But they have now ta'n up a glorious Trade, And cutting Moorcraft struts in Masquerade. There's all our hope, for we shall show to day A Masquing Ball, to recommend our Play; Nay, to endear 'em more, and let 'em see We scorn to come behind in Courtesie, We'll follow the new Mode which they begin, And treat 'em with a Room, and Couch within:

For that's one way, how e're the Play fall short,

T'oblige the Town, the City, and the Court.

EPILOGUE.

Thus have my Spouse and I inform'd the Nation,

And led you all the way to Reformation; Not with dull Morals, gravely writ, like those Which men of easy Phlegme with care com

pose,

Your Poets, of stiff Words and limber sense,
Born on the confines of indifference:
But by Examples drawn, I dare to say,
From most of you who hear, and see the Play
There are more Rhodophils in this Theatre,
More Palamedes, and some few Wives, I fear:
But yet too far our Poet would not run ; 11
Though 'twas well offer'd, there was nothing
done,

And a brisk bout, which each of them did want,

Made by mistake of Mistris and Gallant.
Our modest Authour thought it was enough
To cut you off a Sample of the stuff:
He spared my shame, which you, I'm sure,
would not,

For you were all for driving on the Plot:
You sigh'd when I came in to break the sport,
And set your teeth when each design fell
short.

To Wives, and Servants all good wishes lend, But the poor Cuckold seldom finds a friend. Since therefore, Court and Town will take no pity,

I humbly cast myself upon the City.

31

For some of you grow Fops with so much haste, Riot in nonsence, and commit such waste, 'Twould Ruine Poets should they spend so fast.

Ile who made this observed what Farces hit,

20

And durst not disoblige you now with wit. But, Gentlemen, you overdo the Mode; You must have Fools out of the common Rode.

Th'unnatural strain'd Buffoon is only taking; No Fop can please you now of Gods own making.

Pardon our Poet, if he speaks his Mind; You come to Plays with your own Follies lin'd:

Small Fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain ;

Your own oyl'd Coats keep out all common rain.

You must have Mamamouchi, such a Fop
As would appear a Monster in a Shop; 31
He'll fill your Pit and Boxes to the brim,
Where, Ram'd in Crowds, you see your selves
in him.

Sure there's some spell our Poet never knew,
In hullibabilah de, and Chu, chu, chu;
But Marabarah sahem most did touch you;
That is, Oh how we love the Mamamouchi!
Grimace and habit sent you pleas'd away;
You damn'd the poet, and cried up the Play.
This Thought had made our Author more
uneasic,

40

But that he hopes I'm Fool enough to please ye.

Some Sister, Playing at Content alone. This they did hope; the other Side did fear;

And both, you see, alike are Couzen'd here. Some thought the Title of our Play to blame; They liked the thing, but yet abhorr'd the Name:

Like modest Puncks, who all you ask afford, But, for the World, they would not name that word.

Yet, if you'll credit what I heard him say,
Our Poet meant no Scandal in his Play;
His Nuns are good which on the Stage are
shown,

20

And, sure, behind our Scenes you'll look for

none.

A French Troop first swept all things in its way;

But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay;

Yet, to our Cost, in that short time, we find They left their Itch of Novelty behind. 10 Th' Italian Merry-Andrews took their place,

And quite debauch'd the Stage with lewd
Grimace:

Instead of Wit and Humours, your Delight
Was there to see two Hobby-horses fight,
Stout Scaramoucha with Rush Lance rode in,
And ran a Tilt at Centaure Arlequin.
For Love you heard how amorous Asses
bray'd,

And Cats in Gutters gave their Serenade.
Nature was out of Countenance, and each
Day

Some new-born Monster shewn you for a Play.

20

But when all fail'd, to strike the Stage quite dumb,

Those wicked Engines, call'd Machines, are

PROLOGUE.

A Plain built House, after so long a stay, Will send half unsatisfi'd away; you

find

That sacred Name gives Ornament and Grace;

And, like his Stamp, makes basest Mettals pass.

A bare convenience only is designed.
You, who each Day can Theatres behold,
Like Nero's Palace, shining all with Gold,
Our mean ungilded Stage will scorn, we fear,
And for the homely Room, disdain the Chear.
Yet now cheap Druggets to a Mode are
grown,

And a plain Suit (since we can make but one)

10

Is better than to be by tarnisht gawdry known.

They, who are by your Favours wealthy made,

With mighty Sums may carry on the Trade; We, broken Banquiers, half destroy'd by Fire,

With our small Stock to humble Roofs retire ;

Pity our Loss, while you their Pomp admire.

For Fame and Honour we no longer strive;
We yield in both, and only beg to live;
Unable to support their vast Expense,
Who build and treat with such Magnificence,
That, like th' Ambitious Monarchs of the
Age,

21

They give the Law to our Provincial Stage. Great Neibours enviously promote Excess, While they impose their Splendor on the

less;

Whilst Scenes, Machines, and empty Opera's reign,

And for the Pencil you the Pen disdain; While Troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,

And laugh at those upon whose Alms they live:

39

Old English Authors vanish, and give place To these new Conqu'rors of the Norman Race.

More tamely than your Fathers you submit ; You're now grown Vassals to 'em in your Wit. Mark, when they play, how our fine Fops) advance

The Mighty Merits of these Men of France, Keep time, cry Ben, and humour the

Cadence.