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PROLOGUE TO MISTAKES, OR THE FALSE REPORT.

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. He 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 take me, 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.

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.
He'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.

:

Harlots price--just half a

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

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So far I'me sure 'tis Rhyme-that needs no Have not some writing Actors, in this Age
granting:
Deserv'd and found Success upon the
Stage?

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.

IO

MISTAKES, 1690. The play is by Joseph Harris.

To tell the truth, when our old Wits are tir'd.
Not one of us but means to be inspir'd.
Let your kind presence grace our homely

cheer;

Peace and the Butt is all our bus'ness here; So much for that ;-and the Devil take small beer.

26 this? you cry:] this, you cry? 1690.

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO KING ARTHUR, OR THE BRITISH WORTHY.

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

Secur'd by Weakness not to reach the Box.
A feeble Poet will his Bus'ness do,
Who,straining all he can, comes up to you:
For, if you like your Selves, you like him

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In fear of which, our House has sent this Day, T'insure our New-Built-Vessel, call'd a Play; No sooner Nam'd, than one crys out, These Stagers

Come in good time, to make more Work for Wagers.

The Town divides, if it will take or no ; The Courtiers Bet, the Cits, the Merchants too;

A sign they have but little else to do. Betts at the first were Fool-Traps; where the Wise

Like Spiders, lay in Ambush for the Flies; But now they're grown a common Trade for all,

And Actions by the News-Book Rise and

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Fall;

Hall.

KING ARTHUR, 1691.

ably Bell.

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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,

Prologue 2 savourly] savourily Scott: favour. As you love Ease, and hate Campaigns and

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
Marriage;

of

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PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO CLEOMENES, THE SPARTAN HEROE.

PROLOGUE

Spoken by Mr. MOUNTFORD.

I THINK, or hope at least, the Coast is clear; That none but Men of Wit and Sense are here;

That our Bear-Garden Friends are all away, Who bounce with Hands and Feet, and cry, Play, Play,

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.

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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.

Let not Farce-Lovers your weak Choice upbraid, 31

But turn 'em over to the Chamber-maid. Or, if they come to see our Tragick Scenes, Instruct them what a Spartan Heroe means: Teach 'em how manly Passions ought to move,

For such as cannot Think can never Love; And, since they needs will judge the Poet's Art,

Point 'em with Fescu's to each shining part. Our Author hopes in you; but still in Pain, He fears your Charms will be employ'd in vain. 40

You can make Fools of Wits, we find each Hour;

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But to make Wits of Fools is past your Pow'r. I give my Judgment, craving all your

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EPILOGUE TO HENRY II.,

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KING OF ENGLAND, WITH THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND.

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

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PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE TO LOVE TRIUMPHANT, OR NATURE WILL PREVAIL.

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No double Entendrès, which you Sparks allow, To make the Ladies look-they know not how;

Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together,
Seeming to fan their Faces in cold Weather.
But here's a Story, which no Books relate,
Coin'd from our own Old Poet's Addle-Pate.
The Fable has a Moral too, if sought:
But let that go; for, upon second
Thought,

30
He fears but few come hither to be Taught.
Yet if you will be profited, you may;
And he would Bribe you too, to like his Play.
He Dies, at least to us, and to the Stage,
And what he has he leaves this Noble Age.
He leaves you, first, all Plays of his Inditing,
The whole Estate which he has got by
Writing.

The Beaux may think this nothing but vain Praise;

They'l find it something, the Testator says: For half their Love is made from scraps

of Plays.

40

To his worst Foes, he leaves his Honesty ; That they may thrive upon't as much as he. He leaves his Manners to the Roaring Boys, Who come in Drunk and fill the House with noise.

He leaves to the dire Critiques of his Wit His Silence and Contempt of all they Writ To Shakespear's Critique he bequeaths the Curse,

To find his faults; and yet himself make

worse;

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