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PROLOGUE. PROLOGUES, 1 like Bells to Churches, toul you in | |
| With Chimeing Verse, till the dull Playes begin; | |
| With this sad difference though, of Pit and Pue; | |
| You damn the Poet, but the Priest damns you. | |
| But Priests can treat you at your own expence, | 5 |
| And, gravely, call you Fools, without Offence | |
| Poets, poor Devils, have ne’er your Folly shown, | |
| But, to their Cost, you prov’d it was their own: | |
| For, when a Fop’s presented on the Stage, | |
| Straight all the Coxcombs in the Town ingage; | 10 |
| For his deliverance and revenge they joyn, | |
| And grunt, like Hogs, about their Captive Swine. | |
| Your Poets daily split upon this shelf: | |
| You must have Fools, yet none will have himself. | |
| Or, if in kindness, you that leave would give, | 15 |
| No man could write you at that rate you live: | |
| For some of you grow Fops with so much haste, | |
| Riot in nonsence, and commit such waste, | |
| ’Twould Ruine Poets should they spend so fast. | |
| He who made this observed what Farces hit, | 20 |
| And durst not disoblige you now with wit. | |
| But, Gentlemen, you overdo the Mode; | |
| You must have Fools out of the common Rode. | |
| Th’ unnatural strain’d Buffoon is only taking; | |
| No Fop can please you now of Gods own making. | 25 |
| Pardon our Poet, if he speaks his Mind; | |
| You come to Plays with your own Follies lin’d: | |
| Small Fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain; | |
| Your own oyl’d Coats keep out all common rain. | |
| You must have Mamamouchi, such a Fop | 30 |
| As would appear a Monster in a Shop; | |
| He’ll fill your Pit and Boxes to the brim, | |
| Where, Ram’d in Crowds, you see your selves in him. | |
| Sure there’s some spell our Poet never knew, | |
| In hullibabilah de, and Chu, chu, chu; | 35 |
| But Marabarah sahem most did touch you; | |
| That is, Oh how we love the Mamamouchi! | |
| Grimace and habit sent you pleas’d away; | |
| You damn’d the poet, and cried up the Play. | |
| This Thought had made our Author more uneasie, | 40 |
| But that he hopes I’m Fool enough to please ye. | |
| But here’s my grief,—though Nature, joined with Art, | |
| Have cut me out to act a Fooling Part, | |
| Yet, to your Praise, the few wits here will say, | |
| ’Twas imitating you taught Haynes to Play. | 45 |
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EPILOGUE Some have expected, from our Bills to-day, | |
| To find a Satyre in our Poet’s Play. | |
| The Zealous Rout from Coleman-street did run, | |
| To see the Story of the Fryer and Nun, | |
| Or Tales, yet more Ridiculous to hear, | 50 |
| Vouch’d by their Vicar of Ten pounds a year; | |
| Of Nuns who did against Temptation Pray, | |
| And Discipline laid on the pleasant Way: | |
| Or that, to please the Malice of the Town, | |
| Our Poet should in some close Cell have shown | 55 |
| Some Sister, Playing at Content alone. | |
| This they did hope; the other Side did fear; | |
| And both, you see, alike are Couzen’d here. | |
| Some thought the Title of our Play to blame; | |
| They liked the thing, but yet abhorr’d the Name: | 60 |
| Like modest Puncks, who all you ask afford, | |
| But, for the World, they would not name that word. | |
| Yet, if you’ll credit what I heard him say, | |
| Our Poet meant no Scandal in his Play; | |
| His Nuns are good which on the Stage are shown, | 65 |
| And, sure, behind our Scenes you’ll look for none. | |
