This is plain Levelling of Wit; in which The Poor has all th' advantage, not the Rich.

The Blockhead stands excus'd, for wanting Sense;

And Wits turn Blockheads in their own defence.

Yet, though the Stages Traffick is undone, Still Julian's interloping Trade goes on: Though Satyr on the Theatre you smother, Yet in Lampoons, you Libel one another. The first produces still, a second Jig ; 20 You whip 'em out, like School-boys, till they gig:

And, with the same Success, we Readers guess,

For ev'ry one still dwindles to a less ;
And much good Malice is so meanly drest,
That we wou'd laugh, but cannot find the
Jest.

If no Advice your Rhiming Rage can stay,

Let not the Ladies suffer in the Fray.
Their tender Sex is priviledg'd from War;
'Tis not like Knights, to draw upon the
Fair.

What Fame expect you from so mean a
Prize?

30

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by PIEDRA, Mrs. MOUNTfort.

I'm thinking (and it almost makes me mad)

How sweet a time those Heathen Ladies had.

Idolatry was ev'n their Gods' own trade : They Worshipt the fine Creatures they had made.

Cupid was chief of all the Deities;
And Love was all the fashion, in the
Skies.

When the sweet Nymph held up the Lilly hand,

Jove, was her humble Servant, at Command.
The Treasury of Heav'n was ne're so bare,
But still there was a Pension for the Fair. 10
In all his Reign, Adultry was no Sin;
For Jove the good Example did begin.
Mark too, when he usurp'd the Husband's

name,

How civilly he sav'd the Ladies famc.
The secret Joys of Love he wisely hid;
But you, Sirs, boast of more than e'er you
did.

You teize your Cuckolds; to their face tor-
'em:
ment

But Jove gave his, new Honours to content

em,

And, in the kind Remembrance of the Fair,

20

On each exalted Son, bestowed a Star. For these good deeds, as by the date appears,

His Godship flourish'd full Two thousand Years.

At last, when He and all his Priests grew old, The Ladies grew in their devotion cold; And that false Worship would no longer hold.

Severity of Life did next begin;

(And always does, when we no more can Sin.) That Doctrine, too, so hard, in Practice, lyes, That the next Age may see another rise. 29 Then, Pagan Gods may, once again, suc-y

ceed;

And Jove, or Mars, be ready, at our need, To get young Godlings; and, so, mend our breed.

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 Frontispiece; as bald as one of you young Beaux without your Perriwig. I left our young Poet sniveling and sobbing behind the Scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceiv'd him.

Enter Mr. BOWEN.

Hold your prating to the Audience: Here's honest Mr. Williams just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. Ile swears he is inspir'd with Claret, and will come on, and that Extempore too, either with a Prologue of his own, or something like one: O here he comes to his Tryal, at all Adventures; for my part, I wish him a good Deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. BRIGHT and Mr. BOWEN.

Enter Mr. WILLIAMS. Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopefull)

way.

I shou'd speak something, in Rhyme, now, for the Play :

But the duce takeme, if I know what to say!) I'le stick to my Friend the Authour, that I can tell ye,

To the last drop of Claret in my belly. So far I'me sure 'tis Rhyme-that needs no granting:

And, if my verses feet stumble--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,

It may hold out three days--And that's as long as Cork.

MISTAKES, 1690. The play is by Joseph Harris.

But, for this Play-(which, till I have done, we show not.)

What may be its fortune-By the Lord—
I know not.

This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis Innocent of all things-ev'n of Wit.
Ile's no high Flyer-he makes no sky
Rockets,

His Squibbs are only levell'd at your
Pockets;

And if his Crackers light among your pelf, You are blown-up; if not, then he's blownup himself.

By this time, I'm something recover'd of my fluster'd madness:

And, now, a word or two in sober sadness. 20 Ours is a Common Play and you pay down

A common

Crown.

:

Ilarlots price-just half a

You'l say, I play the Pimp on my Friends

PROLOGUE TO THE OPERA.

Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

SURE there's a dearth of Wit in this dull
Town,

When silly Plays so savourly go down ;
As, when Clipp'd Money passes, 'tis a sign
A Nation is not over-stock'd with Coin.
Happy is he, who in his own Defence,
Can write just level to your humble Sence;
Who higher than your Pitch can never go;
And doubtless, he must creep, who Writes
below.

So have I seen, in Hall of Knight, or Lord,
A weak Arm throw on a long Shovel-Board;
He barely lays his Piece, bar Rubs and
Knocks,

II

KING ARTHUR, 1691.

ably Bell.

A Covent-Garden Porter brought me four. I have not yet read all: But, without feigning,

We Maids can make shrewd Ghesses at your Meaning.

What if, to shew your Styles, I read 'em here?

Me thinks I hear one cry, Oh Lord, forbear: No, Madam,no; by Heav'n, that's too severe., Well then, be safe

But swear henceforwards to renounce allWriting,

And take this Solemn Oath of my inditing,-

Fighting.

ΤΟ

Yet, Faith, 'tis just to make some few Examples:

What if I shew'd you one or two for Samples? Pulls one out.] Heres, one desires my Ladyship to meet

At the kind Couch above in Bridges-Street. Oh Sharping Knave! That wou'd have you know what,

For a Poor Sneaking Treat of Chocolat.
Pulls out another.] Now, in the Name of
Luck, I'll break this open,
20
Because I Dreamt last Night I had a Token;
The Superscription is exceeding pretty,
To the Desire of all the Town and City.
Now, Gallants, you must know, this precious
Fop

Is Foreman of a Haberdashers-Shop :
One who devoutly cheats, demure in
Carriage,

And courts me to the Holy Bands of
Marriage;

Who, to save Coach-Hire, trudge along the Street,

Then print our matted Seats with dirty Feet; Who, while we speak, make Love to OrangeWenches,

And between Acts stand strutting on the Benches:

Where got a Cock-horse, making vile Grimaces,

They to the Boxes show their Booby Faces. A Merry-Andrew such a Mob will serve, 11 And treat 'em with such Wit as they deserve:

CLEOMENES, 1692. The Prologue and Epilogue were not printed with the first edition of the play.

For, should the Fools prevail, they stop not there,

But make their next Descent upon the Fair. Then rise, ye Fair; for it concerns you most, That Fools no longer should your Favours boast:

"Tis time you should renounce 'em, for we find

They plead a senseless Claim to Woman-kind: Such Squires are only fit for Country-Towns, To stink of Ale and dust a Stand with Clowns; Who, to be chosen for the Land's Protectors, Tope and get drunk before theirwise Electors.

EPILOGUE TO HENRY II.,

Mercies,

THUS you the sad Catastrophe have seen,
Occasion'd by a Mistress and a Queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they
say;

But English Manufacture got the Day.
Jane Clifford was her Name, as Books aver:
Fair Rosamond was but her Nom de Guerre.
Now tell me, Gallants, wou'd you lead your
Life

With such a Mistress, or with such a Wife?

HENRY II, 1693. The play is by John Bancroft, published in 1693.

If one must be your Choice, which d'ye approve,

The Curtain-Lecture or the Curtain-Love? 10
Wou'd ye be godly with perpetual Strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan your
Wife,

Or take your Pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honest Whoring Harry in the Play?
I guess your Minds; The Mistress wou'd be
taking,

And nauseous Matrimony sent a packing.

15 taking] Some editions wrongly give taken