A

PROLOGUE

Spoken at the Opening of the

Duke's New Play-Houfe.

T

By the fame Author.

IS not in this, as in the former Age,

When Wit alone fuffic'd t'Adorn the

Stage,

When Things well faid,anAudience cou'd invite, Without the hope of fuch a Gaudy Sight.

What with your Fathers took, wou'd take with you,

If Wit had still the Charm of being New;

Had

1

Prologue at the Duke's New Play-Houfe. 297 Had not Enjoyment dull'd your Appetite,

She in her homely Drefs wou'd yet delight;
Such stately Theatres we need not raise,
Our Old House wou'd put off our dullest Plays.
You Gallants know, a fresh Wench of Sixteen,
May drive the Trade in Honeft Bombarine,
And never want good Custom, fhou'd she lie
In a Back-Room, Two or Three Stories high;
But fuch a Beauty as has long been known,
Though not decay'd, but to Perfection grown,
Muft, if she mean to thrive in this lewd Town
Wear Points, Lac'd Peticoats, and a rich Gown,
Her Lodgings too, muft with her Dress

agree,
Be hung with Damask, or with Tapestry;
Have China, Cabinets, and a great Glafs;
Ta strike Respect into an Am'rous Afs.
Without the help of Stratagems and Arts,
An old Acquaintance cannot touch your Hearts.

Methinks 'tis hard our Authors fhou'd fubmit.
So tamely to their Predeceffor's Wit,

Since

Since I am fure among you there are few

Wou'd grant your Grandfathers had more than

you.

But hold! I in this business may proceed too far,
And raise a Storm against our Theatre;
And then what wou'd the wife Adventurers fay,
Who were in a much greater Fright to day,
Than ever Poet was about his Play ?
Our Apprehenfions none can justly blame,
Money is dearer much to us than Fame ;
This thought on, let our Poets juftifię
The Reputation of their Poetry;

We are refolv'd we will not have to do

With what's between thofe Gentlemen and you

Be kind, and let our Houfe have but your Praise, You're welcome every day to damn their Plays,

Falling

Falling in Love with a Stranger at a Play.

F

By Sir Charles Sedley.

Air Amarillis, on the Stage whilft you

Beheld a feigned Love, you gave a true;

I, like a Coward in the Amorous War,
Came only to look on, yet got a Scar;
Fixt by your Eyes, I had no power to fly,
They held me whilst you gain'd the Victory:
I thought I fafely might my Sight content,
To which the power to Like (not Love) I lents
And if I ventur'd on some flight Discourse,
It should be fuch as could no Passion nurse:
Led by the treacherous Luftre of your Eyes,
At last I play'd too near the Precipice:

Love came disguis'd in Wonder and Delight;:
And I was Conquer'd e'r I knew him right;
Your Words fell on my Paffion like thofe Showers
Which fwell and multiply the rifing Flowers;
Like Cupid's Self, a God and yet a Child,
Your Looks at once were awful, and yet mild.
Methoughts you blush'd, as Conscious of

Flame,

my

Whilst your strict Virtue did your Beauty blame:

But reft fecure; y're from the Guilt as free,
As Saints Ador'd from our Idolatry;

And Love a Torment does for me prepare,
Beyond your Rigour, in my own Despair.

Indifference