University of Virginia Library

Prologue.

To you, great Judges in this Writing Age,
The Sons of Wit, and Falcons of the Stage,
With all those humble thoughts, which still have sway'd
His Pride, much doubting, trembling and affraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And aw'd by every Excellence in you,
The Author sends to beg you would be kind,
And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You to whom Wit a Common Foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn, and publickly disown;
Though now perhaps y'are here for other ends,
He swears to me, you ought to be his Friends:
For he ne're call'd ye yet insipid Tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell you ye were Fools:
But says of Wit ye have so large a store,
So very much, you never will have more.
He ne're with Libel treated yet the Town,
The names of Honest men be dawb'd and shown,
Nay, never once lampoon'd the harmless life
Of Suburb Virgin, or of City Wife:
Satyr's the effect of Poetries disease;
Which, sick of a lew'd Age, she vents for Ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill Fate the baneful Cloud's withdrawn;
And happiness again begins to dawn,
Since back with Joy and Triumph he is come,
That always drove Fears hence, ne're brought 'em home.
Oft has he plough'd the boist'rous Ocean o're,
Yet ne're more welcome to the longing shoar,
Not when he brought home Victories before.
For then fresh Laurels flourisht on his Brow,
And he comes Crown'd with Olive-branches now.
Receive him! Oh receive him as his Friends;
Embrace the blessings which he Recommends;
Such quiet as your Foes shall ne're destroy;
Then shake off Fears, and clap your hands for Joy.