 | The Mistakes, or, The False Report |  |
PROLOGUE. Writ by Mr. Dryden.
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 Perriwig.
I left our young Poet, sniveling and sobbing behind the Scenes, and cursing
some body that has deceiv'd him.
Hold your prating to the Audience: Here's honest Mr. Williams, just
come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. He swears he is inspir'd 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 Tryal,
at all Adventures; for my part I wish him a good Deliverance.
Enter Mr. Williams.
Save
ye Sirs, save ye! I am in a hopefull way.
I shou'd speak something, in Rhyme, now, for the Play:
But the duce take me, if I know what to say.
I'le stick to my Friend the Authour, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of Claret, in my belly.
So far I'me 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 hnve 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—ev'n of wit.
He's no high Flyer—he makes no sky Rockets,
His Squibbs are only levell'd 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'me something recover'd of my fluster'd madness:
And, now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a Common Play: and you pay down
A Common Harlots price—just half a Crown.
You'le say, I play the Pimp, on my Friends score;
But since 'tis for a Friend your gibes give o're:
For many a Mother has done that before.
How's this, you cry? an Actor write?—we know it;
But Shakspear was an Actor, and a Poet.
Has not Great Johnsons learning, often fail'd?
But Shakspear's greater Genius, still prevail'd.
Have not some writing Actors, in this Age
Deserv'd and found Success upon the Stage?
To tell the truth, when our old Wits are tir'd,
Not one of us, but means to be inspir'd.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the Butt, is all our bus'ness here:
So much for that;—and the Devil take small beer.
I shou'd speak something, in Rhyme, now, for the Play:
But the duce take me, if I know what to say.
I'le stick to my Friend the Authour, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of Claret, in my belly.
So far I'me 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 hnve 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—ev'n of wit.
He's no high Flyer—he makes no sky Rockets,
His Squibbs are only levell'd at your Pockets.
You are blown-up: if not, then he's blown-up himself.
By this time, I'me something recover'd of my fluster'd madness:
And, now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a Common Play: and you pay down
A Common Harlots price—just half a Crown.
You'le say, I play the Pimp, on my Friends score;
But since 'tis for a Friend your gibes give o're:
For many a Mother has done that before.
How's this, you cry? an Actor write?—we know it;
But Shakspear was an Actor, and a Poet.
Has not Great Johnsons learning, often fail'd?
But Shakspear's greater Genius, still prevail'd.
Have not some writing Actors, in this Age
Deserv'd and found Success upon the Stage?
To tell the truth, when our old Wits are tir'd,
Not one of us, but means to be inspir'd.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the Butt, is all our bus'ness here:
So much for that;—and the Devil take small beer.
| The Mistakes, or, The False Report | |