University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE.

Long has our Author beat his addled Brains
To purchase Fame, but can't find Ways, and Means.
They talk of Fame, but 'tis the thought of many,
They ne'er regarded that, nor writ for any,
But wholly plodded how to turn the Penny.
That is the Plot, which every Poet lays;
Thither drives all their aim, and now a-days,
Faith, 'tis the only Plot you'l find in Plays.
Yet when poor Author is in greatest need,
Seldom, ah! seldom does his Plot succeed.
His way would be in this unlucky Age,
Not to write for, but write against the Stage.
The monyed men would then his Cause defend:
City Security's a special Friend.
They'd fit you out, for Ceylon, or Japan,
Teach you to Trade, and set you up a man;
Make you grow Rich;—that's if a Poet can.
What City-like Estates, might one procure at
Those Golden Ports, or of Bengale, or Surat?
None of our Tribe, e'er made the Voyage yet,
As none of theirs Trades with our House for wit.
If they were Fools enough to make the barter,
How well might they deserve to lose their Charter?
But Poets with the love of Courts are Curst,
Which leave them Poets, as they found them first:
Thought wholly for the smallest trust unfit,
And reckon'd useless, for their very Wit:
Whose only Wages is their homely board,
What Shares, the Back-Stair Pages can afford,
Or, when Fate smiles, a dinner with a Lord.
The mask of madness has been often try'd,
Deep Projects of desiging heads to hide,
Who, as time serv'd, still threw their mask aside.
Why is there of designing madness mention?
Poets have still run mad thro' no intention.
'Twixt Wake, and Sleep, they live supine in slumber,
On all occasions, laid aside as Lumber;
No Money left,—but Lines exceeding number.