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Thus, Gentlemen, we have fumm'd up in fhort
Our Grievances, from Country, Town, and Court;
Which humbly we fubmit to your good pleasure ;
But first Vote Money, then redress at leisure.

PROLOGUE to the PRINCESS of
CLEVES.

(By Mr. N. LE E. 1689.)

Adies! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper fomething in your Ear:
A Secret, which does much my Mind perplex:
There's Treason in the Play against our Sex.
A Man that's false to Love, that vows and cheats,
And kiffes every living Thing he meets.

A Rogue in Mode (I dare not speak too broad)
One that does something to the very Bawd.
Out on him, Traytor, for a filthy Beaft ;
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest:
None of 'em ftick at mark; They all deceive.
Some few has chang'd the Text, I half believe;
There Adam cozen'd our poor Grandame Eve.
To hide their Faults they rap out Oaths, and tear :
Now, tho' we lye, we're too well-bred to fwear.
So we compound for half the Sin we owe,
But men are dipt før Soul and Body too ;

}

And, when found out, excuse themselves, Pox cant 'em,
With Latin stuff, perjuria ridet Amantúm.

I'm not Book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue;
But I fufpect 'tis Latin for a Rogue.

I'm fure, I never heard that Scritch-Owl hollow'd

In my poor Ears, but Separation follow'd.

How

How can fuch perjur'd Villains e'er be saved?
Achitophel's not half so false to David.
With Vows and foft Expreffions to allure,
They ftand, like Foremen of a Shop, demure:
No fooner out of fight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new Face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their Favour, when they have been kiffing,
We can perceive the ready Money miffing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and fomething they will fink.
But, fince they're at renouncing, 'tis our Parts,
To trump their Diamonds, as they trump our Hearts.

EPILOGUE to the fame.

A of Confcience

back

To make amends to you befpatter'd Men. We Women love like Cats, that hide their Joys, By growling, fqualling, and a hideous Noise. I rail'd at wild young Sparks; but, without lying, Never was Man worse thought on for high-flying. The Prodigal of Love gives each her Part, And Squandring shows, at least, a noble Heart. I've heard of Men, who, in fome lewd Lampoon, Have hir'd a Friend, to make their Valour known. That Accufation ftraight this Queftion brings; What is the Man that does fuch naughty things? The Spaniel Lover, like a sneaking Fop, Lies at our Feet: He's scarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, fuch Heroes in a Play go

far ;

But Chamber Practice is not like the Bar.
When Men fuch vile, fuch feint, Petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take;

Since Modefty's the Virtue of our Kind,
Pray let it be to our own Sex confin'd.
When Men ufurp it from the Female Nation,
'Tis but a Work of Supererogation-

We fhew'd a Princess in the Play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cafar more than all his due ;
I Told her own Faults: but I fhou'd much abhor
To choose a Husband for my Confeffor.

You fee what Fate follow'd the Saint-like Fool,
For telling Tales from out the Nuptial School.
Our Play a merry Comedy had prov'd,
Had the confefs'd so much to him he lov'd.
True Presbyterian Wives the means wou'd try;
But damn'd Confeffing is flat Popery.

PROLOGUE to The WIDOW
RANTER.

HE

(By Mrs. BEH N. 1690.)

"Eav'n fave ye, Gallants, and this hopeful Age;
Y'are welcome to the downfall of the Stage:
The Fools have labour'd long in their Vocation;
And Vice (the Manufacture of the Nation)

O'erstocks the Town fo much, and thrives so well,
That Fops and Knaves grow Drugs, and will not fell.
In vain our Wares on Theatres are shown,
When each has a Plantation of his own.
His Cause ne'er fails; for whatfoe'er he spends,
There's ftill God's Plenty for himself and Friends.
Shou'd Men be rated by poetic Rules,

Lord! what a Poll would there be rais'd from Fools!

VOL. II.

N

Mean

Mean time poor Wit prohibited muft lie,
As if 'twere made fome French Commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais'd at vaft Expence ;
And yet, as foon as seen, they give offence.
Time was, when none wou'd cry, That Oaf was me;
But now you ftrive about your Pedigree.

Bauble and Cap no fooner are thrown down,
But there's a Mufs of more than half the Town.
Each one will challenge a Child's Part at least ;
A fign the Family is well increaft.

Of foreign Cattle there's no longer need,
When we're fupply'd fo faft with English Breed.
Well! flourish, Countrymen, drink, fwear, and roar ;
Let ev'ry free-born Subject keep his Whore,
And wand'ring in the Wilderness about,
At end of forty Years not wear her out.
But when you fee thefe Pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a Limb or fingle share :
- For where the Punk is common, he's a Sot,
Who needs will father what the Parish got.

EPILOGUE to HENRY II. (By Mr. Mo UNT FORT. 1693.) Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

Hus you the fad Catastrophe have seen,

TH

Occafion'd by a Miftrefs and a Queen.
Queen Eleanor the Proud was French, they say ;
But English Manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her Name, as Books aver:
Fair Rofamond was but her Nom de guerre.
Now tell me, Gallants, wou'd you lead your Life
With fuch a Mistress, or with fuch a Wife?

If one must be your Choice, which d'ye approve,
The Curtain Lecture, or the Curtain Love?
Wou'd ye be Godly with perpetual Strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan your Wife;
Or take your Pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honeft whoring Harry in the Play?
I guess your Minds: The Mistress wou'd be taken,
And naufeous Matrimony fent a packing.
The Devil's in you all; Mankind's a Rogue;
You love the Bride, but you deteft the Clog.
After a Year, poor Spoufe is left i'th' lurch,
And you, like Haynes, return to Mother-Church.
Or, if the Name of Church comes cross your Mind,
Chapels of Eafe behind our Scenes you find.
The Play-houfe is a kind of Market-Place ;
One chaffers for a Voice, another for a Face:
Nay, fome of you (I dare not fay how many)
Wou'd buy of me a Pen'worth for your Penny.
E'en this poor Face (which with my Fan I hide)
Wou'd make a shift my Portion to provide,
With fome small Perquifites I have befide.
Tho' for your Love, perhaps, I fhou'd not care,
I cou'd not hate a Man that bids me fair.
What might enfue, 'tis hard for me to tell ;
But I was drench'd to day for loving well,
And fear the Poifon that wou'd make me fwell.

A PROLOGUE.

In that which a fallonable Men mould write ;
F yet there be a few that take delight

To them Alone we Dedicate this Night.

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