University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE TO THE MISTAKES.

Enter
Mr. Bright.

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had to-day. Our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux without your periwig. I left our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him.

Enter
Mr. Bowen.

Hold your prating to the audience; here's honest Mr. Williams just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or something like one. O here he comes

to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr Bowen.
Enter
Mr. Williams.
Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way.
I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play;
But the deuce take me, if I know what to say.
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret in my belly.
So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme—that needs no granting;
And, if my verses' feet stumble—you see my own are wanting.
Our young poet has brought a piece of work,
In which though much of art there does not lurk,
It may hold out three days—and that's as long as Cork.
But, for this play—(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune—by the Lord—I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things—even of wit.
He's no high-flyer—he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price—just half a crown.
You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score;
But, since 'tis for a friend, your gibes give o'er,
For many a mother has done that before.
How's this? you cry: an actor write?—we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often failed?
But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevailed.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserved and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,
Not one of us but means to be inspired.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt is all our business here;
So much for that—and the devil take small beer.