University of Virginia Library

THE PROLOGUE.

Poets , like Lawful Monarchs, rul'd the Stage,
Till Criticks, like Damn'd Whiggs, debauch'd our Age.
Mark how they jump: Criticks wou'd regulate
Our Theatres, and Whiggs reform our State:
Both pretend love, and both (Plague rot 'em) hate.
The Critick humbly seems Advice to bring,
The fawning Whigg Petitions to the King:
But ones advice into a Satyr slides;
T'others Petition a Remonstrance hides.
These will no Taxes give, and those no Pence:
Criticks wou'd starve the Poet, Whiggs the Prince.
The Critick all our troops of friends discards;
Just so the Whigg wou'd fain pull down the Guards.
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
As watchful Shepherds, that fright beasts of prey.
Kings, who Disband such needless Aids as these,
Are safe—as long as e're their Subjects please.
And that wou'd be till next Queen Besses night:
Which thus, grave penny Chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmond-berry first, in woful wise,
Leads up the show, and Milks their Maudlin eyes.
There's not a Butcher's Wife but Dribs her part,
And pities the poor Pageant from her heart;
Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
And, with a civil congee, does retire.
But guiltless blood to ground must never fall:
There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.
The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears,
A lewd Old Gentleman of seventy years.
Whose Age in vain our Mercy wou'd implore;
For few take pity on an Old-cast Whore.
The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to chear his heart:
Like Thief and Parson in a Tiburn-Cart.
The word is giv'n; and with a loud Huzzaw
They Miter'd Moppet from his Chair they draw:
On the slain Corps contending Nations fall:
Alas, what's one poor Pope among 'em all!
He burns; now all true hearts your Triumphs ring:
And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King.
A needful Cry in midst of such Alarms:
When Forty thousand Men are up in Arms.
But after he's once sav'd, to make amends,
In each succeeding Health they Damn his Friends:
So God begins, but still the Devil ends.
What if some one inspir'e with Zeal, shou'd call,
Come let's go cry, God save him at White-hall?
His best friends wou'd not like this over-care:
Or think him e're the safer for that pray'r.
Five praying Saints are by an Act allow'd:
But not the whole Church-Militant, in crowd.
Yet, should heav'n all the true Petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who wou'd Kings maintain;
Of Forty thousand, five wou'd scarce remain.