 | Agnes de Castro |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. Powell.
How strangely times are Chang'd? I'th' latter AgePrologues were fresh Complaints of Critick Rage:
But now, if one Play hitts, you straight Decree
To prop a Rival Muses Halting Poetry:
Cou'd it but gain the Crutches of your Favour,
This Tragedy might walk six days together.
To day, t'incite your Charity the more,
A Female Author does your Smiles implore;
Not but I fear, 'tis now a thing uncommon,
For Men of Wit to raise a falling Woman!
Why should vain Man the Gift of Sense engross?
Since Woman's Wit was never at a loss?
Husbands to Wives their Whoring must Reveal,
(For Unfed Passions will expect their Meal)
But Womens Wits with Ease their Roving Love conceal.
And Faith in spight of all the Hen-Peckt Fools can do,
They've oft the Breeches worn, why not the Lawrel too!
Therefore to those of undisputed Sense,
Our Poetess resigns her Plays Defence.
Conscious of her Faults she flies to you,
To save her from the Thoughtless Damning Crew.
She's Dead, if Try'd by strict Poetick Laws;
But Men of Honour can't refuse a Womans Cause.
Do you, the props of Wit, but seem t'approve,
She cannot fear their Thunder from above;
The Top must stir if the Foundation move.
| Agnes de Castro | |