| In whisp’ring that he stole th’ Astrologer; | 45 |
| And said, betwixt a French and English Plot, | |
| He eased his halfe-tir’d Muse, on Pace and Trot. | |
| Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o’er, and warm | |
| In the French stoop, and the pull-back o’ th’ Arm: | |
| Morbleu dit il, and cocks, I am a Rogue, | 50 |
| But he has quite spoil’d the fein’d Astrologue. | |
| ’Pox, says another, here’s so great a stir | |
| With a Son of a Whore, Farce that’s regular, | |
| A Rule, where nothing must decorum shock! | |
| Dam’me, ’tis as dull as Dining by the Clock. | 55 |
| An Evening! why the Devil should we be vext, | |
| Whether he gets the Wench this night or next? | |
| When I heard this, I to the Poet went, | |
| Told him the House was full of Discontent, | |
| And ask’d him what excuse he could invent. | 60 |
| He neither swore nor storm’d, as Poets do, | |
| But, most unlike an Author, vow’d ’twas true; | |
| Yet said, he used the French like Enemies, | |
| And did not steal their Plots, but made ’em Prize. | |
| But should he all the pains and charges count | 65 |
| Of taking ’em, the Bill so high wou’d mount, | |
| That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come, | |
| He should have had ’em much more cheap at home. | |
| He still must write, and, Banquier-like, each Day | |
| Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay. | 70 |
| When through his hands such sums must yearly run, | |
| You cannot think the Stock is all his own. | |
| His haste his other errors might excuse, | |
| But there’s no mercy for a guilty Muse; | |
| For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall, | 75 |
| And please you to a height, or not at all. | |
