 | The Bastard |  |
Prologue.
No Comick Scene shall here salute your eye,Whose scoffing Vein may tickle, till you lye
Half breathless in your mirth, and so at best
Bribe your applause with some new minted jest.
The Tragick Buskin traverses our stage
In bloody Fillets, fitter for this Age,
Where Treason, Murder, Lust, and ev'ry Vice
Grows impudent, and rifles for the Dice.
Translation is no crime, We here impresse
A Spanish BASTARD in an English dresse;
And lay him at your Doores, that some of You
Mov'd with a milder Genius might bestow
Some favour on our Out-Cast; by your hand
Our Brat must dye or live, must fall or stand
We crave your Charitable smile, the rather
Because he's not so Wise to know's own Father.
And Pallas-like (if w'are not too profane!)
He had no Mother but his Father's brain.
Thus Fatherless and Motherless! We sue
For him in humble flexures unto you:
My Faith assures me, many of you have known
To make some Bastards which you durst not own
For shame or fear; and some of you may be
Mistaken in your Fathers Pedigree;
Your favour cannot shame you; may h' invite
Your bounty, though but in a smile or mite.
Some Childless Signior, take him to his feet;
'Twere Cruelty to let him lie i'th' street:
A sin! alas! a shame! a sin! that He
Should beg upon the Parish-Charity.
And stand his God-Fathers once at the Font:
His boon is not ambitious; since 'tis such,
Deign him your Patronage, h'wo'nt cost you much.
True Charity should feel no stomach qualms;
Know, Sirs, a BASTARD may deserve your Alms:
We crave your serious Thoughts, if any Crime
Render him odious, blame his Fate, not him;
He scorns Censorious Criticks; and don't fear
To stand the Barre to a judicious Ear;
For though to be a BASTARD be his Fate;
His Wit is sterling, and legitimate.
Exit.
Enter GASPAR.
The world so swarms with Bastards now, that I
Need not despair for want of Company;
I'me in among the Throng, although you say,
I came through the back-Doore, or by th'wrong-way,
I care not; if I may some Portion merit,
I am content, I beg not to inherit;
Though Bastardisme can make no Title good,
Yet know a BASTARD may have Noble blood;
And challenge Kindred with the best: my Name
Would not be made the White for squint-ey'd Fame
To dart her Arrows at, had every Front
Its Lineage and Descent well drawn upon't;
Nor would the world need Spectacles: 'tis known
Though I'm a BASTARD, not a common one;
Yet, that my Name is in my fore-head plac'd,
Blame th'Printer, 'twas he made me brazen-fac'd:
Perhaps he fear'd, lest I should stray, so some
(Reading my Name) might eas'ly bring me home.
Well! this poor favor sue I from your breath,
That, since I must be prest, 'tmay n't be to Death,
And that the Ballads may not rack my Fame,
A BASTARD craves this Portion, a good Name.
| The Bastard | |