Our great Metropolis does far furpafs
What'er is now, and equals all that was :
Our Wit as får does Foreign Wit excel,
And, like a King, fhou'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 up
PROLOGUE for the Women, when they Ated at the old Theatre in Lincoln'sInn-Fields.
ERE none of you, Gallants, e'er driven fo hard, As when the poor kind Soul was under guard, And could not do't at home, in fome By-ftreet To take a Lodging, and in private meet? Such is our Cafe, we can't appoint our House, The Lovers old and wonted Rendezvouz ; But hither to this trufty Nook remove; The worse the Lodging is, the more the Love. For much good Paflime, 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 fo the hot Burgundian on the Side Ply Vizard Mask, 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 Acts 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 Houfe with Scenes will ferve for Cits.
An EPILOGUE for the King's House:
Wat jul peep up, and then pop down again.
7E act by fits and ftarts, like drowning Men,
Let thofe, who call us wicked, change their Sense;
For never Men liv'd more on Providence.
Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half fo 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 fpar'd his Dream of feven lean Kine,
And chang'd his Vifon for the Mufes Nine.
The Comet, that, they fay, portends a Dearth,
Was but a Vapour drawn from Play-house Earth:
Pent there fince our laft Fire, and, Lilly fays,
Foreshews our change of State, and thin Third-days.
'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor;
For then the Printer's Prefs would fuffer more.
Their Pamphleteers each Day their Venom spit ;
They thrive by Treason, and we ftarve by Wit.
Confefs 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 run us down,
And exercis'd you Criticks of the Town.
Yet these are Pearls to your Lampooning Rhimes,
Y' abuse 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 Thrufts, as if, like Fencers wife,
They had agreed their Play before their Prize.
Faith, they may hang their Harps upon the Willows;
'Tis juft like Children when they box with Pillows.
Then put an end to Civil Wars for fhame;
Let each Knight-Errant, who has wrong'da Dame,
Throw down his Pen, and give her, as he can,
The Satisfaction of a Gentleman.
Allants, a bafhful Poet bids me fay,
G He's come to lofe his Maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of Age,
And ne'er, 'till now, debauch'd upon the Stage.
He wants the fuff'ring part of Refolution,
And comes with Blushes to his Execution.
Ere you deflow'r his Mufe, he hopes the Pit
Will make fome Settlement upon his Wit.
Promife 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;
But, if you leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, a 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 forfook.
He wou'd be loth the Beauties to offend ;
But, if he fhou'd, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young Plant, in his first Year of bearing;
But his Friend fwears, he will be worth the rearing.
His Glofs is ftill 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 four, and one Side good at leaft.
Mango's and Limes, whofe Nourishment is little,
Tho' not for Food, are yet preferv'd for Pickle.
So this green Writer may pretend, at leaft,
To whet your Stomachs for a better Feaft.
He makes this difference in the Sexes too;
He fells to Men, he gives himself to you.
To both he wou'd contribute fome Delight;
A meer Poetical Hermaphrodite.
Thus he's equipp'd, both to be woo'd, and
With Arms offenfive, and defenfive too;
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.
|