 | The Mulberry-Garden |  |
Prologue.
New Poets (like fresh Beauties come to Town)Have all that are decay'd to cry 'em down,
All that are envious, or that have writ ill:
For Wits and Heroes fain wou'd, dying, kill.
Like Statesmen in disgrace, they ill endure
A better conduct should our good procure:
As an old Sinner, who in's youth has known
Most Women bad, dares venture upon none.
Our Author, seeing here the Fate of Plays,
The dangerous Rocks upon the Coast of Praise,
The cruel Critick and malicious Wit,
Who think themselves undone if a Play hit:
And like those Wretches who on shipwracks thrive,
Rage if the Vessel do the Storm out-live,
By others loss he stood a while forewarn'd,
But against tempting hope no man is arm'd;
Amongst great Gamesters, when deep play is seen,
Few that have money but at last come in;
He has known many with a trifling sum,
Into vast Fortunes by your favours run:
This gives him confidence to try his Fate,
And makes him hope he is not come too late
If you'le undo him quite, like Rooks begin,
And for this once in cunning let him win.
He hopes the Ladies at small faults will wink,
And a new Poet, a new Servant think.
| The Mulberry-Garden | |