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PROLOGUE. TRUE 1 Wit has seen its best Days long ago; | |
| It ne’er look’d up since we were dipt in Show, | |
| When sense in dogrel Rhymes and Clouds was lost, | |
| And Dulness flourish’d at the Actors’ Cost. | |
| Nor stopt it here; when Tragedy was done, | 5 |
| Satire and Humour the same Fate have run, | |
| And Comedy is sunk to Trick and Pun. | |
| Now our machining Lumber will not sell, | |
| And you no longer care for Heav’n or Hell; | |
| What Stuff will please you next, the Lord can tell. | 10 |
| Let them, who the Rebellion first began | |
| To Wit, restore the Monarch if they can; | |
| Our Author dares not be the first bold Man. | |
| He, like the prudent Citizen, takes care | |
| To keep for better Marts his staple Ware; | 15 |
| His Toys are good enough for Sturbridge Fair. | |
| Tricks were the Fashion; if it now be spent, | |
| ’Tis time enough at Easter to invent; | |
| No man will make up a new Suit for Lent. | |
| If now and then he takes a small Pretence, | 20 |
| To forage for a little Wit and Sense, | |
| Pray pardon him, he meant you no Offence, | |
| Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say, | |
| That all the Criticks shall be shipp’d away. | |
| And not enow be left to damn a Play. | 25 |
| To every Sail beside, good Heav’n, be kind; | |
| But drive away that Swarm with such a Wind | |
| That not one Locust may be left behind! | |
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EPILOGUE
Spoken by LIMBERHAM.
I beg a Boon, that, e’re you all disband, | |
| Some one would take my Bargain off my hand; | 30 |
| To keep a Punk is but a common evil; | |
| To find her false, and Marry,—that’s the Devil. | |
| Well, I ne’re acted Part in all my life, | |
| But still I was fobb’d off with some such Wife | |
| I find the Trick; these Poets take no pity | 35 |
| Of one that is a Member of the City. | |
| We Cheat you lawfully, and in our Trades; | |
| You Cheat us basely with your Common Jades. | |
| Now I am Married, I must sit down by it; | |
| But let me keep my Dear-bought Spouse in quiet: | 40 |
| Let none of you Damn’d Woodalls of the Pit | |
| Put in for Shares to mend our breed in Wit; | |
| We know your Bastards from our Flesh and Blood, | |
| Not one in ten of yours e’re comes to good. | |
| In all the Boys their Fathers Vertues shine, | 45 |
| But all the Female Fry turn Pugs, like mine. | |
| When these grow up, Lord, with what Rampant Gadders | |
| Our Counters will be throng’d, and Roads with Padders. | |
| This Town two Bargains has, not worth one farthing, | |
| A Smithfield Horse, and Wife of Covent-Garden. | 50 |
