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PROLOGUE. A PLAIN 1 built House, after so long a stay, | |
| Will send you half unsatisfi’d away; | |
| When, fall’n from your expected Pomp, you find | |
| A bare convenience only is designed. | |
| You, who each Day can Theatres behold, | 5 |
| Like Nero’s Palace, shining all with Gold, | |
| Our mean ungilded Stage will scorn, we fear, | |
| And for the homely Room, disdain the Chear. | |
| Yet now cheap Druggets to a Mode are grown, | |
| And a plain Suit (since we can make but one | 10 |
| Is better than to be by tarnisht gawdry known. | |
| They, who are by your Favours wealthy made, | |
| With mighty Sums may carry on the Trade; | |
| We, broken Banquiers, half destroy’d by Fire, | |
| With our small Stock to humble Roofs retire; | 15 |
| Pity our Loss, while you their Pomp admire. | |
| For Fame and Honour we no longer strive; | |
| We yield in both, and only beg to live; | |
| Unable to support their vast Expense, | |
| Who build and treat with such Magnificence, | 20 |
| That, like th’ Ambitious Monarchs of the Age, | |
| They give the Law to our Provincial Stage. | |
| Great Neibours enviously promote Excess, | |
| While they impose their Splendor on the less; | |
| But only Fools, and they of vast Estate, | 25 |
| Th’ extremity of Modes will imitate, | |
| The dangling Knee-fringe and the Bib-cravat. | |
| Yet if some Pride with want may be allow’d, | |
| We in our plainness may be justly proud; | |
| Our Royal Master will’d it should be so; | 30 |
| Whate’er he’s pleased to own can need no show; | |
| That sacred Name gives Ornament and Grace; | |
| And, like his Stamp, makes basest Mettals pass. | |
| ’Twere Folly now a stately Pile to raise, | |
| To build a Play-house, while you throw down Plays; | 35 |
| Whilst Scenes, Machines, and empty Opera’s reign, | |
| And for the Pencil you the Pen disdain; | |
| While Troops of famish’d Frenchmen hither drive, | |
| And laugh at those upon whose Alms they live: | |
| Old English Authors vanish, and give place | 40 |
| To these new Conqu’rors of the Norman Race. | |
| More tamely than your Fathers you submit; | |
| You’re now grown Vassals to ’em in your Wit. | |
| Mark, when they play, how our fine Fops advance | |
| The Mighty Merits of these Men of France, | 45 |
| Keep time, cry Ben, 2 and humour the Cadence. | |
| Well, please your selves; but sure ’tis understood, | |
| That French Machines have ne’er done England good. | |
| I would not prophesie our Houses Fate; | |
| But while vain Shows and Scenes you overrate, | 50 |
| ’Tis to be feared—— | |
| That, as a Fire the former House o’erthrew, | |
| Machines and Tempests will destroy the new. | |
| |
EPILOGUE Though what our Prologue said was sadly true, | |
| Yet, Gentlemen, our homely House is new, | 55 |
| A Charm that seldom fails with wicked you. | |
| A Country Lip may have the Velvet touch: | |
| Tho’ she’s no Lady, you may think her such: | |
| A strong Imagination may do much. | |
| But you, loud Sirs, who thro’ your Curls look big, | 60 |
| Criticks in plume and white vallancy Wig, | |
| Who lolling on our foremost Benches sit, | |
| And still charge first, (the true forlorn of Wit) | |
| Whose favours, like the Sun, warm where you roul, | |
| Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor Soul; | 65 |
| So may your Hats your Foretops never press, | |
| Untouch’d your Ribbons, sacred be your Dress; | |
| So may you slowly to old Age advance, | |
| And have th’ Excuse of Youth for Ignorance; | |
| So may Fop corner full of Noise remain, | 70 |
| And drive far off the dull, attentive Train; | |
| So may your Midnight Scowrings happy prove, | |
| And Morning Batt’ries force your way to love; | |
| So may not France your Warlike Hands recal, | |
| But leave you by each other’s Swords to fall, | 75 |
| As you come here to ruffle Vizard Punk, | |
| When sober rail, and roar when you are drunk. | |
| But to the Wits we can some Merit plead, | |
| And urge what by themselves has oft been said: | |
| Our House relieves the Ladies from the frights | 80 |
| Of ill-pav’d Streets, and long dark Winter Nights; | |
| The Flanders Horses from a cold bleak Road, | |
| Where Bears in Furs dare scarcely look abroad; | |
| The Audience from worn Plays and Fustian Stuff | |
| Of Rhime, more nauseous than three Boys in Buff. | 85 |
| Though in their House the Poets Heads appear, | |
| We hope we may presume their Wits are here. | |
| The best which they reserv’d they now will play, | |
| For, like kind Cuckcolds, tho’ w’ have not the way | |
| To please, we’ll find you abler Men who may. | 90 |
| If they shou’d fail, for last Recruits we breed | |
| A Troop of frisking Monsiers to succeed. | |
| (You know the French sure Cards at time of need.) | |
