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PROLOGUE. LORD, 1 how reform’d and quiet are we grown, | |
| Since all our Braves and all our Wits are gone: | |
| Fop-corner now is free from Civil War, | |
| White-Wig and Vizard-Mask 2 no longer jar. | |
| France, and the Fleet have swept the Town so clear, | 5 |
| That we can Act in peace, and you can hear. | |
| Those that durst fight are gone to get renown; | |
| And those that durst not, blush to stand in Town. 3 | |
| ’Twas a sad sight, before they march’d 4 from home, | |
| To see our Warriours, in Red Wastecoats, come, | 10 |
| With hair tuck’d up, into our Tireing-room. | |
| But ’twas more sad to hear their last Adieu | |
| The Women sob’d, and swore they would be true; | |
| And so they were, as long as e’re they cou’d; | |
| But powerful Guinnee cannot be withstood, | 15 |
| And they were made of Playhouse 5 flesh and bloud. | |
| Fate did their Friends for double Use ordain; | |
| In Wars abroad, they grinning Honour gain, | |
| And Mistresses, for all that stay, maintain. | |
| Now they are gone, ’tis dead Vacation here, | 20 |
| For neither Friends nor Enemies appear. | |
| Poor pensive Punk now peeps ere Plays begin, | |
| Sees the bare Bench, and dares not venture in; | |
| But manages her last Half-crown with care, | |
| And trudges to the Mall, on foot, for Air. | 25 |
| Our City Friends so far will hardly roam, 6 | |
| They can take up with Pleasures nearer home; | |
| And see gay Shows with 7 gaudy Scenes elsewhere: | |
| For we presume they seldom come to hear. | |
| But they have now ta’n up a glorious Trade, | 30 |
| And cutting Moorcraft 8 struts in Masquerade. | |
| There’s all our hope, for we shall show to day | |
| A Masquing Ball, to recommend our Play; | |
| Nay, to endear ’em more, and let ’em see | |
| We scorn to come behind in Courtesie, | 35 |
| We’ll follow the new Mode which they begin, | |
| And treat ’em with a Room, and Couch within: | |
| For that’s one way, how e’re the Play fall short, | |
| T’ oblige the Town, the City, and the Court. | |
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EPILOGUE Thus have my Spouse and I inform’d the Nation, | 40 |
| And led you all the way to Reformation; | |
| Not with dull Morals, gravely writ, like those | |
| Which men of easy Phlegme with care compose, | |
| Your Poets, of stiff Words and limber sense, | |
| Born on the confines of indifference: | 45 |
| But by Examples drawn, I dare to say, | |
| From most of you who hear, and see the Play | |
| There are more Rhodophils in this Theatre, | |
| More Palamedes, and some few Wives, I fear: | |
| But yet too far our Poet would not run; | 50 |
| Though ’twas well offer’d, there was nothing done. | |
| He would not quite the Woman’s frailty bare, | |
| But stript ’em to the waste, and left ’em there: | |
| And the men’s faults are less severely shown, | |
| For he considers that himself is one. | 55 |
| Some stabbing Wits, to bloudy Satyr bent, | |
| Would treat both Sexes with less complement: | |
| Would lay the Scene at home; of Husbands tell, | |
| For Wenches taking up their Wives i’ th’ Mell; | |
| And a brisk bout, which each of them did want, | 60 |
| Made by mistake of Mistris and Gallant. | |
| Our modest Authour thought it was enough | |
| To cut you off a Sample of the stuff: | |
| He spared my shame, which you, I’m sure, would not, | |
| For you were all for driving on the Plot: | 65 |
| You sigh’d when I came in to break the sport, | |
| And set your teeth when each design fell short. | |
| To Wives, and Servants all good wishes lend, | |
| But the poor Cuckold seldom finds a friend. | |
| Since therefore, Court and Town will take no pity, | 70 |
| I humbly cast myself upon the City. | |
