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Thus, Gentlemen, we have summ'd up in short
PROLOGUE to the PRINCESS of
Adies! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper something 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 kisses 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 Beast Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest : None of 'em stick at mark; They all deceive. Some Jew 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 swear. So we compound for half the Sin we owe, But men are dipt for Soul and Body too ; And, when found out, excuse themselves, Pox cant 'em, With Latin ftuff, perjuria ridet Amantúm. I'm not Book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue; But I suspect 'tis Latin for a Rogue. I'm sure, I never heard that Scritch-Owl hollow'd In my poor Ears, but Separation follow'd.
How can such perjur'd Villains e'er be saved ?
EPILOGUE to the same. Qualm of Conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespatter'd Men. We Women love like Cats, that hide their Joys, By growling, squalling, 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 some lewd Lampoon, Have hir'd a Friend, to make their Valour known. That Accusation straight this Question brings; What is the Man that does such naughty things ? The Spaniel Lover, like a sneaking Fop, Lies at our Feet : He's scarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, such Heroes in a Play go far ; But Chamber Practice is not like the Bar. When Men such vile, such feint, Petitions make, We fear to give, because they fear to take ;
Since Modesty's the Virtue of our Kind,
Our Play a merry Comedy had prov'd,
PROLOGUE to The WIDOW
(By Mrs. Be H N. 1690.) Eav'n save 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 so much, and thrives so well, That Fops and Knaves grow Drugs, and will not sell. In vain our Wares on Theatres are shown, When each has a Plantation of his own. His Cause ne'er fails ; for whatsoe'er he spends, There's still 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!
Mean time poor Wit prohibited must lie,
when none wou'd cry, That Oaf was me ;
To own beyond a Limb or single Mare : - For where the Punk is common, he's a Sot, Who needs will father what the Parish got.
EPILOGUE to HENRY II. (By Mr. MOUNT FOR T. 1693.)
Spoken by Mrs. BR A CEGIRDLE.
Occafion'd by a Mistress and a Queen.
If one must be your Choice, which d'ye approve,
Pleasure in a wicked way,
A PROLOGU E.
F yet there be a few that take delight
In that which reasonable Men should write ; To them Alone we Dedicate this Night.