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But here each saucy Wit at Random writes,
And uses Ladies as he uses Knights.
Our Author, young and grateful in his Nature,
Vows, that from him no Nymph deserves a Satire :
Nor will he ever draw-I mean his Rhime,
Against the sweet Partaker of his Crime.
Nor is he yet so bold an Undertaker,
To call Men Fools ; 'tis railing at their Maker.
Besides, he fears to split upon that Shelf ;
He's young enough to be a Fop himself :
And, if his Praise can bring you all a-bed,
He swears such hopeful Youth no Nation ever bred.

Your Nurses, we presume, in such a Cafe,
Your Father chose, because he lik'd the Face;
And, often, they supply'd your Mother's Place.
The Dry Nurse was your Mother's ancient Maid,
Who knew some former Slip the ne'er betray'd.
Betwixt 'em both, for Milk and Sugar-Candy,
Your fucking Bottles were well stor'd with Brandy,
Your Father, to initiate your Discourse,
Meant to have taught you first to swear and curse ;
But was prevented by cach careful Nurse.
For, leaving Dad and Mam, as Names too common,
They taught you certain parts of Man and Woman.
I pass your Schools ; for there when first you came,
You wou'd be sure to learn the Latin Name.
In Colleges you scorn'd the Art of thinking,
But learn'd all Moods and Figures of good Drinking:
Thence come to Town, you practise Play, to know
The virtues of the high Dice, and the low."
Each thinks himself a Shar per most profound :
He cheats by Pence ; is cheated by the Pound.

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With these Perfections, and what else he gleans,
The Spark sets up for Love behind our Scenes ;
Hot in pursuit of Princesses and Queens.
There, if they know their Man, with cunning Carriage,
Twenty to one but it concludes in Marriage.
He hires some homely Room, Love’s Fruits to gather,
And Garret-high Rebels against his Father :
But he once dead-
Brings her in Triumph, with her Portion, down,
A Toilet, Dressing-Box, and Half a Crown.
Some marry first, and then they fall to Scowring,
Which is, Refining Marriage into Whoring.
Our Women batten well on their Good-nature ;
All they can rap and rend for the dear Creature,
But while abroad so liberal the Dolt is,
Poor Spouse at Home as ragged as a Colt is.
Laft, some there are, who take their first Degrees
Of Lewdness in our middle Galleries.
The doughty Bullies enter bloody drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's Punk :
They Caterwaul, and make a dismal Rout,
Call Sons of Whores, and strike, but ne'er lug out :
Thus while for Paltry Punk they roar and stickle,
They make it Bawdier than a Conventicle.

PROLOGUE to the King and Queen, Upon the Union of the two Companies in 1686. Ince Faction ebbs, and Rogues grow out of Fashion,

Their penny-Scribes take care t'inform the Nation, How well men thrive in this or that Plantation :

How

How Penfylvania's Air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Associators :
Both e'en too good for Madmen and for Traitors.

Truth is, our Land with Saints is so run o'er,
And every Age produces such a store,
That now there's need of two New-Englands more.

What's this, you'll say, to Us and our Vocation ?
Only thus mach, that we have left our Station,
And made this Theatre our new Plantation.

The Factious Natives never cou'd

agree ; But aiming; as they call'd it, to be Free, Those Play-house Whigs set up for Property.

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Some say, they no Obedience paid of late ; But would new Fears and Jealousies create ; 'Till topsy-turvy they had turn'd the State.

Plain Sense, without the Talent of Foretelling,
Might guess 'twould end in downright knocks and

quelling :
For seldom comes there better of Rebelling.

When Men will, needlesly, their Freedom barter
For lawless Pow'r, sometimes the catch a Tartar :
There's a damn'd Word that rhimes to this, called

Charter..

But, since the Victory with Us remains,
You shall be call'd to Twelve in all our Gains ;
If you'll not think Us faucy for our Pains.

Old

Old Men shall have good old Plays to delight 'em : And you, fair Ladies and Gallants that slight 'em, We'll treat with good new Plays ; if our new Wits

can write 'em,

We'll take no blundring Verse, no fuftian Tumour,
No dribling Love, from this or that Presumer :
No dull fat Fool Thamm’d on the Stage for humour.

For, faith, some of 'em such vile stuff have made,
As none but Fools or Fairies every Play'd ;
But 'twas, as Shop-men fay, to force a Trade.

We've giv'n you Tragedies, all sense defying,
And singing men, in woful Metre dying ;
This 'tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying.

All these disasters we well hope to weather ;
We bring you none of our old Lumber hither :
Whig Poets and Whig Sheriffs may hang together.

EPILOGUE on the same Occasion.

N

TEw Ministers, when first they get in place,

Must have a care to please ; and that's our Case : Some Laws for publick Welfare we design, If you, the Power supreme, will please to join : There are a sort of Prattlers in the Pit, Who either have, or who pretend to Wit : These noily Sirs so loud their Parts rehearse, That oft the Play is filenc'd by the Farce. Let such be dumb, this penalty to Thun, Each to be thought my Lady's eldest Son.

But

But stay : methinks fome Vizard Mask I fee,
Caft out her Lure from the mid Gallery :
About her all the flutt'ring Sparks are rang'd;
The Noise continues though the Scene is chang'd :
Now growling, sputt'ring, wauling, such a clutter,
'Tis just like Puss defendant in a Gutter :
Fine Love no doubt; but ere two days are o'er ye,
The Surgeon will be told a woful story.
Let Vizard Mask her naked Face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a Nose :
Then for your Lacqueys, and your Train befide,
(By what-e'er Name or Title dignify'd)
They roar so loud, you'd think behind the Stairs
Tom Dove, and all the Brotherhood of Bears :
They're grown a Nufance, beyond all Disasters;
We've none so great but their unpaying Masters.
We beg you, Sirs, to beg your Men, that they
Wou'd please to give you leave to hear the Play.
Next in the Play-house spare your precious Lives ;
Think, like good Chriftians, on your Bearns and Wives:
Think on your Souls; but by your lugging forth,
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of these will move the warlike Mind,
Think on the helpless Whore you leave behind.
We beg you, laft, our Scene-Room to forbear,
And leave our Goods and Chattles to our Care.
Alas ! our Women are but washy Toys,
And wholly taken up in Stage Employs :
Poor willing Tits they are : But yet I doubt
This double Duty soon will wear 'em out.
Then you are watch'd besides with jealous Care;
What if my Lady's Page shou'd find you there?
My Lady know's t' a tittle what there's in ye ;
No passing your gilt Shilling for a Guinea.

Thus,

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