How this vile world is chang'd! in former days,
Prologues were serious speeches before plays;
Grave solemn things, as graces are to feasts;
Where poets begg'd a blessing from their guests:
But now, no more like supplicants we come ;
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum ;
Arm'd with keen satire, and with pointed wit,
We threaten you who do for judges sit,
To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit.
But for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We've a young author, and his first-born play ;
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He's very civil, and intreats your favour.
Not but the man has malice, would be shew it,
But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet ;
You think that strange-no matter, he'll out-grow it.
Well, I'm his advocate- -by me he prays you,
(I dont know whether I shall speak to please you)
He praysObless me! what shall I do now?
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how !
And 'twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it!
Well, the deuce take me if I han't forgot it.
O Lord! for heaven's sake, excuse the play,
Because, you know, if it be damn'd to-day,
I shall be hang'd for wanting what to say.
For my sake then--But I'm in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution.