 | Boadicea Queen of Britain |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoke by Mr. Betterton.
Do you not wonder, Sirs, in these poor Days,Poets should hope for Profit from their Plays?
Dream of a full Third Day, nay, good sixth Night,
(Especially considering how they Write.)
But so it is; and thus I go to show it,
Wo to us Players, every one turns Poet.
All Write alike, and therefore every Brother,
Free from all Envy, stands by one another;
The live more peaceably than Bees, no doubt,
Since not one drone of all is driven out.
Our Author is so green, and young a thing,
'Tis hard if he can yet have lost his Sting!
Those Boxes! He may beauteous Gardens call,
Fair are the Flowers, and he sucks Sweets from all;
Nor is he less oblig'd to Masks and Beaus,
Who pay for Plays; even when they borrow Cloaths.
On your united Favours he depends,
And thinks you all his, and our House's Friends.
Tho' you hate Blood-shed, out of pure good Nature,
As Poets, Criticks, or as Fops hate Satyr.
Be not to Day afraid to see us Bleed,
But let for once, a Tragedy succeed.
| Boadicea Queen of Britain | |