University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE TO THE Court of Augustus Cæsar. Spoken by Mrs. Roch.

He whose attempt is shewn this Night to please,
Beheld me entring and my arm did seize,
Cry'd, Madam, stay, stay but one minute more;
But I your Servant left him at the door.
How dear, and yet how dreadfull is the Night,
That makes a Poet, or undoes him quite?
Such is the Night when a kind-hearted Maid
Becomes a Sacrifice to Bridal-bed:
She fears to give what yet she wishes past,
Cries fie, no, and drives it to the last.
If to be brought oth' Stage so much can fright,
What Devil makes you all so mad to write?
But hold, let me consider,—
Wit which was formerly but Recreation,
Is now become the Business of the Nation;
Prentices write Lampoons, your Justices
Have quirks for Courtiers late debaucheries,
And Constables with quibbles break the peace.
Your formal Citizen turns man of sense,
And has to Ingenuity pretence:
Treats Miss in Box, which was but Punk with you,
Gripes her craz'd knee, and treads upon her toe,
And cries, I' fack my dear this Play will do.
With Beard precise his Verdict dares pronounce
Who by predestination is a Dunce:
All will be censuring a man that writes,
And praise or damn him like a man that fights.
With boldness therefore both should be inspir'd,
The Stout and Witty should alike be fir'd:
Poets, like men of Courage, that begin,
Should still push forward when they re-enter'd in,
Till certain of Applause they write with ease,
And with just forces are resolv'd to please:
The little Wits of course will then obey,
And briskly swear the fashionable way,
To all that those insipidly can say:
So a young sharp-set Bully—
With famine pinch'd, and much much given to think,
Who thirsts for fame, but thirsts much more for drink,
Resolves to perish or inhance his Name,
And gives not o're till he proves Cock oth' Game;
Then he who lately seem'd like Winter bare,
Comes forth like Summer loosely clad and clear;
He drives the Squires with breath of Pantaloons,
And the least word he speaks is Bloud and wounds.