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Our great Metropolis does far furpass
What'er is now, and equals all that was :
Our Wit as får does Foreign Wit excel,
And, like a King, Thou'd in a Palace dwell.
But we with Golden Hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a Shed :
Your Prefence here (for which we humbly fue)
Will grace Old Theatres, and build
PROLOGUE for the Women, when
tbey Afted at the old Theatre in Lincoln's Inn-Fields.
IXERE none of you, Gallants, e'er driven so hard,
And could not do't at home, in some By-street
To take a Lodging, and in private meet ?
Such is our Case, we can't appoint our House,
The Lovers old and wonted Rendezvouz ;
But hither to this trusty Nook reinove ;
The worse the Lodging is, the more the Love.
For much good Paftime, many a dear sweet hug,
Is ftol'n in Garrets on the humble Rug.
Here's good Accommodation in the Pit,
The Grave demurely in the midst may fit ;
And so the hot Burgundian on the Side
Ply Vizard Mak, and o'er the Benches ftride:
Here are convenient upper Boxes too,
For those that make the most triumphant show ;
All that keep Coaches must not fit below.
There, Gallants, you betwixt the A&s retire,
And at dull Plays have something to admire :
We, who look up, can your Addresses mark;
And see the Creatures coupled in the Ark :
So we expect the Lovers, Braves, and Wits ;
The gaudy House with Scenes will serve for Cits.
An EPILOGU E for the King's House:
E act by fits and starts, like drowning Men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again.
Let those, who call us wicked, change their Sense ;
For never Men liv'd more on Providence.
Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half so poor,
Nor broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore.
Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents
Of the three laft ungiving Parliaments :
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could Divine,
He might have spar'd his Dream of seven lean Kine,
And chang'd his Vifon for the Muses Nine.
The Comer, that, they fay, portends a Dearth,
Was but a Vapour drawn from Play-house Earth:
Pent there since our last Fire, and, Lilly says,
Foreshews our change of State, and thin Third-days.
'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor ;
For then the Printer's Press would suffer more,
Their Pamphleteers each Day their Venom spit ;
They thrive by Treason, and we'ftarve by Wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield Maid ?
Or, which is duller yet, and more wou'd spite us,
Democritus his Wars with Heraclitus ?
Such are the Authors, who have ran us down,
And exercis'd you Criticks of the Town.
Yet these are Pearls to your Lampooning Rhimes,
your selves more dully than the Times.
Scandal, the Glory of the English Nation,
Is worn to Raggs, and scribbled out of Fashion.
Such harmless Thrusts, as if, like Fencers wise,
They had agreed their Play before their Prize.
Faith, they may hang their Harps upon the Willows;
'Tis just like Children when they box with Pillows:
Then put an end to Civil Wars for shame;
Let each Knight-Errant, who has wrong'd a Dame,
Throw down his Pen, and give her, as he can,
The Satisfaction of a Gentleman.
Allants, a bashful Poet bids me say,
He's come to lose his Maidenhead to day,
Be not too fierce ; for he's but
And ne'er, 'till now, debauch'd upon the Stage.
He wants the suff'ring part of Resolution,
And comes with Blushes to his Execution.
Ere you deflow'r his Mufe, he hopes the Pit
Will make some Settlement upon his Wit.
Promise him well, before the Play begin ;
For he wou'd fain be cozen'd into Sin.
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail ;
leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, à fair Pretence to rail
To call you base, and swear you us’d him ill,
And put you in the new Deferters Bill.
Lord, what a Troop of perjur'd Men we fee;
Enow to fill another Mercury !
But this the Ladies may with Patience brook:
Theirs are not the first Colours you forsook.
He wou'd be loth the Beauties to offend ;
But, if he shou'd, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young Plant, in his first Year of bearing;
But his Friend swears, he will be worth the rearing.
His Gloss is still upon him : Tho' 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the Blue.
You think an Apricot half green is best ;
There's sweet and sour, and one side good at leaft.
Mango's and Limes, whose Nourishment is little,
Tho' not for Food, are yet preserv'd før Pickle.
So this green Writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your Stomachs for a better Feaft.
He makes this difference in the Sexes too ;
He sells to Men, he gives himself to you.
To both he wou'd contribute some Delight ;
A meer Poetical Hermaphrodite.
Thus he's equipp'd, both to be wood, and woo;
With Arms offensive, and defensive too ;
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.