New minifters, when first they get in place.
Muft have a care to please, and that's our cafe:
Some laws for public welfare we defign,
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;
Thefe noify firs 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 ftay: methinks fome vizard mask I fee,
Caft out her lure from the mid gallery :
About her all the flattering fparks are rang'd;
The noise continues, though the fcene is chang'd:
Now growling, fputtering, wauling fuch a clutter,
'Tis juft like pufs defendant in a gutter:
Fine love, no doubt; but e'er two days are o'er
The furgeon will be told a woful story.
Let vizard mask her naked face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a nofe:
Then for your lacqueys, and your train befide,
By whate'er name or title dignify'd,
They roar fo loud, you'd think behind the stairs
Tom Dove, and all the brotherhood of bears:

[ye,

Think on your fouls; but by your lugging forth,
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of thefe 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 chattels 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 them out.
Then you are watch'd befides with jealous care;
What if my lady's page fhould find you there?
My lady knows t' a tittle what there's in ye;
No paffing your gilt fhilling for a guinea.
Thus, gentlemen, we have fumm'd up in short
Our grievances, from country, town, and court:
Which humbly we fubmit to your good pleasure;
But first vote money, then redress at leifure.

LADIES! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper fomething in your ear:
A fecret, which does much my mind perplex:
There's treafon in the play against our fex.
A man that's falfe 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 fomething to the very bawd.
Out on him, traitor, for a filthy beast;
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the reft.
None of them 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 up oaths, and

tear:

Now, though we lye, we're too well-bred to fwear.

So we compound for half the fin we owe,
But men are dipt for foul and body too;

And, when found out, excufe themselves, pog cant them,

With Latin ftuff, " Perjuria ridet Amantûm.”
I'm not book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue,
But I fufped 'tis Latin for a rogue.

I'm fure, I never heard that fcritch-owl hollow'd
In my poor ears, but feparation follow'd.
How can fuch perjur'd villains e'er be faved?
Achitophel's not half fo falfe to David.
With vows and foft expreffions to allure,
They ftand, like foremen of a fhop, 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.mifling.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good as ev'n 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,

A QUALM of confcience brings me back again,
To make amends to you befpatter'd men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys,
By growling, fqualling, and a hideous noife.

rail'd at wild young fparks; but, without lying, Never was man worfe thought on for high-flying, The prodigal of love gives each her part, And fquandering fhews, at least, a noble heart.

WHAT Noftradame, with all his art, can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetefs? A play, which, like a perspective let right, Prefents our vast expences close to fight; But turn the tube, and the we fadly view Our diftant gains; and thole uncertain too: A fweeping tax, which on ourselves we raife, And all, like you, in hopes of better days. When will our loffes warn us to be wife? Our wealth decreafes, and our charges rife. Money, the fweet allurer of our hopes, Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops. We raile new objects to provoke delight; But you grow fated, ere the fecond fight. Falle men, ev'n fo you ferve your mistresses: They rife three ftories in their towering dress; And, after all, you love not long enough To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off. Never content with what you had before, But truc to change, and Englishmen all o'er. Now honour calls you hence; and all your care Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.

In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilboa blade, Your filver goes, that should support our trade. Go, unkind heroes, leave our flage to mourn; Till rich from vanquish'd rebels you return;

And the fat fpoils of Teague in triumph draw His firkin-butter, and his ufquebaugh. Go, conquerors of your male and female foes; Men without hearts, and women without hofe, Each bring his love a Bogland captive home; Such proper pages will long trains become; With copper collars, and with brawny backs, Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks. Then fhall the pious Mufes pay their vows, And furnish all their laurels for your brows; Their tuneful voice fhall raife for your delights: We want not poets fit to fing your flights. But you, bright beautics, for whofe only fake Thofe doughty knights fuch dangers undertake, When they with happy gales are gone away, With your propitious prefence grace our play; And with a figh their empty feats furvey: Then think, on that bare bench my fervant fat; I fee him ogle ftill, and hear him chat; Selling facetious bargains, and propounding That witty recreation, call'd dum-founding. Their lofs with patience we will try to bear; And would do more, to fee you often here; That our dead stage, reviv'd by your fair eyes. Under a female regency may rile.

Enter Mr. BRIGHT.

GENTLEMEN, we must beg your pardon; here's no Prologue to be had to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontifpiece; as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left our young poet, fniveling and fobbing behind the fcenes, and curfing fomebody that has deceived him.

Enter Mr. BOWEN.

Hold your prating to the audience: here's honeft Mr. Williams, just come in, half mellow, from the Rofe-Tavern. He fwears he is infpired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or fomething like one: O here he comes to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Borven. Enter Mr. WILLIAMS.

Save ye firs, fave ye! I am in a hopeful way. Ihould fpeak fomething, in rhyme, now, for

the play:

But the duce take me, if I know what to say.
Vi ftick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret, in my belly.

So far I'm fure 'tis rhyme-that needs no granting: And, if my verfes feet ftumble-you see my own are wanting.

Our

young poet has brought a piece of work, In which, though much of art there does not lurk, may hold out three days-and that's as long as Corke.

But, for this play-(which till I have done, we fhew not)

What may be its fortune—By the Lord—I know

not.

This I dare fwear, no malice here is writ: 'Tis innocent of all things-ev'n of wit. He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets. His fquibs are only level'd at your pockets. And if his crackers light among your pelf, You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.

By this time, I'm fomething recover'd of my flufter'd madness :

And now, a word or two in fober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price-just half a crown.
You'll fay, I play the pimp, on my friend's fcore;
But, fince 'tis for a friend, your gibes give o'er
For many a mother has done that before.
How's this, you cry? an actor writr?—we know it;
But Shakspeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonfon's learning, often fail'd?
But Shakspeare's greater genius ftill prevail'd.
Have not fome writing actors, in this age
Deferv'd and found fuccefs upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tir'd,
Not one of us but means to be infpir'd.
Let your kind prefence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt, is all our business here:
So much for that;-and the devil take fmail beer.

Taus you the fad catastrophe have seen,
Occafion'd by a mistress and a queen.

en Eleanor the proud was French, they say i
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, would you lead your life With fuch a miftiefs, or with fuch a wife?