But here each faucy Wit at Random writes,
And ufes Ladies as he ufes 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 fo bold an Undertaker,
To call Men Fools; 'tis railing at their Maker.
Befides, he fears to split upon that Shelf;
He's young enough to be a Fop himself :
And, if his Praise çan bring you all a-bed,
He fwears fuch hopeful Youth no Nation ever bred.
Your Nurfes, we prefume, in fuch a Cafe,
Your Father chofe, because he lik'd the Face;
And, often, they fupply'd your Mother's Place.
The Dry Nurfe was your Mother's ancient Maid,
Who knew fome former Slip fhe ne'er betray'd.
Betwixt 'em both, for Milk and Sugar-Candy,
Your fucking Bottles were well ftor'd with Brandy,
Your Father, to initiate your Discourse,
Meant to have taught you first to swear and curfe ;
But was prevented by each 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 fure 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 Sharper moft profound:
He cheats by Pence; is cheated by the Pound.
With these Perfections, and what else he gleans,
The Spark fets up for Love behind our Scenes;
Hot in pursuit of Princeffes and Queens.
There, if they know their Man, with cunning Carriage, Twenty to one but it concludes in Marriage.
He hires fome homely Room, Love's Fruits to gather, And Garret-high Rebels against his Father:
Brings her in Triumph, with her Portion, down,
A Toilet, Dreffing-Box, and Half a Crown.
Some marry firft, 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 fo liberal the Dolt is,
Poor Spouse at Home as ragged as a Colt is.
Laft, fome 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 Penfylvania's Air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Affociators:
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 fay, to Us and our Vocation?
Only thus much, 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 fet up for Property.
Some fay, they no Obedience paid of late; But would new Fears and Jealoufies create; 'Till topsy-turvy they had turn'd the State.
Plain Senfe, without the Talent of Foretelling,
Might guefs 'twould end in downright knocks and
For feldom comes there better of Rebelling.
When Men will, needlefly, their Freedom barter
For lawless Pow'r, fometimes the catch a Tartar :
There's a damn'd Word that rhimes to this, call'd
Charter.
But, fince the Victory with Us remains,
You fhall be call'd to Twelve in all our Gains ;
If you'll not think Us faucy for our Pains.
Old Men fhall have good old Plays to delight 'em : And you, fair Ladies and Gallants that flight 'em, We'll treat with good new Plays; if our new Wits can write 'em,
We'll take no blundring Verfe, no fuftian Tumour,
No dribling Love, from this or that Presumer :
No dull fat Fool shamm'd on the Stage for humour.
For, faith, fome of 'em fuch vile ftuff 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 fenfe defying,
And finging men, in woful Metre dying;
This 'tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying.
All these difafters 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 fame Occafion.
Ew Minifters, when firft they get in place,
Must have a care to please; and that's our Cafe : Some Laws for publick Welfare we design, If you, the Power fupreme, will please to join : There are a fort of Prattlers in the Pit, Who either have, or who pretend to Wit : These noify Sirs fo loud their Parts rehearse, That oft the Play is filenc'd by the Farce. Let fuch be dumb, this penalty to fhun, Each to be thought my Lady's eldest Son.
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, fputt'ring, wauling, fuch 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 ftory.
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 fo 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 foon will wear 'em out."
Then you are watch'd befides with jealous Care;
What if my Lady's Page fhou'd find you there ?
My Lady know's t'a tittle what there's in ye;
No paffing your gilt Shilling for a Guinea."
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