A Prologue sent to Mr. Row, to his new Play, call'd, The Fair Penitent.
Design'd to be spoken by Mr. Betterton, but refus'd.
Est & in Obscænos deflexa Tragœdia Risus.
Ovid.
Quacks
set out Bills, Jack-Pudding makes Harangues,
And Thief, at Tyburn, speaks before he hangs:
I pray you then give ear to what I say,
For this to me is Execution-day.
Tyburn the Stage is, Boxes, Galleries, Pit,
Where you, our Judges, and our Hangman sit;
Of Nonsense tender, tho severe to Wit.
To-day we fear you not, we've hit your Taste,
And when that's pleas'd, we cannot sure be cast.
Meanly contented with the vulgar Way,
Some make the Heroine, Virtuous in a Play:
But the bold tragick Genius of our Stage,
With Novelty resolves t'oblige the Age,
And with a
Heroine Punk the Ladies will engage.
He from the Sock, the PROSTITUTE transplants,
And swells the humble Whore with Buskin'd Rants.
His Whore, indeed, repents the slippery Fault;
But, like the rest, it is not, till she's caught.
She is not sorry, that she'as play'd the Whore,
But that, discover'd, she can do't no more.
Thus, while his Punk his Buskins boldly ramps,
Like Bajazet, his Hero cuckol'd stares and stamps.
He with no Laurel Wreaths his Brow adorns,
But, while those vulgar Ornaments he scorns,
Above his Brethren he exalts his Horns.
Confederate Cuckolds then come clap this Play!
Our lucky Bard devotes to You this Day.
No
Doodle,
Dashwood,
Wiseacre is here,
Or any of the puny Race, that us'd t'appear.
The Cuckold now assumes a haughtier Air,
With brandish'd Dagger stabs the yielding Fair,
So little Woman's Frailty is his Care.
Ye horned Herd, from Wapping to Whitehall,
Approach, in Triumph, he invites You all;
So strong a Party made, he cannot fear his Fall.
Some envious Critick here perhaps exclaims,
If you shou'd punish thus the City-Dames,
You'd make a Desolation in the Land,
And Bars, and Counters, would unfurnish'd stand.
But, Ladies, you with Ease that Fear remove,
If you use Caution in the Thefts of Love:
Since only she that's caught that Punishment will prove.
Danger adds Fewel to the amorous Fire,
And Difficulties only raise Desire.
Besides, past Merits you shou'd not despise,
For
Solomon, and
William in disguise,
From his lov'd Pen regal'd your Ears and Eyes.
What tho nor Art, nor Nature, there were found,
He scorns by Art or Nature to be bound.
Let others toil beneath the Load of Thought
Of what is Just, what Natural, what not;
They're dull, mechanick Things, below Regard,
From such a Bold, and such a Lucky Bard.
Uncumber'd with those Fetters still he'll write,
While Ignorance ensures his hood-wink'd flight.
He fears no Danger, for he none foresees,
In happy Ignorance secure to please,
Without their Foreign Aid, th'Indulgent Town,
With Heroes and with Language, all his own.
The hooded Falcon, so, in haste let fly,
Tow'rs swift aloft, undaunted, to the Sky,
With upright Wing, till lost to human Eye.
From THRONES he sauntering, talking Heroes chose,
But for an active Heroine now rakes the STEWS;
And whence he'l fetch the Next—he only knows:
Yet
Creswell, sure, of infamous Renown,
Or some more antique Matron of this Town,
May reasonably next invoke his Pen,
To do her Justice in his LOFTY SCENE.
Nor can she, sure, his Lofty Scene disgrace,
Since Baud, in breeding, still of Whore takes place.
For Baud's arriv'd to the grave Doctor's State,
While Whore is but an Under-Graduate;
Baud's maudlin Tone, from penitential Cart,
Like Thespis, Founder of the Tragick Art,
Must have the Force to move each amorous Heart.
But what is it that Poets cannot do,
Caress'd by Us, and so extol'd by You?
T' encourage MERIT nobly you disdain,
It is pedantick, and below your Vein:
And faith, to tell the Truth, We love our Gain.
As with the Saints, so 'tis, we find, with You,
For here, alas! th'Elect are very few,
And those without your Reason, by your Will sav'd too.
The less of proper Merit they can boast,
The more secure they are from being lost.
While Farce and Bombast best can please the Age,
We'll cook no other Dishes for the Stage.
When to your Smiles just Poets you admit,
And flock in Shoals to Nature, and to Wit;
All Poetasters then we will discard,
And here encourage only the true Bard.
For, sure, in Us, it must seem Impudence,
To cherish Merit, and to play good Sense,
When from Your Taste we hope for all our Pence.
