 | Henry the Second, King of England |  |
PROLOGUE.
In this grave Age, improv'd by States-mens Art,Who e'er can think you'll like a Misses Part?
Time was, when Rosamond might shine at Court;
These are no days for Ladies of that sort.
How strangely Time does Human Things decay!
Four Cent'ries past, as ancient Writers say,
She that we represent bore mighty sway:
Her Beauty wondred at, her Wit extoll'd,
Her yellow Locks were call'd too Threads of Gold.
But now should that Complexion use the Trade,
Each puny Fop the Town has newly made,
Would cry, Confound the Carrot-pated Jade.
Misses in times of War and Jeopardy,
Like Armourers in days of Peace must be;
His Swords and Helmets rust, and so will She.
What sort of Criticks then must I endear
To favour this abandon'd Character?
The French fatigue too much, to mind Amour;
Th'Italian's Bigotted; The Spaniard Poor;
The Clumsie Lover, with his Northern Sense,
Would have the Yo-Frows, but would spare the Pence:
Rav'nous of Beauty; But when Purse should open,
Myn Heer is either deaf, or Drunk-aslopen.
Thus all o'er Europe, as the Scenes are laid,
War and Religion have quite spoil'd Love's Trade.
Since then from Courts her Part must hope no pity,
I'll try ths English Lovers of the City;
Kind Souls, who many a Night o'er Toast and Ale,
Have wept at reading Rosamond's fam'd Tale,
And will, we hope for Beauties sake, to day
Confront the Wits, and save a harmless Play.
So may you thrive, your Wagers all be won;
So may your Wise Stock-jobbing Crimp go on;
So may your Ships return from the Canaries,
And stoln French Cargoes in your Johns and Maries.
Stand Buff once for a Mistress: Think what Lives
Some of you daily lead with scolding Wives.
And though she fell by Jealous Cruelty,
For Venial Sin 'twas pity she should die.
Ah! should your Wives and Daughters so be try'd,
And with her Dose their Failings purify'd,
Lord! What a Massacre wou'd mawl Cheapside!
| Henry the Second, King of England | |