University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE.

One of the Poets (as they safely may
When th'Author's dead) has stollen a whole Play:
Not like some petty Thieves that can endure
To steall small things to keep their Hands in ure.
He swears he'l die for something: In our times
Small Faults are scorn'd, the Great are worthy Crimes,
Onely for Noble Sparks, who think it fit
That the base Vulgar should mean Crimes commit.
—But 'tis your fault Poets such Thieves are grown,
For that injurious mercy you have shown,
To some great malefactors heretofore
Has, for each Thief you've pardon'd, made Ten more.
—This for the bold Purloiner ef the Play,
'Tis fit I something too of that should say:
It is a Vertuous Play, you will confess,
Where Vicious men meet their deserv'd success.
Not like our Modern ones, where still we find,
Poets are onely to the Ruffians kind,
And give them still the Ladies in the Play,
But 'faith their Ladies are as bad as they.
They call 'em Ayery, Witty, Brisk, and Wild,
But, with their Favours, those are terms too mild.
—But (what is better yet then all the rest)
In all this Play, there's not one Baudy jest,
To make the Ladies bite their Lips, and then
To be applauded by the Genilemen.
Baudy, what e're in private 'tis, is here not fit,
'Tis to Assemblies Sawciness, not Wit.
But yet we vow'd, (if it were to be had
For Love or Money) we'd have what's as bad;
We've stuff'd in Dances, and we have Songs too
As senceless, as were ever sung to you.
If all these things will not support our Play,
Then Gallants you may damn it, yes you may;
But if you do, you'l suffer such a Curse—
Our Poet swears he'l write one Ten times morse.