Sit silent then, that my pleas'd Soul may see | A Judging Audience once, and worthy me: My faithful Scene from true Records shall tell,

How Trojan Valour did the Greek excell; Your great Forefathers shall their Fame regain,

And Homers angry Ghost repine in vain. 40

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by THERSITES.

These cruel Critiques put me into Passion, For in their lowring Looks I reade Damnation:

You expect a Satyr, and I seldom fail;

When I'm first beaten, 'tis my Part to rail. You British Fools of the old Trojan Stock, That stand so thick one cannot miss the Flock,

Poets have cause to dread a keeping Pit, When Womens Cullyes come to judge of Wit. As we strew Rats-bane when we Vermine fear,

'Twere worth our Cost to scatter Fool-bane

here ;

10

And after all our judging Fops were serv'd, Dull Poets too shou'd have a Dose reserv'd, Such Reprobates as, past all Sence of Shaming,

Write on, and here are satisfy'd with Damming,

Next, those, to whom the Stage does not belong

Such whose Vocation onely is to Song,
At most to Prologue; when for Want of
Time

Poets take in for Journeywork in Rhime.
But I want Curses for those mighty Shoales
Of scribling Chlorisses, and Phillis Fools: 20
Those Ophs should be restrain'd, during their
Lives,

From Pen and Ink, as Madmen are from Knives :

I cou'd rayl on, but 'twere a Task as vain As Preaching Truth at Rome, or Wit in Spain:

Yet to huff out our Play was worth my trying;

John Lilbourn scap'd his Judges by defying. If guilty, yet I'm sure oth'Churches Blessing, By suffering for the Plot, without confessing.

men;

to please himself, but other

Is always drudging, wasts his Life and Blood,

Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.

What praise soe're the Poetry deserve,
Yet every Fool can bid the Poet starve.
That fumbling Lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or Whore is
meant:

Name but a Cuckold, all the City swarms;
From Leaden-hall to Ludgate is in Arms. 10
Were there no fear of Antichrist or France,
In the best times poor Poets live by chance.

CÆSAR BORGIA, 1680. The play is by Lee. 12 best] Editors till Christie wrongly give times] The editors wrongly give time

blest

Either you come not here, or, as you grace) Some old acquaintance, drop into the place, Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face.) You sleep o're Wit, and by my troth you

16

Noise, Madness, all unreasonable Things,
That strike at Sense, as Rebels do at Kings!
The stile of Forty One our Poets write,
And you are grown to judge like Forty Eight.
Such Censures our mistaking Audience make,
That 'tis almost grown scandalous to take.
They talk of Feavours that infect the Brains;
But Non-sence is the new Disease that reigns.
Weak Stomachs, with a long Disease opprest,
Cannot the Cordials of strong Wit digest;
Therefore thin Nourishment of Farce ye
choose,

Decoctions of a Barly-water Muse:

24

DOUBLE

Now, Luck for us, and a kind hearty Pit, For he who pleases, never failes of Wit. Honour is yours:

And you, like Kings at City Treats, bestowit; The Writer kneels, and is bid rise a l'oct. But you are fickle Sovereigns, to our Sorrow; You dubb to day, and hang amantomorrow: You cry the same Sense up, and down again, Just like brass Money once a year in Spain : Take you i' th' mood, what e'er base metal come, 10

You coin as fast as Groats at Bromingam; Though 'tis no more like Sense in ancient Plays

Than Rome's religion like St. Peter's days. In short, so swift your Judgments turn and wind,

You cast our fleetest Wits a mile behind. 'Twere well your Judgments but in Plays did

LADIES, the Beardless Author of this Day
Commends to you the Fortune of his Play.
A Woman Wit has often grac'd the Stage,
But he's the first Boy-l'oct of our Age
Early as is the Year his Fancies blow,
Like young Narcissus peeping through the
Snow;

Thus Cowley blossom'd soon, yet Flourish'd long,

This is as forward, and may prove as strong.

Youth with the Fair should always Favour find, 9

Or we are damn'd Dissemblers of our kind. What's all this Love they put into our Parts?

'Tis but the pit-a-pat of Two Young Ilcarts.

Shou'd Hag and Gray-beard make suchtender moan,

Faith, you'd e'en trust 'em to themselves alone,

And cry, let's go, here's nothing to be done.

Since Love's our Business, as 'tis your Delight,

The Young, who best can practise, best can
Write.

What though he be not come to his full Pow'r?
He's mending and improving every Hour.
You sly She-Jockies of the Box and Pit 20
Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken Wit,
By management he may in time be made,
But there's no hopes of an old batter'd Jade;
Faint and unnerv'd he runs into a Sweat,
And always fails you at the Second Heat.

GALLANTS, a bashful Poet bids me say
He's come to lose his Maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce, for he's but green of Age,
And ne're till now debauch'd upon the
Stage.

He wants the suff'ring part of Resolution,
And comes with blushes to his Execution.
E're you deflow'r his Muse, 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;
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 Deserters Bill:
Lord, what a Troop of perjur'd Men we see;
Enough to fill another Mercury!
But this the Ladies may with patience
brook :

Their's are not the first Colours you forsook!
He wou'd be loth the Beauties to offend; 20
But if he shou'd, he's not too old to mend.

PROLOGUE.

LADIES! (I hope there's none behind to hear,)
I long to whisper something in your Ear,
A Secret, which does much my Mind perplex:
There's Treason in the Play against our Sex.
A Man that's false to Love, that vows and
cheats,

And kisses every living thing he meets!
A Rogue in Mode, I dare not speak too broad,
One that does something to the very Bawd.
Out on him, Traytor, for a filthy Beast!
9
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest:
None of 'em stick at mark; They all deceive.
Some Jew has changed the Text, I half
believe;

Their Adam cozen'd our poor Grandame Eve.,
To hide their Faults they rap out Oaths, and

tear;

Tis true, such Heroes in a Play go far;
But Chamber Practice is not like the Bar.
When Men such vile, such feint Petitions
make,

20

We fear to give, because they fear to take;
Since Modesty's the Virtue of our Kind,
Pray let it be to our own Sex confin'd.
When Men usurp it from the Female Nation,
"Tis but a Work of Supererogation-
We show'd a Princess in the Play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Caesar more than all his due;
Told her own Faults; but I shou'd much
abhor

To choose a Husband for my Confessor.
You see what Fate follow'd the Saint-like
Fool,

For telling Tales from out the Nuptial School. Our Play a merry Comedy had prov'd, 29 Had she confess'd as much to him she lov'd. True Presbyterian-Wives the means wou'd try:

But damn'd Confessing is flat Popery.