As for a clear Contrivance, doubt it not; They blow out Candles to give Light to th' Plot.

And for Surprize, two Bloody-minded Men Fight till they dye, then rise and dance again. Such deep Intrigues you're welcome to this Day:

But blame your Selves, not him who writ the Play.

Though his Plot's dull as can be well desir'd, Wit stiff as any you have e'r admir'd, 20 He's bound to please, not to write well, and knows

There is a mode in Playes as well as Cloaths; Therefore, kind Judges

A Second Prologue enters. Hold! would you admit For Judges all you see within the Pit?

2.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by a Mercury.

To all and singular in this full Meeting, Ladies and Gallants, Phœbus sends me greeting.

To all his Sons, by whate'er Title known,
Whether of Court, of Coffee-house, or Town ;
From his most mighty Sons, whose Confi-
dence

Is plac'd in lofty Sound and humble Sense,
Even to his little Infants of the Time,
Who write new Songs and trust in Tune and
Rhyme;

Be't known, that Phabus (being daily griev'd

spoke] spoke, 1665.

receiv'd)

Ordains your Judgment upon every Cause Henceforth be limited by wholesome Laws. He first thinks fit no Sonnetteer advance His Censure farther than the Song or Dance. Your Wit burlesque may one Step higher climb,

And in his Sphere may judge all dogrel Rhyme;

All

proves, and moves, and loves, and honours too;

All that appears high Sense, and scarce is low.

21

As for the Coffee-wits, he says not much;
Their proper Business is to damn the Dutch.
For the great Dons of Wit
Phoebus gives them full Privilege alone
To damn all others, and cry up their own.
Last, for the Ladies, 'tis Apollo's Will,
They should have power to save, but not to
kill;

For Love and he long since have thought it fit,

Wit live by Beauty, Beauty reign by Wit.

SECOND PROLOGUE.

I had forgot one half, I do protest,
And now am sent again to speak the rest. 20
But to the little Hectors of the Pit
He bows to every great and noble Wit;)
He'll be before-hand with 'em, and not stay
Our Poet's sturdy, and will not submit.
To see each peevish Critick stab his Play;
Each Puny Censor, who, his skill to boast,
No Criticks Verdict should, of right, stand
Is cheaply witty on the Poets Cost.
good,

They are excepted all, as men of blood; And the same Law should shield him from their fury,

30 Which has excluded Butchers from a Jury. You'd all be Wits

But writing's tedious, and that way may

fail;

The most compendious Method is to rail; Which you so like, you think your selves ill us'd,

When in smart Prologues you are not abus'd,
A civil Prologue is approv'd by no man;
You hate it as you do a Civil woman.
Your Fancy's pall'd, and liberally you pay
To have it quicken'd, e're you see a Play. 40
Just as old Sinners, worn from their delight,
Give money to be whip'd to appetite.
But what a Pox keep I so much ado
To save our Poet? he is one of you;
A Brother Judgment, and, as I hear say,
A cursed Critick as e'er damned a Play.

6 with Corneilles] Bell wrongly inserted old between these words.

As some raw Squire, by tender Mother bred, Till one and Twenty keeps his Maidenhead; (Pleas'd with some Sport, which he alone does find,

And thinks a Secret to all Humane kind,)
Till mightily in Love, yet half afraid,
He first attempts the gentle Dairymaid:
Succeeding there, and, led by the renown
Of Whetstones Park, he comes at length to
Town:

Where enter'd by some School-fellow or
Friend,

He grows to break Glass-Windows in the end:
His Valour too, which with the Watch began,
Proceeds to duell, and he kills his Man.
By such Degrees, while Knowledge he did
want,

Our unfletch'd Author writ a Wild Gallant.
He thought him monstrous leud (I'll lay my
Life)

Because suspected with his Landlords Wife;
But, since his Knowledge of the Town began,
He thinks him now a very civil Man;
And, much asham'd of what he was before,
Has fairly play'd him at three Wenches more.
'Tis some amends his Frailties to confess; 21
Pray pardon him his want of Wickedness.
He's towardly, and will come on apace;
His frank Confession shows he has some
Grace.

You balk'd him when he was a young
Beginner,

And almost spoyl'd a very hopeful Sinner; But if once more you slight his weak indeavour,

For ought I know, he may turn taile for ever. The Wild Gallant, revived, 1667. Prologue, 14 unfletch'd] The editors give unfledged

EPILOGUE.

Of all Dramatique Writing, Comick Wit,
As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the Eye,
Where all may judge, and each Defect may
spye.

Humour is that which every Day we meet,
And therefore known as every publick Street;
In which, if e'r the Poet go astray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his
Way,

But what's so common to make pleasant too,

Is more than any Wit can always do. For 'tis, like Turkes with Hen and Rice to treat,

To make Regalio's out of common Meat. But, in your Diet, you grow Salvages: Nothing but humane Flesh your Taste can please;

And as their Feasts with slaughter'd Slaves began,

So you, at each new Play, must have a Man.

Hither you come, as to see Prizes fought; If no Blood's drawn, you cry, the Prize is naught.

But Fooles grow wary now; and, when they

And when with much adoe you get him there,

Where he in all his Glory should appear, Your Poets make him such rare Things to say,

That he's more Wit than any Man ith' Play : But of so ill a mingle with the rest, 31

As when a Parrat's taught to break a Jest. Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a Show, As tawdry Squires in country Churches do. Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make

A Comedy, which should the knowing take,

That our dull Poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg by me his writ of ease.